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Chapter Text

The autumn wind had some bite tonight in the darkness of this cobble-stoned street. She pulled up the zipper of her pale green hoodie and took a moment to look into the warm glow of the café. The reflection of the moon and its hazy shroud of clouds appeared in the window while she noted how perfectly empty the place was inside. It was past midnight on a Wednesday, after all.

She chose this place deliberately, not for the coffee or the comfort, but because it seemed different. She was drawn to Different. Old stone walls, a massive brick fireplace and aged wood all beckoned her. Plus, it was open 24 hours and a short walk from her new apartment, perfect for those nights when her mind wouldn’t allow her to sleep.

She pushed on the wrought iron handle making the sign over the door swing lightly in the breeze. It waved her in as she stepped into the glow and warmth of the historic building.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee grounds and the lingering ghost of a sweet aroma, probably the pastries baked hours ago, as if the scent itself were a memory that refused to leave.

It was quiet, only two employees and a small group sitting far away on the other side of the counter. She paid for her coffee and croissant and sat at a tiny table in the darkest part of the room.

Leaning forward in her chair, she warmed her hands around the heat of the ceramic cup and inhaled a waft of cinnamon and nutmeg from her spiced pumpkin latte, the kind she usually dismissed as too seasonal, too obvious.

Her hand slipped into the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out her phone. The screen’s glow lit her face for a moment: 12:29 a.m. Restless. Unable to sleep. Feeling like something’s missing. That was reason enough to be out of her bed, out in the night. An exasperated sigh escaped her lungs as she shut off her phone and shoved it back into her pocket turning her attention to her cup.

She watched as the steam from her coffee rose in soft curls, but instead of drifting straight upward, it seemed to lean, as if caught by a current no one else could feel. Her gaze followed its slow, deliberate path across the room…to the far corner, where he sat.

One arm stretched lazily along the back of the booth, his black sweater pulling across his broad shoulders. The silver bracelet at his wrist caught the low light when he shifted, and the chain at his neck rested against the hollow of his throat.

A toothpick dangled from his mouth, unmoving, as his sharp jaw clenched around a decision that could end someone, maybe even him.

His other hand rested near an untouched cup, fingers loose, as though he’d been waiting for something, or someone, without quite knowing it.

The shadows softened the lines of his face, but not enough to hide the quiet intensity in the way he watched the room with piercing blue eyes framed by soft dark curls.

She might have missed him entirely if not for the way the steam had led her there, like a thread unspooling between them.

Somewhere near the ceiling, a light flickered once, though no one seemed to notice.

He had chosen this café because it was the farthest from where he was supposed to be, a quiet corner where no one would think to look for him at this hour. He told himself he was killing time, but that was not the truth. He was avoiding something that waited for him elsewhere, something that would still be there when he left.

And yet, here he was, watching her.

Dark hair twisted into a messy bun that looked accidental but perfect. A cream camisole peeking from beneath her soft hoodie. Cute glasses that caught the low light, softening her gaze. Thin gold hoops swayed when she moved. A strip of knotted leather at her wrist. Faded jeans, cozy Uggs tucked beneath her chair. Details he shouldn’t have been memorizing, but somehow was, as if noticing her was part of the reason he’d ended up here at all.

She’s smiling at something, not at me. Not yet.

His focus was steady, almost hypnotic, when the muted buzz of his phone against the table broke through. He glanced down.

Matt: Fuck Chris. Where the hell are you?

The words glared up at him, but he made no move to answer. His eyes lifted again, drawn back to her as if nothing else in the world could hold him for long.

She watched him, wondering if he was the sort that could be persuaded to like her. The thought rose slowly, like steam from her cup, curling and dissolving before she could decide whether to hold onto it.

She found him handsome in a way that unsettled her, the kind of beauty that made you look twice, then a third time just to be sure you’d seen it right.

The group in the back laughed at something, the sound muffled and distant, bringing her back to reality. She quickly looked away, dropping her gaze to her plate.

She picked up the last bite, holding it lightly between her fingers. She felt a momentary chill and shivered, staring at the pastry as though listening for some quiet signal.

Then, without thinking, she lifted it to her lips. Her tongue traced the ribbon of chocolate along the pastry’s edge, slow, sensual, unhurried, the motion unfolding with a softness that felt borrowed from someone else, somewhere outside herself. She shocked herself with her own behavior. She would never eat it that way, not here, not in front of anyone, not in front of him. Yet it happened as naturally as breathing.

Across the café, his unblinking stare held. His breath hitched. To him it felt like a subtle invitation, and she could feel the weight of his ocean‑eyed gaze anchoring her in place.

And then, confirmation. He stood.

It was not casual. It was a decision. His boots made a soft, steady sound on the worn wooden floor as he approached.

Her breath caught. A slow, electric tension crawled up her spine, spreading into her shoulders, down her arms, all the way to her fingertips. She reached for her spoon, meaning to stir her coffee as a distraction, but her hand trembled. The spoon clattered against the saucer, too loud in the quiet of this corner of the café.

Before she could try again, he was there.

The scent of him reached her first, warm, clean, with something faintly metallic beneath it, like the air before an autumn storm.

That's it.

He exhaled slowly, the sound hissing between his teeth, as if the breath itself resisted leaving him. His gaze held hers, steady but shadowed, the air between them tightening with something unspoken.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the moment might tip into something irreversible. The kind of step you can’t take back once it’s made.

“I almost…” he began, the words low, as if he wasn’t sure they belonged out loud. His jaw tightened, and for a long second she thought he might finish the thought but whatever it was, he swallowed it back.

Her gaze met his, willing him to continue..

“I just…wanted to…let you know,” he said, each pause a falter, as though he was testing the ground beneath him before taking the next step. He couldn’t get past the invisible caution signs he almost avoided. Almost. “you have chocolate icing on your chin.”

For a moment, she was unable to process the words. She was still caught in the blue of his eyes, still ready to say Yes, I will to a question he had not asked.

Then the meaning landed.

The realization struck her like a cold hand on the back of her neck in an empty room.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the table, to a small rip in the vinyl tablecloth just left of her cup.

“Thank you,” she murmured and cleared her throat..

By the time she looked up again, he had walked away and slipped through the door into the darkness of the street.

She watched through the window as he passed, a flicker of blue glinting in her direction as his silhouette thinned into the moonlight until it was gone.

The thought struck hard that she would never see him again. A once‑in‑a‑lifetime moment, already slipping through her fingers. Panic swelled, sharp and breathless… and she reached for the only thing that might steady her as she subconsciously raised a hand to her chin, wiping away the icing.

They never give you enough napkins.

She clutched the small, ridiculous thought like a lifeline, because it was easier than holding the weight of what she’d just let go.

But the moment wasn’t entirely hers to lose.

She stared into the depths of her cup lost in thought. He sauntered angrily into the darkness.

Both regretting an opportunity lost.

Yet

Neither of them had noticed the faint shift in the air when he stood.

Neither of them saw the shadow that did not belong to anyone in the room, stretching briefly across the floor between them.

If they had looked closely, they might have seen the way the steam from her latte curled toward him, as if drawn by an invisible hand.

Or how the crumbs from her pastry seemed to scatter in a pattern, like a trail.

Somewhere, in the space between them, something unseen took note.

It was not finished with them.

It had all the time in the world.

And it knew, with the patience of something older than these brick walls and the October‑kissed street outside, that magic worked best when it was slow.

That the right spell was never rushed.

Chapter Text

The studio had gone quiet hours ago.  

Eagle’s voice still lingered in the walls, raw, frayed, half-rap, half-rock.  

Chris sat alone at the mixing board, staring at the waveform like it owed him answers.  

It didn’t. No one did anymore. 

TripWire Digital had been built on good clean fun. Three brothers. One brand.  Nick, Matt and Chris Owens. No scandals. No sleaze. Just videos and loyalty, and a fanbase that adored them for years.

It afforded Chris the ability to do creative side projects like producing music. The brothers reciprocated loyalty too. They catered to their young female fanbase, some would say too much.

But loyalty had a cost. And tonight, it had a name: BigLou.

DatTrax Records had funded Eagle’s last two albums after buying out the old label. They’d expected more hip-hop. More heat. Instead, Eagle had turned inward, more guitars, gravel, and grief. His songs were becoming a crossover between trap and old school rock, still trying to find the spot that characterized his creativity best. And Chris had backed him 100%. Produced him. Protected him. He was family.

And now, BigLou wanted payback.

The override clause hadn’t been buried in the contract. It didn’t exist at all. Until tonight, that is. It wasn't on paper or digitally signed. It came in the form of concealed weapons in the waistbands of the goons BigLou brought with him on his visit to the studio.

Eagle owed him two more albums but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. They were going to flop and BigLou knew it. 

So he came up with a counter offer: One single. One video. And not just any video, a spectacle. Buzz-worthy. Viral. Sexual.

Eagle’s song in the background, Chris writhing around semi-naked with a scantily-clad baddie and all of it in black and white 5K.

With his good looks, his brothers’ supportive online engagement and the quick adoration from their millions of fans, it was sure to go viral and bring in profits that would outdo Eagle’s two half-assed attempts as his contract faded.

Eagle would be gone in record time, but not before DatTrax got their heaping share on account of his association with Chris. And BigLou knew Chris would do anything for Eagle. He had him right where he wanted him.

BigLou leaned in close to Chris, his breath sour with power and D’Ussé cognac.  

“You want your boy out clean? Then give me guaranteed profits.”  

Chris blinked. “What does that mean?”  

“It means I’m not losin’ money over his existential crisis, you feel me?” BigLou growled motioning over to Eagle who stood quiet, stiff. 

“What exactly do you want from me?” Chris hissed in anger, getting up into BigLou’s face. His goons made a move to get closer. 

BigLou put up a hand with a chuckle and his attack dogs sat themselves back down. 

He leaned into Chris again “Boy, you lucky you got what I need right now, but Imma give you props fer dat. At least you got fire in you.” He scanned Eagle with a once-over not even trying to hide his disdain.

“Imma tell you what I want from you. You. In the video. Half-naked. Makin’ love to some baddie who don’t know better.”  

Chris flinched. BigLou sneered at him, and taunted.  

“Unless you’re gay. Then bring your boyfriend.” he waved at Eagle dismissively.

The goon squad erupted in laughter. 

Chis glared at them

“No? Then bring your girlfriend. Cuz it’s gotta look real. Like you mean it. Real chemistry. Real heat. We gonna rile up all dem li’l girls. We be causin’ an innanet sensation! Mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money!” BigLou laughed heartily, slapping Chris on the back as if they were buddies who just scored a goal and an assist in overtime. 

Suddenly BigLou’s mood changed and he went silent, side-eying Chris. 

“You do have a girlfriend, don’t you?” It was less of a question and more of a concern. 

Chris took a deep breath as the digital lights in the studio cast a purple gleam on the handle of a Glock protruding from a goon’s jacket. 

“Yes. I’ve got a girlfriend.” He stated loudly, barely keeping his anger in check. He could sense Eagle’s stillness behind him, no doubt hiding his expression of disbelief from BigLou.

“Well that settles it then. Bring your girlfriend to the shoot Sunday night. 7:00 pm. Don’t be late.” BigLou flashed Eagle and Chris a wide menacing grin and paraded out with his henchmen to a line of black SUVs.

Eagle turned to Chris as the last vehicle left. “Bro,why’d you do that? I mean I appreciate it, but we both know you don’t have a girlfriend.”

🎃🎃🎃

Chris barely remembered the drive home but now he was climbing the steps to the main floor with trepidation as he readied himself for his brothers’ barrage of questions.

Matt and Nick were already on the sofa, locked in, eyes sharp, jaws tight. Waiting for him. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.  

They’d heard the whispers.  

DatTrax tangled in a murder.  

Eagle’s name dragged into it.  

Chris caught in the crosshairs.  

The silence was thick, brittle. Chris could feel it cracking around him as he stepped into the room.  

Matt broke first, standing up to meet his eyes. “What did he want?”  

Chris didn’t flinch. His voice was flat, gaze locked on a YouTube plaque on the wall. 

“A single and a video instead of two albums.”

Nick perked up. “That’s good news, right? Eagle gets out faster.”  

Chris nodded.  

Then paused.  

Then shook his head.  

Then froze.  

Matt leaned forward, tension rising. 

“What’s going on, Chris?”  

Chris didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the floor, then snapped up, focused, hard.  

“I’ll handle this,” he said.  

Matt tried logic.  

Nick tried humor.  

Neither made a dent.  

Chris checked his phone.  11:52 PM.  

“I need air,” he muttered.  

And before they could stop him, he was gone.  

🎃🎃🎃

The Jeep tore down the street, headlights cutting through the fog like blades.  

Whatever was coming, he’d face it alone.  

Because if he didn’t move fast, the fallout wouldn’t just hit him. It would bury them all.

Tires hissed. Brakes snapped. The Jeep halted like it had hit a wall.  Chris killed the engine with a sharp twist, silence crashing down around him.

He stepped out fast, leather jacket stiff against the cold, shoulders squared like armor. His face was carved in tension, eyes scanning the street with the precision of someone expecting trouble.

Cobblestones gleamed like wet teeth under the streetlamps.This part of the city didn’t breathe, it gasped in a time-warped silence. Cracked brick. Crooked alleys. His Timberlands scuffed along the uneven stones at a quick pace.

He turned a corner and there it was.

A 24-hour café wedged into a relic of a building. Old stone, amber glow, he looked through the window. Back corner. He spotted it. Dark booth. No eyes. No questions.  

Perfect.  

He opened the door and headed for the counter. No soda on the menu. He grimaced and ordered a coffee. He hated coffee. 

But he needed a dark refuge where no one would find him.

The booth. He slid in like a shadow, removed his jacket and bunched it up beside him on the bench seat.

I need a plan. And I need it now.

Because if he didn’t…

Everything hung by a thread that was frayed, trembling, seconds from snapping. His brothers. His closest friend. One wrong move, and the whole thing would send them falling into the abyss. 

Grave danger wasn’t on the horizon. It was in the room, breathing down his neck, teeth bared.  

And Chris was the only one left holding the line. No backup. Just him.  

And if he failed, they'd all go down with him.

The booth was dim, the air thick with burnt espresso and the ghost of old conversations. The café had emptied out, save for a small group on the other side of the counter.

Chris sat motionless, back pressed to the seat, eyes locked on nothing.

His mind replayed the studio like a crime scene. BigLou’s voice still rang in his ears gruff, impatient, final.

“Bring your girlfriend to the shoot Sunday. Real chemistry. Real heat.”

Chris had nodded, but he was bluffing. He didn’t have one. Not someone who could pull that off. Not someone who could sell the story, make him look untouchable to Eagle’s song, make the whole thing bulletproof.

He’d left the studio with a deadline and no solution. Now, past midnight, he was out of time and out of moves.

Then the bell over the door chimed.

She walked in. Low Uggs brushing the tile, faded jeans soft at the knees, pale green hoodie draped loose like she’d pulled it on without thinking. Her dark hair was twisted into a messy bun, glasses perched light on her nose, thin hoops catching the dim café light.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t scan the room.

She moved with quiet certainty, like she belonged, like nothing could rattle her.

And in that moment, Chris felt it.

Not relief. Not recognition. But stillness.

The kind that settles deep when everything else is falling apart.

She didn’t bring answers, but she felt like safety. And safety was something he could build on.  

Chris leaned back, one arm stretched along the top of the booth, eyes narrowing to laser focus on her as she sat at a small table in a dark corner opposite him. 

She hadn’t noticed him. Hadn’t looked his way.

And she couldn’t possibly know.

She was the start of his plan.

Chapter Text

The apartment had good bones. Crooked corners where walls met each other like strangers. Gleaming floorboards perfect for pacing, ceilings too high to care. She liked that.

The windows were tall, stretching like her aspirations.

She was halfway through unpacking boxes when the hallway light flickered. Once. Twice. Then held steady. She didn’t notice.

“Jack, you sound like a fangirl,” she said through a smile, phone tucked between shoulder and cheek as she pulled bubble wrap off a stack of mismatched mugs.

Jack’s voice crackled through the speakerphone, giddy. “I am a fangirl. You remember Stacey Fame? We saw her in that club show at the Bijoux. She sued when they dropped her after she did the pilot and they gave it to someone else for half the money. That queen is about to land a series deal. Streaming. Merch. Maybe even a makeup brand!”

“And you negotiated a series for her out of a lawsuit?” She laughed. “You’re a wolf in court and a glitter bomb in real life.”

“Don’t tell my clients. They think I eat contracts for breakfast.”

“You do.”

He sighed dramatically. “Anyway, I’ll vet your campaign paperwork next week. Just got the deck you sent. Warning, I’m in Bali for a week. Flight’s out first thing tomorrow.”

“No worries, Jack. We’re still meeting our timelines for the project. You have a well-deserved vacation.”

They hung up. She turned toward the hallway. The light flickered again. She blinked. It stopped.

By late afternoon, she’d unboxed half her life and wiped down every surface twice. The apartment felt lived-in now. Still, something about the air felt…off.

She got a text from Rob. “Call me when you’re free. I’m buried in fonts. Send help.”

She dialed.

“Hey,” Rob answered, voice warm and chaotic. “I’m drowning in serif. It’s a bloodbath.”

She smiled. “You always say that.”

“I mean it this time. I’m designing for a bakery. They want something spooky but sweet. I’m losing my mind.”

“Let’s meet in two weeks when your designs are due. I’ll bring coffee, you bring all the free cupcakes they are going to give you.”

“Perfect. How’s the new place?”

“First day, Rob. Still too new. Ask me when we meet up to work out the design for that new holiday campaign.”

“I can’t wait.”

They hung up. She ordered Thai. Ate on the couch. Watched half an episode of something forgettable.

The lights dimmed once, then returned. Her phone buzzed. Then died. She plugged it in. It flickered back to life.

She peeled tape off a box and pulled out a book she’d been meaning to read and a ceramic bowl shaped like a cat.

The hallway light flickered again. She turned toward it. Blink. Pause. It stopped. She blinked back. Shrugged. Old wiring, probably.

That’s enough boxes for today.

The shower steamed up fast. She liked the heat, the hiss of water, the way it drowned out the to-do lists she kept making in her head.

She wiped the mirror. Paused. There was something behind her. She turned. Nothing. Just steam.

She dried off. Cozy pajama pants, a cream camisole, the book she fished out of the bottom of the last box. Time for bed.

She gave up on the book within minutes and shut the lamp on her nightstand.

Maybe it was because the bed was new, having been just delivered that morning or maybe it was her restless mind. She tossed. She turned. She flipped onto her stomach. She stretched out like a starfish. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows moving like they had somewhere to be.

She checked her phone. 12:03 AM. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the soft glow of the screen. She closed her eyes, opened them again.

The apartment creaked a polite, ancient sound.

She sat up. Ran a hand through her hair. Exhaled.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the closet, pulled on a hoodie, slipped into a pair of comfy jeans, slid into her Uggs. Glasses. Phone. Keys. Wallet. Put her hair up in a messy bun, threw on some hoops to make it less slouchy.

She didn’t need anything else.

“I need air,” she muttered.

The street was quiet. Fog clung to the pavement. She walked fast, hands in pockets, breath visible in the October air.

She didn’t know where she was going. She’d learn these streets in time, but she remembered seeing a 24-hour café sign outside an old building nearby. She pulled out her phone and found it with an easy nearby location search, literally a few more steps away.

She turned a corner. And there it was. The historic building. Warm light. Steam on glass.

A place that felt like it had been waiting for her.

🎃🎃🎃

Matt paced the living room, phone in hand, checking the time every thirty seconds.

Nick sat on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, watching the front door like Chris might burst through it at any moment.

“He said he needed air,” Nick muttered. “That was over an hour ago.”

Matt didn’t respond. He was typing. Then deleting. Then typing again. He raked a hand through his hair, third time in a minute.

“Just text him,” Nick snapped. “You’re not writing a poem.”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying not to sound like I’m losing it.”

“You are losing it. We both are.” Nick’s gaze dropped to the floor.

Matt hit send.

Fuck, Chris. Where the hell are you?

He tossed the phone onto the coffee table and sat down hard. Nick leaned forward.

“You think he’s with Eagle?”

“No,” Matt said. “If he was, he’d have said so.”

“Then where?”

Matt didn’t answer.

Neither of them knew about the café. Neither of them knew Chris had parked on some fog-slick street in a part of town he never visited.

They only knew he’d walked out with that look, the one that meant he was about to do something reckless.

They sat in silence. The house creaked. Matt’s phone stayed dark.

Nick stood. “What should we do?”

Matt didn’t move. He stared at the door. At the absence of Chris. At the space he’d left behind. And somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the panic, beneath the hope, he already knew. Chris wasn’t coming home tonight.

“We wait. I’ll text him until he answers.”

🎃🎃🎃

Chris sat in his Jeep, engine off, parked across the street at the side of a building. The street was quiet. He’d been there for twenty minutes.

Watching. Waiting.

His phone buzzed again. Matt.

CHRIS, FUCK! ANSWER ME!!! where tf are you??? who tf are you with???

Chris stared at the screen. His thumb hovered. Then typed.

Don’t worry. I’m handling it.

He jammed the phone into a pocket of his leather jacket. He leaned back, eyes fixed on the café’s glowing windows. She was still inside.

He rehearsed the words again.

“Hey, I know this is weird, but I need to talk to you.” No. Too vague. Too creepy.

“I’m working on a project and I think you’d be perfect for it.” Better. Professional. But suspicious.

“It’s not a date.” What am I saying? Definitely don’t say that. Saying it makes it sound like one.

He exhaled hard. His breath fogged the windshield. He wiped it with his sleeve, then gripped the wheel again.

He wasn’t good at this. Not the approach. Not the vulnerability.

Now he was about to ask a stranger to fake a relationship with him on camera and oh, hey…half-naked at that.

She didn’t know him. She had no reason to trust him. And if she said no, he had no backup plan.

He’d tell her everything. Not all at once. But enough.

He’d explain the label. The override clause. The threat. BigLou’s ultimatum. The way Eagle’s contract was a trap, and how Chris was the only way out.

He’d tell her she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. That she could walk away. That he’d figure something else out.

He didn’t believe that last part. But he’d say it anyway.

The café door opened. She stepped out. Hoodie. Uggs. Hands in pockets. She looked up at the sky like it might answer something.

Chris opened the Jeep door. Stepped out. Walked toward her casually, hands in pockets.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost shy. “I…uh…I wanted to talk to you but I had to…uh…leave”

She turned. Recognition flickered. She smiled, polite but uncertain.

He felt the hesitation. Then something shifted.

In him.

Like a switch. A snap. A Jekyll and Hyde moment.

He opened his mouth to speak. But the rehearsed words didn’t come.

Instead, his hand was over her mouth before she could scream. She twisted, kicked. He didn’t flinch. He lifted her, her Uggs gliding along the cobblestones, fast, practiced, terrifying.

She tried to scream but his hand was clamped around her mouth tightly. He was too strong for her to fight back.

She desperately tried to find her phone in her pocket, but he was holding her so tightly she couldn’t move her arms.

The Jeep door was already open. She was pushed inside. He was on top of her in an instant holding her down, silencing her.

The door slammed shut. Darkness. Breath. Silence. His hand was replaced with fabric stretched across her mouth, tied tight. It hurt.

She thrashed once. He pinned her wrists. A click. A second click.

A seatbelt crudely pulled across her body. Another click.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare look at her. She eyed him wildly as tears fell down her cheeks soaking the bandana stretched across her mouth as she whimpered in fear.

He could hear her heartbeat.

With a calm that didn’t match the moment, he stared ahead through the windshield as he told her quietly, almost gently, that he wasn’t going to hurt her.

She was terrified and couldn’t voice it. No one would hear. She resorted to the only thing she knew when faced with overwhelming fear. Calm.

Slow down your heart rate. Pace your breaths. Use your head. Win this.

He started the engine. The jeep made its way out of the desolate cobblestone streets, through the downtown and onto the freeway.

She looked down at her wrists in the glow of the passing streetlights.

Purple fuzzy handcuffs.

Chapter Text

The city fell away behind them like a dream dissolving at dawn. Streetlights blurred into streaks of amber in the rearview mirror, then vanished altogether as the Jeep surged forward into the dark.

It was 1:30 AM, the hour when even the most restless souls had surrendered to sleep, when the world felt hollowed out and strange.

She sat in the front seat, wrists bound in front of her with cold, biting metal covered with purple fluff that stopped being funny twenty minutes ago.

A bandana gag pressed against her mouth, damp now from tears and breath. Her phone was gone. Her voice, stolen. Her body trembling.

She had tried everything, screaming into the gag, kicking the dashboard, twisting in her seat like a trapped animal.

But Chris didn’t flinch.

He drove with eerie calm, his hands loose on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn’t he looking at me?

Her sobs came fast, tears rolling down her cheeks, wetting the bandana. Someone will see us. Someone will stop this. Please, please, someone.

Chris glanced at her once, briefly. Her eyes were wild, rimmed with red. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts.

She’s panicking. That’s good. That’s honest. She’s not scheming yet. Not trying to charm her way out. That comes later.

The road stretched on, empty and endless.

Twenty more minutes passed in silence. Then, without warning, Chris turned into a roadside gas station.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on cracked pavement. The sudden brightness made her flinch.

He got out, walked around to her side, and opened the door. His voice was low, clipped. “Out.”

She hesitated, legs trembling as she stepped down, her legs almost giving out. He caught her and opened the back door. “In.”

She froze. He’s moving me. Why? Why now?

He pressed his body against hers, not violently, but with enough weight to pin her in place. He undid one cuff, looped it through a metal clip bolted to the frame, and clicked it shut again. She was tethered now, like cargo.

He slammed the door and walked off.

Through the windshield, she watched him enter the gas station. He smiled at the cashier. Laughed. Gestured toward the snack aisle like he didn’t just take her hostage.

He’s pretending. He’s good at pretending. How many times has he done this?

She stared at her reflection in the window. Her eyes looked wrong. Swollen. Animal.

I’m not going to die. Not like this. Not without knowing why.

He returned with two plastic bags. Sandwiches, bottled water, chips in one, more food in the other. He tossed them onto the passenger-side floor, started the engine, and drove.

The highway narrowed as asphalt gave way to gravel. Trees thickened on either side, tall and black like sentinels. The Jeep jostled over potholes, headlights slicing through fog. Then it stopped.

She lifted her head.

A cabin stood ahead, half-swallowed by forest. No lights. No neighbors. Just wood, shadow, and silence.

Chris got out. He opened the back, pulled out a large black duffle bag, slung it over his shoulder. He placed it on the steps beside the food bags, then unlocked the cabin door with his phone - no keys, no fumbling. Just a quiet beep and a click.

He returned to the Jeep and opened the back door. Leaning in, he undid the cuff from the clip and re-fastened it around her wrists. Then, without a word, he lifted her, arms under knees and shoulders and carried her toward the cabin.

He’s carrying me like he cares. Don't trust this psycho.

Inside, the cabin was dim and quiet. The air smelled of cedar and old smoke. Chris placed her like a doll on a heavy wooden chair positioned near the fireplace. It was solid, ornate, with thick spindled arms that looked like they’d been carved to restrain.

He unlocked one cuff, then looped the other around the chair’s spindle and clicked it shut. She sagged into the seat, her breath shallow, her limbs trembling. The cuff tugged at her wrist, anchoring her to the chair like a tether to reality.

Chris lowered himself to face her. His expression was unreadable, neither cruel nor kind, just focused.

He reached into one of the bags, pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and lifted it to her lips.

Her mouth.

He watched her lips part, watched the water touch them.

She’s beautiful when she’s scared. Not because she’s weak. Because she’s real.

She took three sips.

He’s watching me drink. Like it means something. Like it’s a ritual. Like he’s feeding a pet.

He didn’t blink. Then he spoke, voice low, almost gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you.” he said.

Liar. Liar. Liar. That’s what they all say before they do.

“I just need you to cooperate.”

What does that mean? What does he want? What does he think this is?

“I need us to get to know each other better. With no distractions.”

No distractions? You took my phone. You gagged me. You dragged me to a remote cabin. You think this is intimacy?

“I’ll explain everything in due time.”

No. No. No. I don’t want explanations. I want out. I want air. I want someone to see me. I want someone to know I’m here.

Her head lolled. His voice became a hum, like a refrigerator or a distant train. Her body sagged deeper into the chair. Her wrist throbbed where the cuff pressed bone. Her vision tunneled, the edges darkening.

Chris stood. He walked to the fireplace, his movements smooth, deliberate.

He pressed something behind the mantle, a panel, a switch, something hidden. The wall moved.

Did that just happen? Is the wall moving? She blinked, her breath catching.

A black-walled room revealed itself silent, sterile.

Waiting inside: a bed, a camera on a tripod, a ring light glowing like an eye.

No. No. No. What is this? What is he going to do to me?

Then darkness took her.

🎃🎃🎃

Chapter Text

Matt sat on the couch like gravity had claimed him. Legs stretched out, shirt wrinkled, eyes red. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe none. His body was still, but his mind was pacing.

Nick stood in the kitchen, staring into a mug he hadn’t touched. The coffee had gone cold hours ago. He didn’t care. If Chris was in trouble, they’d already be too late. If he wasn’t, they were wasting time. 

Either way, the silence was unbearable.

Matt had checked the Jeep’s GPS at 1:17 a.m. Nothing. Chris had wiped it clean before leaving. No trail. No timestamp. No destination.

He knew what he was doing. That’s what scares me the most.

They’d called Eagle. Twice. Then again. He answered on the fourth try, voice cracked, already unraveling. He told them everything.

BigLou. The studio. The threat. The demand for a video - viral, sexual, profitable. Chris bluffing about a girlfriend. Chris agreeing to the deal.

Matt had texted again.

CHRIS, FUCK! ANSWER ME!!! where tf are you??? who tf are you with???

Nick had paced. Matt had gone still.

Finally, Chris texted back.

Don’t worry. I’m handling it.

Now the stillness was everywhere.

Matt stared at the front door like it might rewind time. Nick finally spoke.

“What’s the worst-case scenario?” He moved over to the sofa, voice low, eyes wide.

Matt didn’t answer. 

“Nick, stop.” Matt waved a hand in his direction. That didn’t help. Nick started to spiral.

“Oh my god, I’m scared. What if he’s going after someone right now?” His voice rose, sharp and panicked, grating against Matt’s last nerve.

“NICK!” Matt jumped up and screamed, arms flailing. “Get a hold of yourself. He’s not out committing murder!” He slumped back into the cozy depression he’d been carving into the couch all night.

“I’m worried, Matt!” Nick bellowed defensively. “What if someone’s after him?”

“The kid’s fine. He can talk his way out of anything. We both know it.”

Chris had talked his way out of worse. He’d faced men who wanted to hurt them, ruin Eagle, bury TripWire, destroy everything they’d built. And he’d won. Every time. With charm. With calm. With that smirk. With his voice that made people forget why they were angry.

But something gnawed in Matt’s gut.

This time felt different. This time felt planned.

He picked up his phone and texted Chris.

Chris, are you at the cabin?

He tossed the phone on the seat beside him, looked at it like it might blink out the truth. Then picked it up again. His lips tightened to a thin line.

If you are…please tell me you’re alone.

Matt could feel it in the way the air moved through the house - slower, heavier, like it was grieving. He could feel it in the silence between texts, in the absence of Chris’s voice, in the way his own breath felt borrowed.

“I need a hot shower,” Nick announced, heading for the stairs. “Let me know if you hear from him!”

Matt nodded, barely registering the words. He listened to the water start upstairs.

Then, another text from Chris.

Don’t come here. I’m with a girl. We’ll be back Sunday.

Matt blinked at the words, slowly processing their meaning. A sense of dread took hold. 

He’s not improvising. He’s executing something. And I don’t know what it is.

Whatever Chris had done, whatever line he’d crossed, it wasn’t just reckless. It was irreversible.

And Matt, who had always believed he could pull his brother back from the edge, was starting to understand: this time, the edge had moved. 

And Chris had already jumped at the count of two.

🎃🎃🎃

Nick bounded down the stairs to the kitchen and sat at the table. “I ordered us some food. Should be here soon.”

“Thanks, Nick. And thank you both for inviting me to stay here. I was going out of my mind.” Eagle propped both elbows on the table and let his head rest in his hands.

“Hey man, we’ll get through this.” Matt clapped him on the back as he strode to the fridge. “Does anyone want something to drink?” Two shaking heads. He grabbed an apple juice for himself.

“At least we know where he is.” He took a swig from the bottle. “And who knows, maybe it’s mutual.” He tried to lighten the mood with something positive, but Nick and Eagle just stared at him.

Eagle rubbed his eyes. “We left the studio at seven. I remember checking the clock. Chris said he had stuff to handle and peeled off fast.”

Nick leaned forward. “So he went straight to the cabin?”

Matt nodded slowly. “He had to. If he was gonna spend time with her before the shoot, it had to start that night.”

Eagle frowned. “I thought he’d ask one of the dancers we’ve worked with before. Someone familiar. Someone who wouldn’t freak out.”

Nick’s voice dropped. “What about angry boyfriends?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “He wouldn’t try taking a complete stranger, would he?”

They all looked at each other. No one answered. Because they already knew.

Nick exhaled. “This is bad. Like, real-world bad. Not just studio drama.”

Matt’s mind raced. 

If she’s not there willingly, it’s kidnapping. If she is, it’s still dangerous. Either way, we’re complicit the moment we stay quiet. Holy shit, Chris.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the doorbell rang.

He put his juice down on the table. Let out a loud, strained sigh. “I’ll go get the food.”

Nick leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. “I just…I know how straight guys think. I’ve seen it a thousand times. They don’t always know when they’re crossing a line. And Chris - he’s charming, yeah, but charm isn’t consent.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’m scared for him, Eagle. I’m scared for her too. I’m terrified for both.”

Eagle nodded slowly, his voice low. “I get it, man. I do. But Chris isn’t stupid. He’s not cruel. If she’s there, it’s because he thinks he can make it work. And if he’s wrong…we’ll fix it. We’ll find a way. We’ll fix it.”

Nick didn’t say anything. He just stared at the table, jaw clenched, while he and Eagle sat in silence, quietly hoping for the best.

Their quiet hoping was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

Matt approached the table, empty-handed, but not alone.

“Food’s delayed,” he said, voice flat. “But look who I ran into.”

Behind him stood Tyler - tall, stylish, with a tote bag slung over one shoulder and a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” Tyler said, stepping in. “Sorry to barge in. Nick invited me earlier to drop off some makeup for his Halloween look. I was gonna give him a few tips, but…” He glanced around the room, taking in the tension. “I’m guessing now’s not the time.”

Nick stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I totally forgot. Everything’s kind of…imploding.”

Tyler nodded, understanding without pressing. “You okay?”

Nick hesitated. “It’s Chris. He’s gone off-grid. We’re trying to locate him.” he half-lied.

Tyler’s expression shifted - concern, then quiet solidarity. “Got it. Say no more.”

Eagle stood and offered a hand. “I’m Eagle.”

“Tyler,” he said, shaking it. “Loved your last single, by the way. That hook? Unreal.”

Eagle smiled, grateful for the moment of normalcy. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

Tyler turned back to Nick placing the tote bag on the counter. “We’ll do the makeup thing another day. Just text me when you’re ready.”

Nick nodded, eyes soft. “Thanks, Ty. And congrats, by the way - heard about the series deal. That’s huge.”

"Oh, a series? Congrats, Ty!" Matt shook his hand.  Eagle offered his congratulations too.

Tyler smiled, a flicker of pride breaking through the tension. “Thanks. Still feels surreal.”

Nick gave a small laugh. “Well, surreal suits you. That’s divine justice.”

Tyler grinned as he waved goodbye to them all and made his grand exit down the stairs. “That’s right, boys. No one messes with Stacey Fame!”

Chapter Text

She woke with a start, breath catching in her throat before she understood why. Her wrists ached. Something cold and unyielding circled them, and when she tried to move, the resistance was immediate.

Handcuffs. Metal. Tight. Her pulse surged.

The room was dim, the walls matte black and soundless, like they’d been designed to absorb every trace of her presence.

A single narrow window near the ceiling let in a sliver of late afternoon light, casting a pale stripe across the bedspread. The sheets beneath her were crisp, tucked with precision, and smelled faintly of detergent. Not the cheap kind. Something expensive. Something deliberate.

He planned this. Every inch. Every thread.

She blinked hard, trying to piece together how she’d gotten here. The last thing she remembered clearly was sitting on the chair by the fireplace. Then the hidden room. The bed. The camera. The ring light. After that, nothing.

Had he drugged her? Had she collapsed from exhaustion? Her body felt heavy, but not fogged. No dizziness. No nausea. Just the dull ache of sleep that had come too fast, too deep. She was hungry. The last food she’d had was the croissant before he…

Before he changed the rules.

She tugged at the cuffs again, testing them. They were looped through the headboard slats, not tight enough to cut off circulation, but firm enough to make a point. She was meant to stay here. She was meant to wake up like this. 

He wants control. But not chaos. That’s worse.

The door opened quietly.

Chris stepped in, carrying a folded stack of clothes. He didn’t look surprised to see her awake. He didn’t look guilty, either. Just calm. Measured. Like this was a routine.

She’s awake. Good. No panic. No screaming. That’s something.

“I brought you something to change into,” he said, setting the bundle on the edge of the bed. “Boxers - sorry. They were the smallest I had. Hoodie, sweats, socks. Towels.”

She stared at the towels. Clean. Folded. Soft. The kind you’d offer a guest. The kind you’d prepare for someone you expected to stay. She needed to shower. Her stomach turned. The implication was clear, and it crawled up her spine like a warning.

He’s not rushing me. That’s worse than rushing.

Chris noticed her reaction but didn’t comment. Instead, he reached for the cuffs, unlocking them with a quiet click. His touch was gentle, almost careful, as if he didn’t want to startle her. She pulled her hands back the moment they were free, rubbing her wrists without taking her eyes off him.

She’s watching every move. Smart. She should.

“I made dinner,” he said. “Come eat.”

She followed him into the kitchen, wary but silent.

The cabin was small, but it clearly had everything and then some - electricity, running water, a stocked pantry, secret rooms and sliding walls with digital locks and controls. The kind of place a psychopath could disappear into. The kind of place his victim could be kept without worrying about them escaping.

This place is a fortress. But it’s also a stage. So weird.

He pulled out a chair for her and plated two servings of penne with rosée sauce. Two Pepsis. Forks. Napkins. It was domestic in a way that felt surreal. She sat, watching him as he settled across from her, picking up his fork like this was any other night.

She’s still here. Still calm. That’s rare.

“Hey,” he said softly, his gaze looking to hers to call her attention. “I’m Chris. What’s your name?”

She heard his words but couldn’t reconcile the strange feeling they evoked. It felt like they were having a lovely first date inside a swirl of danger and criminal psychosis.

Is this charm? Or is this camouflage? I can’t figure him out yet. It would help if he wasn’t so damn handsome.

She put her fork down gently and looked straight into his eyes.

“Hazel.”

He stared at her for a brief moment. He offered a genuine smile.

“That’s a beautiful name. It suits you. Matches your eyes.”

She said it. She gave me something real. That’s…unexpected.

An uncomfortable silence and then Chris started talking. She picked up her fork and resumed eating. 

He talked while they ate. Mostly about himself. TripWire. His brothers. The early days. The collapse. His voice was steady, almost soothing, and she found herself listening with interest despite herself.

He wants me to know him. Or he wants me to think he does.

“You can look it up,” he said at one point, gesturing vaguely toward the world beyond the cabin.

She raised an eyebrow. “You took my phone.”

He smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough to make her feel like she’d walked into a trap she hadn’t seen coming.

“Okay,” he said. “You can take my word for it now and look it up later.”

She didn’t respond. He didn’t seem to mind.

She’s sharp. Doesn’t waste words. I respect that.

“Hazel…” His voice was low, barely a whisper. She looked up from her plate. Something had shifted in his expression - the edges softened, the calculation paused. He wasn’t smiling now. He looked…uncertain. Like he was bracing for something.

If she says yes, I’ll have to rethink everything.

“Is someone waiting for you?” he asked. “Family? A boyfriend, a husband…a partner? Someone who’d notice you’re gone?”

She didn’t answer right away. The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. It was quiet. Careful. Like he needed to know, not for control, but for clarity. For consequence.

He held her gaze, steady and searching, and for the first time, she saw something flicker behind his calm: the possibility that he hadn’t planned for this part. That her absence might echo somewhere beyond these walls.

He didn’t expect me to matter. That’s his mistake.

Hazel didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. She let the silence stretch just long enough to make him wonder if she was deciding whether to lie.

Then she tilted her head slightly, fork poised above her plate, and gave him a half-smile, the kind that could mean anything.

“There are people,” she said. “Friends. Colleagues. I’m not exactly off the grid.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

She didn’t mention Jack. She didn’t mention Rob. She didn’t mention she had been on her own since the age of 13 or the fact that no one would notice she was gone until Monday, maybe later.

He doesn’t get to know everything. Not yet.

Chris studied her face, searching for something. She kept her expression neutral, her tone casual, like the question hadn’t rattled her at all.

She’s good. Too good. That answer was built to hold.

“I see,” he said quietly.

She nodded once, then took another bite of pasta, as if the conversation had already moved on.

But it hadn’t.

Because now he was recalibrating. And she was watching him do it.

He’s adjusting. That means I’m still unpredictable.

Dinner ended quietly. He washed the dishes, sleeves pushed up, movements efficient. She watched him from the kitchen table, trying to understand the rhythm of his behavior. 

He’s methodical.

She stood slowly, her voice quiet but firm.

“I need to wash up. Can I use the bathroom?”

He dried his hands and nodded, gesturing toward the hallway.

“Of course.”

She’s asking. Not demanding. That’s a really good sign.

He watched as she went back into the room and emerged holding the two towels.

He didn't follow. Didn’t speak. He only listened and watched as she slipped into the bathroom and locked the door with a faint click.

He leaned against the doorway, lips curling into a quiet smirk, eyes dark with thought.  

She left the clothes in the bedroom. Not by accident - she’s too smart for that. So what’s the move, Hazel? Walk past me in a towel, bold and unbothered, or ask me to bring them, controlled and cautious? Either way, you’re signaling. And I’m paying attention. 

🎃🎃🎃

Chapter Text

Hazel shut the bathroom door with a soft, deliberate click, the sound barely louder than her own breath. She turned the lock slowly, as if the mechanism itself might betray her with a sudden snap. 

If he wanted in, this wouldn’t stop him.

It was then she noticed the digital box higher above the door.

He’s probably got cameras in here, too.

She shook her head as if the motion could discard the thought. 

The towels she’d gathered smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that tried to soothe but couldn’t quite erase the memory of metal cuffs biting into her wrists.

She was still wearing her hoop earrings and the worn leather bracelet, small details she hadn’t registered until now.

Had he noticed them? Had he considered slipping them off when she’d gone limp in the chair, when he’d lifted her and laid her in the bed like something fragile? Did he hesitate? Did he think about boundaries?

The fact that they were still there felt like a quiet decision he’d made.

Hazel peeled off her clothes one layer at a time, each piece heavy with the weight of the last day’s events. It hadn’t even been 24 hours.

Her bra came off last, the strap catching briefly on her shoulder before falling away.

She stood there, bare, the cool air brushing against her skin like a question she wasn’t ready to answer. Why me? Why the café? He hasn’t explained it, not really. Not enough to make it make sense.

She folded each piece of clothing with quiet precision, placing them on the edge of the sink - jeans, camisole, hoodie, bra - stacked and aligned like evidence. 

I saw the washer-dryer near the kitchen. I’ll clean them first thing tomorrow, if he'll let me.

She stepped into the shower stall, the tiles cold underfoot, and turned the handle. The water surged to life, hot and immediate, steam rising like a curtain between her and everything outside. The first hit of heat made her gasp, sharp, involuntary. Then she leaned in, letting it pour over her shoulders, her back, her face.

He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t crossed a line. But that doesn’t mean I’m safe. It just means he’s patient.

She closed her eyes and let the water do its work, washing away the grime, the panic, the residue of being handled, watched, judged. Her fingers moved slowly, tracing the line of her neck, the curve of her collarbone.

He’s very good-looking, annoyingly so. Don’t get soft just because he’s symmetrical. But it isn't just the jawline or the eyes. It’s the way he moves. Intentional. Like he knows how to be seen without making it feel like a threat. And that’s the part that’s messing with me.

She stayed under the stream longer than necessary, letting the heat soften her muscles, quiet her thoughts. 

I don’t trust him. But I don’t hate him either. And that’s the part that scares me most.

The realization brought her some peace. And for the first time since she’d left her apartment, Hazel let herself breathe.

🎃🎃🎃

She stood in front of the mirror, unmoving. Her reflection stared back with a kind of haunted clarity. Damp strands of hair clinging to her temples, cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower, or was it adrenaline? Her eyes, wide and restless, hadn’t stopped scanning since she woke up in that unfamiliar room, wrists bound, breath shallow, mind racing. 

Even now, they flicked toward the door, toward the silence beyond it, toward the man who hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, hadn’t crossed the threshold.

Is he still out there? 

She tightened the towel around her body, knotting it with fingers that trembled just slightly. He hadn’t followed her in. That mattered. He hadn’t said a word. That mattered more. He just waited with his stillness, his restraint.

She hadn’t forgotten the clothes. She’d seen them folded neatly on the bed. She’d left them there on purpose. A small, calculated omission. A trap, maybe.

Or a test.

If he was decent, he’d bring them to her. If he was dangerous, he’d make her come out and get them. Either way, she’d learn something. Either way, she’d know what type of man she was up against.

The shower had helped, at least on the surface. The heat had softened her muscles, the steam had fogged the mirror and, for a few minutes, her mind. 

It had given her the illusion of control, the fantasy of normalcy. But beneath the towel, her heart still thudded against her ribs like a warning drum. This wasn’t a game. This was survival dressed in civility, danger disguised as politeness.

She inhaled slowly, deeply, trying to anchor herself. Her breath caught halfway through, snagged on the edge of fear. 

She didn’t want to be wrong about him. 

Not just for her safety, but for something quieter, more complicated. 

A part of her wanted him to pass. Wanted him to be kind. Wanted to believe that decency could still exist in a place like this. In a moment like this.  

With a man like him.

She exhaled. Her fingers brushed the doorknob. Time to find out what kind of man he really was.

One breath. Then another. 

If he’s decent, he won’t make me ask. 

The door opened, and for a beat, Chris forgot to breathe. 

There she stood, towel wrapped high and tight, skin damp and flushed, her shoulders bare, her collarbones catching the light. Her dark hair twisted into a wet braid, imperfect and deliberate. Her hazel eyes met his with a steadiness that made him forget what he was holding.

He felt it, something shifted. Not lust. Not relief. Something quieter. 

She’s here. She’s real. She’s watching me back.

He hadn’t let himself think about how she’d look. That felt like crossing a line. But now that she was in front of him, he couldn’t unsee the contrast: the vulnerability of bare skin, the precision of her posture, the calculation in her gaze. She wasn’t soft. She was armored in silence.

She noticed the way he stood. Not leaning, not lounging, not trying to look casual. He carried the folded clothes in both hands, arms relaxed, posture neutral. No smirk. No comment. Just presence.

He held them out to her, careful not to speak. Careful not to move too fast.

Don’t ruin this. Don’t make her flinch.

Hazel blinked once, absorbing the sight. He hadn’t left them on the floor. Hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t tried to enter. He’d waited. Quietly. Patiently. 

He passed, she thought, and the realization landed with a strange weight. Relief, yes, but also something more complicated. Something warmer.

“You waited,” she said, voice low, almost a whisper.

Chris nodded. “Figured you’d want to decide when this door opened.”

Hazel’s eyes dropped to the bundle in his hands.

“You could’ve left them outside,” she said.

“I could’ve,” he agreed. “But I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you.”

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until she was close enough to take the clothes. Her fingers brushed his, brief, electric. She didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did he.

“You think this was a test?” she asked, eyes searching his.

“I think you need to know what kind of man I am.”

Hazel tilted her head slightly, studying him. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I’d rather be seen clearly than misunderstood.”

She took the clothes fully into her arms, the warmth of the fabric seeping into her skin. Still, she didn’t move. Not yet.

“You didn’t look?” she asked, remembering the digital box above the door.

“I really wanted to,” he admitted. “But I didn’t.”

Hazel’s breath caught, just slightly. She knew in her bones he was telling the truth. That was the first honest thing he’d said that made her feel something other than guarded. She turned, but paused in the doorway.

“That matters,” she said.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Chris stood there, staring at the wood grain, the echo of her voice still vibrating in his chest. 

She’s brave, he thought. Not just for walking through the moment, but for owning it. For setting the terms and watching how he responded.

She hadn’t flirted. Hadn’t softened. Hadn’t tried to charm him. She’d just been present. Controlled. Intentional. And that, her clarity, her restraint, was magnetic.

Chris didn’t date. He didn’t do intimacy. His connections were very brief, very physical, and very uncomplicated. No expectations. No aftermath. 

As he stared at the door he realized for the first time that something else might be possible.

She wasn’t offering anything. She was just there, fully herself, without apology or invitation.

And something about that, about her, hit differently. Not lust. Not conquest. But recognition. A flicker of something he hadn’t felt in years.

Maybe ever.

Chapter Text

The storm had settled into a rhythm, wind pressing against the cabin walls, rain streaking the windows, thunder rolling low like a distant drum. Inside, the massive stone fireplace glowed with fresh flame, its heat spreading slowly across the room. Shadows danced along the timber beams overhead, flickering like thoughts too fast to catch.

Hazel sat on the thick blanket Chris had laid near the hearth, legs folded beneath her, arms wrapped around her knees. Her hair was still damp from the shower, pulled into a loose braid that clung to her shoulder. 

She wore the clothes he’d given her, a comfy hoodie, matching sweats and socks. It felt strange wearing men’s boxers, but it was comfortable.

Chris crouched by the fire, feeding it with care. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just let the silence stretch until it felt like something shared.

“I didn’t take you from the café to hurt you,” he said finally, voice low. “I know it looked bad. It was bad. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hazel didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on the flames. “You cuffed me.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t speak for hours.”

“I know.”

She turned to him, her voice sharper now. “You don’t get credit for knowing.”

Chris nodded, accepting it. “Fair.”

He sat down across from her, the fire between them. “BigLou bought Eagle’s label. Eagle owed him two albums, but his new stuff - yacht rock with trap beats - is tanking. Lou’s furious. Wants one last hit. Not two albums. Just one single. And a video.”

Hazel’s brow furrowed. “What does that have to do with you?”

“He wants me in the video,” Chris said. “Front and center. Shirtless. Selling fantasy. Thinks my fanbase’ll make it explode.”

Hazel blinked. “You’re not even signed.”

Chris clocked that. Not just the words, the tone. 

She’s tracking the business side, even though she’s figured out the part where she has to be in the video with me. 

She listened when he was talking earlier during dinner. Does she know contracts? Or is she just smart? Either way, he filed it.

“No. But BigLou doesn’t care. He showed up at the studio with three guys carrying Glocks. Made it clear I didn’t have a choice.”

Hazel’s jaw tightened. “So you took me. Why?”

Chris leaned forward. “Because I panicked. I saw you at the café, you’re pretty and I thought if I could just get you away from everything, explain, maybe you’d help me. Maybe you’d understand.”

Hazel blushed at the mention of being pretty. Chris noticed. She kept her focus on him. “You thought I’d help the guy who kidnapped me?”

“I thought you’d help the guy who didn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. “Who gave you space. Who waited outside the bathroom door with your clothes folded.”

The fire popped, sending a spark upward. Hazel didn’t flinch.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Chris said. “I’m asking you to see me clearly. I did something stupid. But I’m not trying to manipulate you. I just need your help.”

Chris poked at the fire, watching the embers shift and glow, then glanced over at Hazel with a half-smile.

“Okay, enough about BigLou and studio threats. Any hobbies?” he asked, voice lighter now, testing the air for softness. 

Hazel hesitated, then shrugged. “Reading. Knitting. Cooking.” 

Chris blinked, surprised by the domesticity of it all. Something about it, her quiet rituals, her hands making things, hit him deep, like warmth tucked behind his ribs. “That’s... actually really nice.” he said, turning to poke at the embers.

Hazel tilted her head. “What about you?” 

He grinned. “Music, obviously. Art. Gaming.” 

Her eyes sparked. “What games?” 

I love Fortnite,” he said, almost sheepish. Hazel sat up straighter. “I like Fortnite too!” 

They both laughed, the tension cracking just a little.

Hazel was quiet for a long time. The storm outside deepened, thunder rumbling like a slow warning. Then she spoke.

“I don’t think you’re dangerous,” she said. “Not to me. But I don’t trust you. Not yet.”

Chris nodded. “I wouldn’t either.”

She looked at him then, really looked. “You did something reckless. But you’re not cruel.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks, I think.”

Hazel stood, brushing her hands on her thighs. “I’ll have to think about it some more.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned toward the bedroom, the firelight casting long shadows behind her. The storm outside had deepened, thunder rolling low and steady, like a warning too tired to shout.

As she crossed the threshold, she paused, just for a breath, and glanced back at Chris. He was still seated by the fire, poking at the embers, his face unreadable in the flickering light.

She stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, not fully latched. Not locked.

The room was quiet, dim, the bed wide and made with care. She stood beside it for a moment, arms folded, staring at the sheets. Her heart was still beating fast, not from fear, but from the weight of everything unsaid.

There’s no more pretending, she thought. No more separate corners. No more polite distance.

Chris hadn’t asked. He hadn’t pushed. But he’d made it clear, through silence, through restraint, through the way he’d waited outside the bathroom door with her clothes folded like a peace offering, that they were in this together now. 

And together meant proximity. Intimacy. Shared space. 

Not in a disrespectful way, not in a way that made her feel small or claimed. But in a way that acknowledged the clock was ticking. That whatever they were walking into, they had to be ready. 

Comfortable. Close.

We’re running out of time to get used to each other, she thought. To being in each other’s space. To trusting that closeness doesn’t mean danger.

We. The word felt oddly right. 

She climbed into bed and turned her back to the door, eyes open, listening to the sounds in the other room, Chris tending to the last of the fire, the soft scrape of metal, the hush of dying embers.

Minutes passed. The storm whispered against the windows. Then she heard him, quiet footsteps, the soft creak of the floorboards, the door easing open.

He eased into bed beside her, the mattress shifting subtly beneath his weight. No touch. No movement toward her. Just presence, close enough that the heat of her body reached him through the sheets, quiet and unspoken.

Hazel kept her eyes open a moment longer, tracking the silence between them. Then, gradually, her breath began to settle, slow, measured, like her body had decided it was safe enough to sleep.

Chris lay still, staring at the ceiling, the storm pressing in from all sides.

At least she’s not saying no, he thought.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

🎃🎃🎃

The cabin was silent, save for the soft sway of branches brushing against the roof and the occasional scratch of wind-driven limbs grazing the outer walls.

The fire had long since died, leaving only a faint orange glow in the hearth. Outside, rain whispered against the windows, steady and rhythmic, like breath on glass.

Hazel stirred.

She didn’t know what woke her, only that something felt wrong. Her eyes blinked open in the dark, adjusting slowly. The room was still. Chris lay beside her, his breathing deep and even, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting near her waist but not touching.

Then it happened.

The ring light in the far corner flickered, just once. A sharp, unnatural pulse. Hazel’s breath caught. The camera mounted beside it pivoted with a soft mechanical whir, as if someone had activated it remotely. It turned toward the bed, then stopped.

Hazel sat up, heart hammering.

A pale grey shadow swirled across the ceiling, fluid, fast, like smoke underwater. It dipped low, passed over the dresser, then dissolved into the floorboards with a soundless ripple.

She gasped, then shrieked, the sound torn from her throat before she could stop it. Her body twisted instinctively toward Chris, hands gripping his chest, face buried against him, terrified.

Chris jolted awake, eyes wide, muscles tense.

“Hazel?”

She couldn’t speak. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts, her trembling fingers clutching his shirt like it was the only solid thing in the room.

His hand instinctively splayed against her back holding her close to him, protectively.

Her body was shaking, her mind still caught in the image, the flicker, the pivot, the shadow. She couldn’t speak. 

He scanned the room. Nothing there.

Chris didn’t ask questions. He didn’t pull away. He simply wrapped a strong arm around her waist, anchoring her to him.

She was shivering, breath hitching in gasps. Terrified.

His breath was warm against her temple as he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay,” he murmured, lips close to her ear. “Whatever you saw, it shook you. I believe you.”

He pulled her closer to his chest as her breathing calmed. 

“You’re safe here. With me.”

He smirked.

“This is our duo drop,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You and me. No building. No running. Just holding position.”

Hazel let out a shaky laugh against his chest, the reference slipping through her fear like a lifeline.

Battle Royale, she thought.

Us versus whatever the hell that was.

Her breathing began to slow. The tremors in her hands softened. Chris stayed still, his body warm, his presence steady. He didn’t take advantage. Didn’t shift closer. Just held her, like he knew the difference between comfort and control.

Minutes passed. The storm outside faded into background noise. Hazel’s breath evened out, her body relaxing into his. She drifted, slowly, into sleep, intertwined with him, her face tucked against his collarbone, her fingers still curled into his shirt.

Chris lay awake a little longer, staring into the dark, listening to the silence.

Whatever this is, he thought, it’s not just survival anymore. He couldn’t help but feel the spirits had just dropped a revive card in his lap as Hazel curled into him.

He almost heard them whisper.

"We just leveled you up, buddy. Don’t blow it."

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, wrapped in an early morning hush. In the living room, the soft glow of a Pink Sands candle flickered on the coffee table. It cast a warm blush across the walls, the scent curling through the air, sweet, powdery, with a hint of something tropical.

It was Nick’s favorite. A small comfort in a house that had forgotten how to feel safe.

Nick sat curled on the couch, legs tucked under him, coffee mug pressed to his chest like a shield. The warmth seeped into his fingers, but not far enough to reach the knot in his stomach. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just drifted in and out of shallow dreams, none of them kind.

His phone buzzed against his thigh.

Kyle.  

Hey babe, what time should I pick you up tomorrow?

Nick stared at the message, thumb hovering.  

Tomorrow. The party. The glitter. The music. The pretending.  

He started typing: Hey, I can’t go…  

Then paused.  

“How do you explain in a text  ‘I can’t go to the party because my brother might’ve kidnapped someone’?” 

Across the room, Matt sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop. His coffee half empty. He was deep in emails, illustrator portfolios, marketing plans, pitch decks for his children’s book series. Titles like The Worry Balloon and Fear Is a Visitor blinked back at him, hopeful and bright.

He glanced up, catching Nick mid-text. “You should go.”

Nick blinked. “Seriously?”

Matt nodded, voice calm but edged with concern. “You’ve been spiraling since he left for ‘air’...” he made air quotes with one hand, “...and you haven’t stopped since.”

Nick exhaled, rubbing his temple. “It just feels wrong. Like I’m abandoning him.”

“You’re not. You’re surviving. And Kyle’s been good to you, right?”

Nick hesitated. “I think so. I mean…I don’t know where it’s going. Two months in and I still feel like I’m auditioning.”

Matt gave a small smile. “Then give him a callback. Go to the party. Let him see you outside of all this.”

Nick looked down at his phone again. Kyle’s message sat there, patient and warm.  

He doesn’t know what’s happening. He just wants to dance with me.  

He stood, stretching. “Okay. I’ll text him back.”

Matt watched him trudge up the steps to his room, eyes locked on Kyle’s text the whole way.  

Good. He needs this. Something normal. Something soft.

Upstairs, Nick sat on the edge of his bed, typing back:

Ok. Pick me up at 7. I’ll be ready.

He hit send, then stared at the screen.  

Finally he stood, walked into his closet, and began the hours-long ritual of choosing an outfit, not just for the party, but for the version of himself he wanted to be tomorrow night.  Not the brother of the guy who vanished. Not the one who’s scared. Just Nick.

Downstairs, Matt clicked into another tab - legal articles on kidnapping, coercion, and consent.  

If she’s not there willingly, this could bury us all.

He hadn’t told Nick. Not yet. One crisis at a time.

Matt’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t flinch. Just stared at the screen, the glow cutting through the soft morning haze like a blade.

It was Chris.

Still here. She’s okay. We’re talking.

Matt’s breath caught.  

He remembered he has a phone. That’s either progress…or a warning.

The house was still. Nick was upstairs, buried in outfit options and emotional avoidance. Eagle hadn’t stirred. He was still asleep in Chris’s room downstairs.

The Pink Sands candle flickered on the coffee table, casting soft shadows across the walls, its warm scent curling through the air like a memory trying to soothe the present.

Matt tapped the screen and hit call.

The porch was damp with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and made the world feel slightly unreal.

Chris sat on the edge of the steps, a half-empty Pepsi sweating in his hand. The woods beyond the cabin breathed slowly with trees swaying and a low fog curling like smoke.

His phone rang.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

Matt’s voice came through tight, clipped. “You okay?”

Chris nodded, then realized Matt couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I think so.”

Matt didn’t waste time. “Is…she?”

Chris paused. The question hung in the air like a challenge.  

“She’s fine. She’s talking to me. She’s not afraid of me.”

Matt exhaled, the sound sharp through the line. “Nick’s unraveling. He thinks you’ve gone full psycho.”

Chris gave a dry laugh. “I haven’t. I swear.” Then, quieter: “I’m sorry, by the way. For not answering. My ringer was off. I didn’t see the calls. Or the texts. All five hundred of them.”

Matt didn’t respond. He was waiting. Chris knew it.

So he laid it out.

“Left the studio at seven. I knew I had to get the cabin ready. Didn’t know for who. Thought about Tonya or Melanie or one of the other girls we do shoots with. You know, just spend time getting closer so it looked real, not just sex, so the fangirls freak out more - according to Lou.” He said the name with unhidden contempt, “Left the cabin for home with every intention of calling one of them.”

He paused. “Went into a fog. Don’t remember the drive home. You saw me. I just felt like I needed to get out, get air, clear my head.”

Matt’s throat tightened. He remembered that night, Chris drifting through the house like a ghost, eyes unfocused, words clipped.

“I went to a café in the old town. Just sitting there in the dark, alone. And then she walks in. Quiet, confident, at ease with herself. So pretty, Matt.”

Matt said nothing.

“I actually worked up the nerve to go up to her. To talk to her. To ask if she might be interested in the project…” Chris’s voice faltered. “I choked. Said something dumb. Left.”

He swallowed hard. “I waited in the Jeep for twenty minutes. Just watching. Trying to work up the nerve again. I got out meaning to talk. Meaning to ask her for help. But I panicked. I covered her mouth. Dragged her to the Jeep. Gagged her. Handcuffed her. She was sobbing. I didn’t say a word the whole drive.”

Matt gasped, sharp and guttural. “Chris!”

“I know,” Chris cut in, voice cracking. “I know. It was evil of me. I don’t know what came over me.”

Silence.

Matt’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You know how this sounds, right?”

Chris sighed. “I do.”

The woods rustled. A crow called out once, then went quiet.

“But last night…” Chris’s voice shifted, softer, uncertain. “We fell asleep. Separate sides of the bed. I didn’t touch her. I just… stayed close. I think we were both too tired to keep the walls up.”

Matt listened, breath held.

Chris hesitated.  

I should tell him. About the light. The camera. The shadow.  

But the words didn’t come.  

What if he thinks I’m losing it? What if it makes everything worse?  

He swallowed the truth.

Not yet.

“She woke up scared,” he said instead. “I held her tight. Told her she was safe with me. I didn’t make any moves, Matt. I swear. I just wrapped my arms around her and kept her close.”

Chris paused, then added, “I even made a Fortnite joke. Told her we were a duo now. Holding position.”

Matt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“She laughed. Just a little. Then she fell asleep in my arms. We stayed like that. All night.”

Matt’s voice was barely audible. “And this morning?”

“I got up first. Showered. Been sitting out here since. Hazel’s still asleep.”

Matt leaned forward, voice quieter now. “Hazel? What more do you know about her? Does she have a boyfriend?”

Chris looked out at the woods, eyes distant.  

“She’s single.” He smiled “What do I know about her? I know she didn’t scream when she woke up cuffed to the bed. I know she showered knowing there’s a camera over the door. I know she believed me when she asked me if I watched her and I didn't. I know she’s smart. I know she’s observant. I know she’s brave.”

Matt said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

Chris added, “And I know I’ve never met anyone like her.”

Matt looked up from his phone, eyes catching the flicker of the Pink Sands candle on the coffee table. The light danced across the rim of his mug, soft and steady.  

He’s catching feelings for her. And it sounds like she’s comfortable with him. Despite the circumstances.

He let the thought settle, warm and strange. Relief bloomed in his chest, for Chris, for Nick, for the fragile thread of connection winding through the morning.  

And beneath it, something quieter.  

The wish that one day he wouldn’t be the one watching from the sidelines.  

That someone might choose him, too.

🎃🎃🎃

The crow cawed sharp, guttural, somewhere in the trees.

Hazel stirred.

Light from the high window streaked across the cabin floor in pale gold. The bedroom door was wide open. She didn’t sit up, didn’t speak, just blinked once, then closed her eyes again.

She could hear Chris’s voice outside. Muffled. Low.  Talking to someone.  

She lay still, breath shallow, body warm beneath the blanket. The air smelled like pine after a rain. Her fingers curled slightly against the sheet.

And then it came.

Last night.

The panic. The shadow. The way she’d bolted upright, heart pounding, and dove into him.  

Her face buried in his chest, fists gripping his shirt like it was the only anchor in the room.  

He’d held her. Tight.  

Unshaken.  

His voice in her ear, low and steady: “You’re safe. I don’t know what you saw… but I believe you.”

She felt it again the heat of him, the strength in his arms, the press of his jaw against her temple.  

That dumb Fortnite joke: “We’re a duo now. Holding position.”  

She’d laughed. She hadn’t meant to. But it cracked something open.

Chris in front of the firelight, shadows flickering across his face.  

Chris holding out the folded clothes, quiet, deliberate.  

Chris serving her dinner like it was the most normal thing in the world.

His lips. His eyes. His jaw. His hair. His arms.

She hadn’t let herself want that in a long time. Desire was a distraction. She had other things to focus on.  

Control. Career. Survival.

But last night something stirred. And now it was awake.

Her breath slowed. Evened. She was drifting again, thoughts softening at the edges.

The memory of his body pressed against hers, the heat, the electricity. The possibility.

The floor creaked.

She didn’t hear it.

A quiet moan slipped from her lips.  

Then, barely audible: “Chris…”

Chris stood in the doorway, phone lowered, gaze locked on her.  

She was asleep, breath slow, lips parted, blanket curled around her shoulders.  

But he’d heard it.  

He’d seen it.

That soft moan. His name.

It hit him low and fast, a jolt to the gut, warm and electric. 

Relief? Happiness? Something sharper.  

She wanted him.  

Not just safety. Not just comfort.  

Him.

He swallowed, pulse ticking faster than it should.  

It did something to him, stirred deep in his abdomen, like a fuse catching flame.

He looked at her one more time, then turned. Focused on something else.  

Anything else.

She didn’t need to know he’d heard.  

Not yet.

He’d carry it quietly. Use it carefully. Let it unfold on his terms.

And when the moment came, when she looked at him with that kind of want, eyes open and aware, he’d be ready.

Chris backed out of the room, slow and silent, like leaving a space charged with something he wasn’t meant to witness, yet carrying with him a quiet thrill and a spark of desire for whatever might unfold next.

Chapter Text

Matt stepped out of the cab and into the glass atrium of the publishing house, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Inside: five manuscripts for children. No illustrations yet. Just words, raw, careful, aching. Each one a meditation on emotion: fear, anxiety, excitement, grief, joy. He’d written them in the quiet hours between chaos. They were supposed to be his sanctuary. But now, even this felt compromised.

Max, his literary agent, was waiting by the reception desk, his smile tight, his blazer too crisp for a Friday morning. Matt clocked the tension immediately.

“What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait till Monday?” he asked, voice low as they stepped into an elevator.

Max didn’t answer. Just pressed the button. The numbers began to ascend. Matt watched them climb, floor by floor, like a countdown to something he hadn’t prepared for.

This was supposed to be the soft landing. No screaming fans. No tension. Just stories for kids who needed words for their feelings. And now it’s turning into another battlefield.

They stepped into Graham Madison’s office. The air was cool, sterile, just silence and the hum of legal unease. Graham stood, extended a hand.

“Matt. Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Matt said, trying to read the room. Graham’s expression was polite, but guarded. Max took the seat beside him, legs crossed, fingers twitching.

Graham leaned forward, fingers steepled. “We called this meeting at the last minute when we realized what was happening.”

Matt frowned. “What is happening?”

Graham slid a folder across the desk. “You know I represent this publishing house but when I saw this, I had to call Max and get you into the city right away. Your manager, well, the brothers’ manager, is demanding credit and a cut of the book profits. It’s all drawn up. No mention of you. Just her.”

Matt blinked. “She has no involvement in my side projects.”

“She’s trying to undercut you,” Graham said. “Sabotage you.”

Max turned to look at Matt. 

He’s going to lose it. He should. Debbie’s been circling this for months. Emotional literacy. Creative stewardship. She’s rebranding off his work and he doesn’t even know it yet.

Matt’s jaw tightened. “These are my manuscripts. She’s never even read them.”

Max leaned in. “We think she’s leveraging language from the original TripWire contract. The one you all signed when you were barely out of high school.”

Matt’s stomach dropped. That contract. 

The one they’d signed in a rush, in a strip mall law office, with a lawyer their parents could barely afford. He remembered the fluorescent lights, the musty air, the way Debbie had smiled through the whole thing like she was doing them a favor.

“She started as a parenting blogger,” Max said. “Stage mom energy. Wrote posts about tantrums and toddler resilience. She pitched herself as a ‘momager with heart.’”

Graham nodded. “And now she’s evolved. She’s positioning herself as an emotional wellness advocate. She’s pivoting.”

Matt’s voice was ice. “She’s rebranding off my work?”

Max gave a grim smile. “She’s already drafted a press release. Claims she ‘mentored the emotional framework’ of the series.”

Matt felt the heat rise in his chest. “She didn’t mentor anything. She used to yell at us backstage and blog about it like it was therapy.”

Graham opened the folder. “The contract refers to ‘creative endeavors pursued during the term of representation.’ That’s the loophole.”

Graham’s thoughts turned to the brothers as he flipped the pages.

They were kids. She was clever. She embedded herself in their careers like a virus. And now she’s mutating.

Matt scanned the legalese. His thoughts flicked to Chris, still at the cabin, still with Hazel. Producing music as a side gig was the least of his problems. And Nick, texting Kyle, dodging social events, pretending everything is fine while his shoe line lurched in limbo and he had no idea.

You’re the responsible one. The fixer. The watcher from the sidelines. But even you missed this.

He looked up. “What do you recommend?”

Graham didn’t hesitate. “Jack Sanforth.”

Matt blinked. “Jack Sanforth?”

Max nodded. “The best of the best.”

Jack Sanforth wasn’t just a lawyer. He was a scalpel. The kind you called when the contract was infected and there were no obvious symptoms. He didn’t advertise. He didn’t network. He didn’t need to. His name moved through creative industries like a whispered spell.

Young and ambitious, he’d built a solid reputation on silence and precision. No theatrics. No courtroom drama. Just results.

He’d dismantled exploitative contracts for indie musicians, ghostwriters, drag performers, and even a viral puppet show that had been hijacked by a children’s network. His specialty? Untangling the fine print that looked harmless until it wasn’t.

He had one rule: “I don’t fix feelings. I fix paper.”

Graham gestured to his assistant, who appeared in the doorway with a tablet. “We’ve already scheduled a meeting with Jack. The 17th. It was the first available slot after he returns from vacation.”

Matt’s shoulders dropped. “Two weeks?”

“It’s the soonest we could get,” Graham said. “He’s worth the wait.”

Two weeks. That’s fourteen days for Debbie to spin her version. Fourteen days of who knows what for Chris. Fourteen days for everything to shift. And I still have to tell Nick.

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s hold the line until then.”

Graham stood. “We’ll prep everything. Jack will want full visibility.”

Matt rose, shook Graham’s hand, thanked him, then turned to Max. “How long has she been planning this?”

Max shrugged. “Hard to say. But she’s been dropping hints in interviews. Talking about ‘emotional literacy’ and ‘creative stewardship.’ She’s positioning herself as the architect.”

Matt’s voice sharpened. “She was never the architect. She was the chaperone.”

Max gave a slow nod. “Not anymore.”

As they stepped back into the elevator, Matt’s thoughts drifted to Chris.

If Hazel agrees to help him, that’s one less thing to worry about.

Graham, back in his office, stared at the folder. He’d seen managers like Debbie before. The ones who started with good intentions and ended up clawing for relevance. He wondered how many other young artists had signed contracts like TripWire’s - contracts that aged like milk.

The elevator doors opened. Matt stepped out into the lobby, the city humming beyond the glass. He felt the manuscripts pressing against his side, fragile and unfinished. He thought of the kids who might read them. The ones who needed words for their feelings. The ones who deserved better than sabotage.

He turned to Max. “Let’s make sure she never touches this.”

Max nodded. “We will.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Matt pulled his coat tighter and headed toward the street. He didn’t know what Hazel would decide. He didn’t know if Chris would come back changed or broken. He didn't know how Nick would react. But he knew one thing.

This time, he wouldn’t watch from the sidelines.

Chapter Text

The cabin smelled like toast and woodsmoke.

Hazel sat at the small kitchen table, her damp hair pulled into a loose knot, a borrowed hoodie soft against her skin. The sleeves were too long. She didn’t mind. The plate in front of her was nearly clean - eggs, sausages, toast, all devoured with the kind of hunger that only follows adrenaline and sleep deprivation.

Chris stood by the counter, arms crossed, his movements quiet, deliberate. The morning light slanted through the windows, casting golden bars across the floor, the table, her face. It made everything look gentler than it was.

Hazel swallowed the last bite of toast and leaned back slightly. “I heard you talking earlier,” she said, voice casual but curious. “Who was that?”

Chris ran a hand through his hair, then faced her. “Matt,” he said. “My brother.”

She nodded slowly. “You’re really close with your brothers.”

He gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but tried. “Yeah. We’ve been through a lot together.”

Hazel watched him for a beat, then looked down at her empty plate. “I like that,” she said softly.

It’s rare. That kind of bond. Most people drift. Most people fracture. But he’s tethered. And maybe that means something.

She reached for her mug, took a sip of lukewarm coffee, then set it down. Her fingers lingered on the handle. “I’m an only child,” she said, eyes still on the mug. “My parents died in a car accident when I was 13. After that, it was foster homes. A lot of them.”

Chris didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Hazel looked up. “I broke free when I turned eighteen. It took me a few years, but I built my own path, my own company, my own rules.”

Chris watched her, his heart skipping a beat.

She says it like it’s a fact. Like it’s a line item. But it’s not. It’s a wound. It’s a map of survival.

He felt something shift in his chest. Not pity. Not admiration. Something else. Something he didn’t have a name for. He looked at her, really looked, and saw the quiet resilience in the way she sat, the way she spoke, the way she didn’t flinch from her own story.

He nodded once. “That’s...a lot.”

Hazel gave a half-smile. “It was. But I’m here.”

Chris leaned back against the counter, arms stretched wide, fingers curled tight around the edge.

His pulse was climbing, steady, insistent, like a drumbeat he couldn’t mute. He watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, watched the way her fingers moved, absentminded, delicate. Then they drifted across her cheekbone, tracing the curve like she didn’t know he was being wrecked by it.

She said my name in her sleep. Soft. Like a secret. Like a wish. And now she’s sitting here, telling me she’s an orphan, telling me she built herself from scratch. And I’m thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking. Not now. Not yet.

He cleared his throat, forced his gaze to the window. The sun was too bright. The air too still. He needed to anchor himself.

“So,” he said, voice low. “Have you come to any decisions?”

Hazel looked up from her plate. Her eyes met his. Steady. Clear.

“I’ve decided to help you,” she said.

The words hung in the air like a chord. Not loud. Not dramatic. But resonant.

Chris blinked. “You have?”

She nodded. “I don’t know what this is yet. Or what it’ll cost me. But I know I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

I saw the way he looked at me when I screamed in the dark. He didn’t dismiss it. He didn’t mock it. He believed me. That matters.

Chris stepped forward, slowly, like the floor might shift beneath him. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t take that lightly.”

Hazel tilted her head. “I know.”

They loked at each other for a moment, the silence between them no longer sharp, but soft. The kind that holds space. The kind that waits.

Outside, a crow called from the treetops. Inside, the fire crackled low in the hearth. And somewhere between the toast crumbs and the sunlight, something fragile and unnamed began to form.

The cabin, still and sunlit, held its breath. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, something stirred. The ring light in the black room flickered once, then went dark.

Hazel glanced toward the hallway. “That room,” she said. “The one behind the fireplace. What is it?”

Chris hesitated. “It’s where I film. Interviews. Content. Sometimes… other things.”

Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “Other things?”

Chris didn’t answer right away. “It’s not what you think. It’s not dangerous. But it’s… intense.”

Hazel was curious now. 

Intense? He’s hiding something. Not malicious. But layered. Like he’s protecting me from the shape of it.

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Chris exhaled. “You’ll see it soon. If you still want to.”

Hazel stood, stretched, walked to the window. The trees swayed gently. The light shifted.

“I want to understand,” she said. “If I’m helping, I need to know what I’m stepping into.”

Chris nodded. “You will.”

Chris’s gaze fixed on Hazel as she stretched and looked outside at the trees in the sunlight. His thoughts drifted to another time, when he was 17.

The dimly-lit office smelled musty. Debbie sat across from them, her red nails tapping against a folder. Matt was tense. Nick was quiet. Chris arrived late, just missing his parents by minutes, in his orange hoodie, still wired from filming solos. They seemed to be taking off.

Debbie smiled at him. Too long. Too directly.

“You need to learn to be on time. But that's OK because you’re the face,” she said. “You know that, right?”

Chris blinked. “What?”

“The others have talent,” she said, waving a hand. “But you, you’re the one they’ll follow. You’re the one they’ll want.”

Matt shifted in his seat. “We’re not a boyband. We’re YouTubers.”

Debbie’s smile sharpened. “You’re content creators. But Chris is high-value content. I’ve already had many offers. Lucrative ones. But I’m not sending him off to a yacht in the Mediterranean just yet.”

Nick flinched. “That’s gross.”

Debbie snapped. “Don’t be dramatic, Nick.”

Matt leaned forward. “You’re crossing a line.”

Debbie’s voice dropped. “Keep your anger in check, Matthew. It’s not a good look.”

The lawyer sat beside her, flipping through the contract. “Looks fine,” he yawned. “Standard language.”

Debbie tapped the folder with her red nails. “I have all your signatures, even your parents, but one.”

She turned to Chris. Her lashes fluttered. Her smile chilled. She stretched, arching her back, looking directly into his eyes.

“Sign the contract, Pumpkin.” she whispered menacingly, yet enticingly.

Chris hesitated. She reached for his wrist, her thumb pressing on his pulse. Just for a second. Just enough.It felt like a dare. Like she was testing something.

And something inside me jumped off that cliff without hesitation. I signed. Because I didn’t know how not to.

Chris blinked, forcing the memory away. He looked at Hazel, really looked, and saw the quiet resilience in the way she stood, the way she spoke, the way she didn’t flinch from her own story.

They stood in silence again, the morning stretching around them like a held breath.

In the black room, the camera lens adjusted itself. No one touched it. The ring light pulsed once, then stilled. The cabin was listening.

Hazel turned from the window, the light catching the edge of her jaw. “If I’m helping,” she said, “I need to know what the expectations are.”

Chris nodded slowly. “Fair.”

He walked to the table, pulled out a chair, sat. His posture was careful now, less performer, more strategist. He gestured for her to sit and she did.

“The shoot is Sunday night,” he said, leaning in. “BigLou’s expecting us at seven. It has to look like we’re in a real relationship. Real intimacy. Real love. On camera.”

Hazel didn’t blink. “Sex?”

Chris met her gaze. “Yes. But not just sex. It has to feel lived-in. Familiar. Like we’ve been together for months. Like we know each other’s rhythms. Like we trust each other.”

Hazel sat across from him taking in all the information. “That’s fifty-six hours from now.”

Chris nodded, noting her calculation. “Yes, fifty-six hours to build something that looks real.”

Hazel was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “We can’t fake that?”

Chris tilted his head. “You just said you’d help.”

“I will,” Hazel said. “But I don’t sleep around. I don’t get intimate with someone unless I feel it. So if I’m going to be your girlfriend on camera, you need to be my boyfriend off camera. Real. Just until the shoot is over.”

Chris blinked. “Define real.”

Hazel leaned forward. “We act like a couple. We talk like a couple. We check in. We eat together. We sleep in the same bed.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Sleep-sleep or sleep?”

Hazel gave him a look. “Sleep. Unless something changes. But that’s not the point.”

Chris grinned. “Okay, so, couple rules. We act like a couple. We talk like a couple. What else?”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “We don’t lie. We don’t cheat. We don’t flirt with other people.”

Chris held up a finger. “We share snacks.”

Hazel blinked. “What?”

“Snacks,” he said. “Vital to any relationship. If I open a bag of chips, you get first pick. If you make popcorn, I get the burnt ones.”

Hazel smirked. “Fine. Snacks.”

Chris leaned in. “We also need a couple playlist. Something moody. Something that says ‘we’ve been through hell but we still kiss in the rain.’”

Hazel laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Chris shrugged. “You said real.”

Hazel softened. “Real means boundaries. Real means trust. Real means you don’t use me to get the shot and then ghost me Monday morning.”

Chris’s smile faded. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Hazel nodded. She believed him. “Good. Then we write it down.”

He stood, walked to the counter, pulled out a legal pad, uncapped a pen and sat again.

“Clause one: exclusivity,” Hazel said. “Clause two: emotional transparency. Clause three: termination date, October 31st, midnight.”

Chris added, “Clause four: snack priority. Clause five: playlist veto power.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Clause six: no filming me without consent.”

Chris nodded. “Clause seven: no filming me crying during playlist veto.”

Hazel giggled, the sound quick and unguarded, then added, “Clause eight: we don’t fall in love.”

Chris stilled, the pen hovering above the page. “That one’s tricky.”

Hazel met his eyes, steady and unsmiling now. “Write it.”

He did, slowly, deliberately, then signed his name beneath the list. The pen made a soft scratch against the paper. He handed it to her.

Hazel took it without ceremony, scribbled her signature in one clean motion, and let the pen fall onto the pad with a final, decisive clack.

They sat in silence for a moment, the contract between them like a fuse.

Chris collected the pad and pen, then looked up. “Then I guess I’m your boyfriend.”

Hazel smiled. “And I’m your girlfriend.”

Chris pulled Hazel’s phone out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her. She looked down briefly at it then back to him. 

He tapped the pen against the pad and placed both on the table. “Is it too soon to seal it with a kiss?”

Hazel studied him. “You’re asking?”

Chris nodded. “Strictly professional.”

Hazel got up from her chair and stepped closer to where he sat. “Then yeah. We probably need to know what kissing feels like.”

Chris tilted his head. “For research purposes.”

Hazel nodded, repeating his words. “Strictly professional.”

Then she leaned in and kissed him, brief, deliberate, not soft but not hard. A kiss with terms. A kiss with structure. A kiss that said: I’m watching you.

She pulled back, turned to walk away.

Chris caught her wrist, pulled her back in one swift motion, and pulled her onto him, straddling his lap. His hands moved up her back, slow and certain, locking her into place. His mouth found hers again, this time without negotiation. It was hot. It was hunger. It was the kind of kiss that rewrote the contract in real time.

Hazel didn’t resist. She leaned in, fingers curling against his shoulders, in his hair, breath caught somewhere between defiance and surrender.

The kiss ended, both gazing into each other's eyes for a silent moment then Chris lifted her off as he stood, effortlessly, steadily, and set her on her feet.

He glanced at her briefly before walking out of the kitchen without looking back.

“Fifty-five hours to go,” he said.

Hazel stood there, breathless, her pulse loud in her ears, the taste of him still on her lips.

Chapter Text

The movie was paused mid-blast, an action hero suspended in a halo of flame, mouth agape in a silent scream, eyes wide with cinematic doom. The explosion hung frozen on the screen like a prophecy. Nick didn’t move. His legs were curled beneath him on the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands like armor, phone face-down on the cushion beside him like a silenced witness.

He stared out the window, watching the Uber pull up to the curb with precision. Matt barely let it stop before yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind him with force.

Matt burst through the door like a storm. His footsteps were fast, clipped, urgent. He took the stairs two at a time, his messenger bag thudding against his side with each step. At the top, he flung the bag to the floor beside the sofa with a practiced violence and collapsed into the cushion like gravity had given up on him. Across the coffee table, Nick watched him with a stillness that bordered on clinical.

The air inside the house was thick with the scent of leftover chicken and rice, remnants of the lunch Nick had ordered in before Eagle left to run errands. It clung to the walls, mingling with the tension that had begun to settle like dust.

“You okay?” Nick asked, voice low, cautious. “What was the emergency?”

Matt didn’t respond immediately. He stood again, restless, ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to scrub the thoughts out of his skull. He paced once, then again, then dropped into the armchair like gravity had doubled its pull. His elbows landed on his knees. He leaned forward, eyes locked on Nick.

“Debbie tried to sell my future.”

Nick’s spine straightened like a pulled thread. “What?”

“She went behind Max’s back,” Matt said, each word clipped and sharp. “Tried to push a contract through the publisher before we could even sit down to negotiate. It would’ve locked me into a lifetime of creative servitude. Everything I write - books, essays, tweets, grocery lists - all hers.”

Nick’s stomach flipped. “That’s psychotic.”

“No,” Matt said, voice flat. “It’s strategic. She’s pivoting. Momager to Manager to Mogul. She wants to own us. Not guide. Not support. Own.”

Nick rubbed his temples, fingers pressing hard like he could massage the dread out of his skull. “That’s creepy. We live two blocks away from her in a gated community and I feel like she’s watching me. Like I’m under threat.”

“She probably is, and you are.” Matt said, no hesitation. “She’s always watching. That’s another thing - we seriously need to start thinking about moving.”

Nick stood abruptly, started pacing the length of the living room like he was trying to outrun the implications. “Matt! One thing at a time! My shoe line. You think she’s coming for that?”

“She already is,” Matt said, voice like a blade. “She’s laying traps. Quiet calls. Backdoor meetings. She’s trying to become the face of a media empire built on our backs. She wants to build the brand, and she’s using us as scaffolding.”

Nick lifted both hands to his head, fingers splayed, eyes wide. It was too much. The walls felt closer. The air felt thinner. “Why now?”

“Because she’s losing control,” Matt said. “Chris is off-grid. You’re expanding. I’m writing. She’s panicking. She’s grasping for leverage.”

Nick sank back into the couch, hoodie pulled tighter around him like a cocoon. “What do we do?”

“I’ve got a meeting with a legal shark in two weeks,” Matt said. “Max and the publisher’s own legal head set it up. We’re going to dissect everything. Clause by clause. But until then, we stay alert. No blind signatures. No casual texts. No assumptions.”

Nick nodded slowly, the motion deliberate, like each vertebra had to agree. “And Chris?”

Matt hesitated. “He says Hazel’s okay. That they’re talking. She might help him.”

Nick didn’t look reassured. His eyes flicked toward the paused screen, toward the frozen explosion. “That’s not a guarantee. I’ve been calling and texting him all morning. Nothing. I’m scared.”

“No guarantee,” Matt said, voice quieter now. “But it’s better than nothing. If she flips, we’re not just looking at bad press and a devious manager. We’re looking at charges. Real ones.”

Nick stared at the screen. The explosion felt metaphorical now. “We’re sitting on a bomb.”

Matt nodded, voice dropping to a whisper, laced with dread. “And Debbie, BigLou, or Hazel could all light the fuse.”

🎃🎃🎃

The dryer clicked off with a soft thud. Hazel folded the last hoodie with slow, deliberate movements, smoothing the sleeves like she was ironing out her thoughts. The cabin was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt curated. Intentional.

Chris leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes soft. He’d been standing there for a while, watching her, unsure how to interrupt the ritual without breaking something sacred.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

Hazel glanced up, heart ticking faster. “That's dangerous.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I want to take you on a proper first date.”

Hazel blinked. “A date?”

“Dinner. Dancing. In the city. But first, shopping. For the shoot. Whatever you need. Hair stuff. Slinky dresses. Shoes. Makeup. And something normal. For the date.”

She stood still staring at him, trying to read his expression. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” he said. “I want you to feel like you’re choosing this. Not… surviving it.”

Hazel looked down at the folded clothes. Her brain spun, gears grinding against old trauma. She felt the flicker of something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time - hope, maybe. Or the dangerous cousin of hope: trust.

Chris stepped closer, careful not to crowd her. “We’ve got fifty-four hours now. Let’s make them count.”

Hazel’s breath caught. She saw the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the twitch in his fingers like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was nervous. Not because he feared rejection, but because he wanted this to matter. That mattered to her.

She stepped toward him, just enough to close the space. “Okay,” she said softly.

Chris exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for a week. “Okay,” he echoed, voice barely above a whisper.

Hazel reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. It was warm. Solid. A touch that said: I see you. I choose this. I’m not afraid.

Chris froze, just for a second. His eyes flicked to hers, searching, anchoring, and then his hand rose to cover hers, gently pressing her palm against his skin like he was afraid it might vanish.

“You fucking scare me,” he said quietly.

Hazel tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” he said. “I’ve never been on a real date. And I don’t want to mess this up.”

Hazel’s lips curved, understanding the full meaning behind his words. “Then don’t.”

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Inside, something else stirred, something electric, something inevitable.

Chris lowered her hand slowly, letting it fall between them like a promise. “Let’s go,” he said. “Before I change my mind and keep you here forever.”

Hazel laughed, the sound light and real, like it had been waiting to escape. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Chris grinned. “Not anymore.”

They moved through the cabin with quiet urgency, gathering what they needed. Chris checked the Jeep, locked the cabin, and opened the passenger door for her like it was a ritual, a vow.

As they pulled onto the road, Hazel glanced at him. “So where are we going first?”

Chris smiled, eyes on the horizon. “Somewhere with mirrors and good lighting. I want to see you try on everything.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to watch me shop?”

“I’m going to worship you while you shop,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

Hazel laughed again, louder this time. The sound echoed through the trees like a chant.

And somewhere, deep in the woods behind them, something stirred.

A flicker of light. A whisper of motion.

But they didn’t see it.

They were already driving toward the city.

Toward dresses, dinner, dancing and the dangerous thrill of choosing each other.

Chapter Text

The underground garage was cool and polished, its concrete floors gleaming under recessed lighting. The Jeep’s tires whispered to a stop in a reserved space marked with gold stenciling. Hazel unbuckled her seatbelt, already scanning the elevator alcove ahead - glass, chrome, and a security camera that blinked red like a watching eye.

Chris was out of the car before she could reach for the handle. He rounded the front and opened her door with a quiet, “Let me.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Chivalry?”

He offered his hand. “Strategy. I’m trying to impress you.”

She took it. His palm was warm, steady. The contact sent a flicker of heat up her arm.

The elevator ride was silent but charged. Their reflections stared back at them from mirrored walls, Hazel in a soft sweater and jeans, Chris in a black hoodie and boots. They looked like a couple. They weren’t. Not yet. But the contract was signed. The kiss had happened. And something else, something unspoken, was building.

The boutique was all velvet and glass, with racks of dresses that looked like they belonged in music videos or revenge fantasies. A sales associate glided toward them, all red lipstick and practiced charm.

“Looking for something specific, Mr. Owens?” she asked.

Chris gestured toward Hazel. “She’s got a shoot Sunday. And a date tonight. She needs at least five of everything: dresses, shoes, lingerie sets.

Hazel blinked at him. He was relaxed now, in his element. 

This isn’t his first time doing this.

But there was a flicker in his eyes, like he was watching for something else. Something behind her.

She turned. Nothing. But the air shifted. Just slightly.

Hazel moved through the racks, fingers grazing silk and sequins. Chris followed, orbiting rather than hovering. He didn’t speak much. But when he did, it was low and certain.

The first dress was a deep emerald green, high-necked with a slit that ran up one thigh. Hazel stepped out of the fitting room and did a slow turn. She paired it with black stilettos - sharp, classic, lethal.

Chris looked up from his seat. “Elegant. Dangerous.”

She raised a finger to her bottom lip. “Too much?”

He smirked. “Not enough.”

The second was red - backless, halter-neck, clinging like a second skin. Hazel stepped out, her hair falling over one shoulder. On her feet: crimson lace-up heels that wound around her calves like serpents.

Chris sat forward. “That’s... wow.”

She turned, catching his reflection in the mirror. His jaw was tight. His eyes didn’t blink.

The third was silver, metallic, with cutouts at the waist and a plunging neckline. Hazel hesitated before stepping out. When she did, Chris stood without realizing it. She wore mirrored heels with spikes at the toe - vampy, vicious, unapologetic.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re going to ruin lives in that.”

She laughed, but her skin prickled. The air felt charged again. The overhead light above the fitting room flickered. Once. Twice.

She paused. “Did you see that?”

Chris looked up. “See what?”

“The light.”

He frowned. “No. But I felt something.” He wasn’t lying.

Hazel stepped back inside, heart ticking faster. She tried to shake it off. The fourth dress was black - one-shouldered, asymmetrical, with a slit that whispered danger and a bodice that sculpted her like a vixen. She paired it with strappy stilettos that buckled up the ankle like armor.

She stepped out.

Chris didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

He just stared.

Hazel turned slowly. “Well?”

He swallowed. “That’s the one.”

“For the shoot?”

“For everything.”

She held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then disappeared back into the fitting room.

Her pulse was racing. She wasn’t sure if it was the dress, the look in his eyes, or the way the mirror behind her seemed to ripple for a split second, like something had passed between her and her reflection.

Chris paid quickly. The associate wrapped everything in tissue and gloss, dresses, shoes, lingerie, handed him the bags, and smiled wide.

As they walked back to the elevator, Hazel felt it again, that shift. Like the air was folding around them. Like something was following.

Chris opened the elevator door for her. She stepped in. He followed, pressing the button for the garage.

“You know,” he said, leaning against the mirrored wall, “most couples date once, maybe twice a week. Three hours at a time.”

Hazel looked at him. “And?”

“We’ve been together four times that much. In two days.”

She smiled. “Are you saying we’re ahead of schedule?”

“I’m saying,” he said, “whatever this is, it’s not normal. But it feels right.”

The elevator lights dimmed for half a second. Then brightened.

Neither of them spoke.

Hazel reached out and took his free hand.

Chris didn’t hesitate. He intertwined their fingers, pulling her closer. She looked up into his eyes, lost at sea. He kissed her forehead.

And somewhere, in the mirrored corner behind them, a shadow flickered. Just once.

Then vanished.

🎃🎃🎃

The hotel suite was ridiculous. Velvet chairs. A fireplace. A skyline view that looked like a movie set. Hazel walked in, her eyes scanning everything incredulously.

Chris followed, tossing his hoodie over a chair, already moving like he owned the place.

“You planned this?” Hazel asked.

Chris shrugged. “I wanted it to feel like a real date.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Not just a pit stop between chaos?”

“Exactly.”

She smiled, but her pulse ticked faster. He was trying. Not just to impress her, but to give her something real. Something that felt like choosing, something she deserved.

They unpacked the shopping bags together, laying out the items. Hazel picked up the black dress, the one that had made Chris go silent in the boutique. She held it up against her body, watching his reaction.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded. Slowly.

She disappeared into the dressing room with the dress, the shoes and the lingerie bag. The lighting was warm, flattering.

She slipped out of her jeans and sweater, showered with the luxe body wash, and shampooed her hair. After styling it, she savored the feel of smooth lace against her skin.

Her thoughts immediately went to images of his hands over the lace….she caught her breath and slid into the black dress, the fabric hugging her curves, the slit teasing with every movement. She buckled the stilettos, leaned into the mirror, and painted her lips the color of trouble.

In the other room, Chris adjusted the hem of his designer bomber. No suit. Just black-on-black designer streetwear: mesh tee, tailored cargos, sneakers that looked like they belonged in a fashion editorial. His chain glinted. His TAG Heuer caught the light. He looked like someone who could walk into a club and own it, or vanish into the shadows.

Hazel stepped out.

Chris froze.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said.

Hazel smirked. “That’s the idea.”

🎃🎃🎃

The club was a vortex of light and sound: underground, elite, invitation-only. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, casting flashes of silver across velvet booths and diamond chains.

Famous rappers lounged in leather banquettes, nodding toward Chris as he walked in. Hazel felt the shift - eyes tracking him, whispers and rumors rising - but he didn’t flinch. He only looked at her.

The bass dropped like a body. The crowd surged. Champagne sprayed. Hazel danced like she was made of smoke and defiance, her silhouette catching every pulse of light. Chris stayed close, hands firm on her waist, gaze locked on hers like she was the only real thing in the room.

They moved like muscle memory. Like the music had been waiting for them. Like the contract, already drafted in glances, in brief kisses, in the hush between verses, was about to be signed in skin.

Heat. Flash. Rhythm.

They didn’t stop until the DJ’s final track bled into silence and the club emptied around them. Then they left, still breathless, still burning, for the hotel, where the final clause would be written without words.

🎃🎃🎃

Back at the suite, everything was velvet and gold and leftover adrenaline. Hazel kicked off her heels, letting them fall to the carpet.

Chris peeled off his bomber jacket, tossed it over the armchair, and turned to face her. His mesh tee clung to him, faintly damp, and Hazel’s eyes tracked the line of his chest, the way the chain at his throat caught the light like a dare.

She walked to the window, looking out at the skyline. The city was still pulsing below them, but up here, everything had slowed. The glass was cool against her fingertips. Her reflection stared back: flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes that didn’t look uncertain anymore.

She felt him behind her before she heard him.

Chris stepped in, close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back. His hand brushed her hip, then settled there, firm and possessive. Hazel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just leaned back slightly, letting her shoulder touch his chest.

He turned her gently, and their eyes locked.

Something snapped. A fuse lit.

Hazel reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, dragging him in. Chris didn’t hesitate. His mouth found hers, hot and open, and the kiss wasn’t gentle, it was hungry. Her back hit the window, the glass cool against her spine, and he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist like instinct.

This is happening, she thought. And I want it fast. I want it now.

Chris’s mind was a blur - her scent, her skin, the way she gasped when he pressed into her, the way her fingers gripped his shoulders like she was trying to tear through him. He wasn’t thinking. He was reacting. Her dress was already slipping off her shoulder, and his shirt was halfway gone, and they hadn’t even moved from the window.

But they had to.

He turned, still holding her, and carried her across the room. Hazel clung to him, her breath hot against his neck, her body pulsing with urgency. The bed loomed ahead, and Chris didn’t slow. He laid her down like he was claiming her - fast, deliberate, no hesitation.

Hazel’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard. Chris groaned against her mouth, his hands sliding down her back, gripping her hips like he needed to anchor himself. She arched into him, biting his lip, and he responded by stripping off his shirt, then her dress, then everything else.

The room blurred. The city lights outside smeared into streaks of gold. The fireplace flickered like a warning. Hazel’s breath came in gasps, her body already trembling, her mind a blur of yes, now, more. Chris was above her, then beside her, then everywhere, his mouth trailing fire, his hands mapping her like he was memorizing every inch.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Her body was louder than her thoughts.

Chris’s restraint was gone. He was kissing her like he’d been starving. Touching her like he didn’t care if he burned. Every sound she made pushed him further. Every movement was a signal. Every inch of skin was permission.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

And when the night finally broke open around them, it did so with blinding heat, with escalation, with the kind of physicality that left no doubt: this wasn’t caution.

This was combustion.