Page 35 of Bad Men's Good Girl

Amos stops near a darkened fountain, the water trickling like a secret whispered in the dark. He lets out a long, jagged exhale and rubs the back of his neck. The confident, unshakable coordinator I’ve watched all summer seems to sag. The shadows under his eyes look deeper in this light.

"Every single time," he says, voice barely a murmur. "I’ve done this for a decade. I’ve handled broken bones in Prague and lost passports in Tokyo. You’d think the panic would blunt itself, but it doesn't. It just gets heavier."

I look at him, really seeing the tension held in the set of his jaw. "You make it look like a game, Amos. You’re always the onewith the joke, the one who knows exactly where the hidden exit is."

"Because if I don't, no one else will." He turns to face me, his eyes clouded with a vulnerability that makes my chest ache. "I lie awake at night counting heads. I see their faces—all these kids who think they’re invincible—and I realize I’m the only thing standing between them and a disaster they aren't prepared for. Their parents trust me with their entire world. It’s a lot of weight to carry alone, Baleigh."

I reach out, resting my palm against his chest. His heart beats a steady, heavy rhythm under the thin fabric of his shirt. The "fun" coordinator is gone, replaced by someone exhausted by the sheer gravity of his own competence. He isn't just a traveler; he's a guardian who never gets to take his armor off.

"You aren't alone anymore," I say.

Amos covers my hand with his, leaning his forehead against mine. "I'm starting to realize that."

The courtyard of our terminal is quiet, the air heavy with blooming jasmine and old stone. Amos lingers for a second, his hand still covering mine against his chest. The frantic energy of the search has burned away, leaving something raw and quiet between us. He looks at me then—not with the mischievous glint I’ve grown used to, but with a weary, profound relief.

“Get some sleep,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I think we’ve both earned a few hours of silence.”

He squeezes my fingers once and turns toward his apartment wing. I watch him walk away, his silhouette momentarily framed by the archway. The jaunty spring is gone from his step, replaced by the heavy tread of one who just finished a shift on the front lines.

I climb the stairs to my room, but the silence inside feels too loud. I drop onto the edge of my bed and stare at my reflection in the darkened window.

All summer, I’ve categorized the men in this world. Max is the intellectual challenge, the one who makes me want to be smarter and bolder. Atticus is the mystery, the one who makes me want to see the world through a different lens. And I thought I knew Amos. I thought he was the escape—the laughter, the late-night Vespa rides, the breezy charm that made everything feel light.

But I was wrong.

Today, I didn’t see the entertainer. I saw the anchor. Every time he called in, every time he checked on my well-being while he was shoulder-deep in a crisis, he was proving something far more vital than charisma. He showed me a man who doesn't crumble when the floor gives way.

My family back home always preached about the "safe path," but they defined safety as a lack of movement, a refusal to change. Amos defines it differently. He moves constantly, he embraces the chaos, but he creates a perimeter of safety for everyone around him.

It’s a different kind of attraction than I feel for the others. It isn't just a spark or a shared secret; it’s a terrifyingly deep sense of security. I realize I’m not just falling for the guy who can find a hidden bar in Florence. I’m falling for the man who would come find me in a storm and never let go. Underneath the jokes and the breezy "yeses," there is a bedrock I didn't expect to find. I can trust him with more than just a check-in list. I can trust him with everything.

22

AMOS

The adrenaline usually leaves a metallic taste in my mouth, like I’ve been sucking on pennies. It’s 3:00 AM, the hour where the ghosts of every missed flight and lost student come to sit on my chest. I pace the confines of my room until the walls start to feel like they’re shrinking, then I give up.

I take the stairs two at a time, moving toward the rooftop terrace. Rome doesn’t sleep; it just exhales. From up here, the city is a sprawl of amber light and jagged silhouettes. The dome of St. Peter’s sits on the horizon like a giant, glowing bell jars, and the air carries the scent of damp stone and diesel. I lean my elbows on the cold marble railing, letting the breeze tug at my hair.

For years, this has been my ritual. Survive the chaos, find a high vantage point, and remind myself I’m still standing. But tonight, the victory feels hollow. The silence is too loud.

The heavy iron door creaks behind me. I don’t turn around. I know the rhythm of those footsteps.

"The view is better when you aren't looking for a missing kid," Baleigh says, her voice soft and slightly raspy from the day's stress.

She’s wrapped in a thick cardigan that swallows her frame, her hair a messy halo in the moonlight. She moves to the railing, leaving a respectful foot of space between us, but I feel the heat radiating off her.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, finally looking at her. The shadows under her eyes match mine.

"My brain won't shut up," she admits, bracing her weight against the stone. "Every time I shut my eyes, I’m back at that police station or checking the hospital lists again. Does that go away?"

"The replay loop? Not really. You just get better at fast-forwarding."

She doesn't reply. She just looks out at the city, her profile sharp against the Roman skyline. Usually, I’d have a line ready. I’d make a joke about the coffee we’re going to need tomorrow or tell a ridiculous story about a similar night in Prague to make her laugh. The words sit in my throat, heavy and useless.

We stand there for a long time. The only sound is the distant hum of a scooter three streets over and our synchronized breathing. There’s no performance needed tonight. She saw the cracks in the armor today, and strangely, I don't feel the urge to patch them up. Having her here, standing in the quiet wreckage of the day, is the first time in a decade I haven't felt like I'm holding up the sky on my own.

"You make it look so easy," she says, her shoulder grazing mine. "The way you handled that mother on the phone, the way you navigated the local bureaucracy... it’s like you were born for the friction."