She falls silent, her fingers still working the braid. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “Milo’s different, though. And the fact that you both live in New York? That’s not a coincidence. That’s fate. You’re meant to be together.”
My heart does a painful little flip.Fate. The word feels too big, too permanent. But the way Milo looks at me—like he sees every chaotic piece of me and doesn’t want me to change—makes something deep inside me ache.
I’ve spent forever convincing myself I don’t need anyone to stay, that moving is safer, that attachment is just another word for disappointment. Yet with Milo? Maybe…no, Sienna.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “It’s not fate.”
“It so totally is!”
“You live in a fairytale, Aria.”
She tugs at my braid as she ties it off with a soft scrunchie. “I live in a world where I believe in love. I wish you did too. It’s a beautiful thing, Sienna. Maybe you and Milo could?—”
“You of all people know I don’t get attached,” I murmur. “What we have going on is just attraction, okay?”
Leaning down, she rests her chin on my shoulder, her cheek warm against mine. “Maybe you’re not supposed to get attachedthe old way. Maybe this time it’s different. Maybe he’s the one who can keep up with you without trying to slow you down.”
I shove a piece of pineapple into my mouth and chew it aggressively. The silence stretches for too long. Aria slumps back with a defeated sigh and mumbles something incoherent under her breath.
She’s always been the twin who talks about her feelings, who wears her heart on her sleeve. Me? I’m a closed door. I keep everything locked away. It helps me sleep better at night—for the most part, anyway.
I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never let anyone close enough to matter. One-night stands, occasional friends-with-benefits arrangements, but the second things get too real, I’m gone. But this time, with Milo… something feels different. I can’t explain it. I don’t know how to name it. All I know is that when he looks at me, I don’t feel the urge to run. I feel the urge to stay. And that terrifies me more than anything.
“Remember when we used to stay up all night talking about our dream futures?” Aria breaks the silence. “You always said you wanted to live in a different city every year. I wanted a tropical wedding with the perfect dress. Look at us now.”
I take a strawberry from the platter and twirl the stem between my fingers. “Yeah, look at us… You’re getting your tropical wedding next week, and I’m still bouncing around like a pinball. Some things never change.”
“Some things do,” she says softly. “You’ve been in New York longer than anywhere else in years. That’s an improvement.”
She’s right. I have been. It’s been a little over a year since I moved to New York on a whim after deciding I was done with Miami and its party scene, and I still haven’t felt the urge to leave. It’s starting to feel like… home, in a way I never expected.
Just as I’m about to answer, the door swings open. Ethan stumbles in, slightly drunk, cheeks flushed, grinning like an idiot. He’s carrying a beer and immediately zeros in on Aria.
“Babe!” he says, his voice loud and affectionate. He kicks the door shut behind him, makes a beeline for her, wraps his arms around her from behind, and presses sloppy kisses to her neck. “Missed you. Milo was boring without you. Come to bed.”
Aria laughs, trying to push him off without smearing her mask. “Ethan, I’m in the middle of sister time!”
He doesn’t let go but nuzzles into her shoulder. “Sister time can wait. I need cuddles. And kisses.Lotsof kisses.”
I watch them for a second—the way he melts into her, the way she pretends to be annoyed yet leans into him anyway. It’s cute. Disgustingly cute. And it’s my cue.
I stand up and slide my feet into my sandals. “That’s my cue to leave before I see things I can’t unsee for a second time.”
“It was one time,” Ethan corrects with a smug smile. “And it’syourfault for not knocking before walking in.”
“It wasmyapartment.”
“Still should’ve knocked.”
I give him a blank look. “I still have nightmares about your micropenis.”
He gasps dramatically. “It’s not micro.”
“Miniature.”
“Babe,” he turns his head toward Aria with a pout. “Tell her my penis isn’t small.”
“It’s teeny, tiny, weeny, bitty, pocket-sized?—”
