"You've awakened the beast."

My brows pull together as I glance up from the tiny kitten nestled in my arms. It's fast asleep on its back, one paw stretched toward the ceiling. Its little pink nose twitches and a soft snore escapes as I rub my thumb gently over its fuzzy belly.

I'm sitting at Lucy's kitchen counter with Clara, watching as Lucy carefully pipes strawberry buttercream frosting onto pink strawberry cupcakes. She's making them special for Maisie, a pre-concert gift for tonight—the concert they're packed and ready to leave for in just a few hours, while I stay behind at Lucy's.

I've been sleeping on her blue sofa—the one I barely fit on—since Monday, when I walked into my house and realized I couldn't stay. One look around, and it felt like Maisie was everywhere. Her tea mugs on the counter. Her heels from that night left next to mine. Her blue blanket still sprawled on the floor from when I had fucked her against the ottoman.

Every inch of my tiny house had Maisie stamped all over it.

I stared hard at my unmade bed, knowing the second I lay down, my sheets would smell like her. So I grabbed a change of clothes, some supplies for the kitten, and walked right back out the door.

We've fought before, sure, but this... this felt different. It felt like something I'm not sure we can come back from. I can't stop replaying the entire conversation in my head—the check she handed me, the way her lips turned down like she couldn't understand why I couldn't grasp that what we had was just a handful of fleeting moments.

This is something that I'm not sure I can recover from.

"I've awakened the what?" I ask, confused.

"You've awakened the beast, Gus," Clara repeats. She pulls her legs up onto the stool, sitting crisscross as she scrolls through her screen. "You've made them feral. They're about to ride at dawn. They're coming after you."

"What?" I ask again, glancing over at Lucy for help.

"Maisie's fans are mad at you," Lucy supplies, glancing up quickly before returning to piping her frosting, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.

"God, listen to some of these," Clara says. She starts reading them off: "'Enjoy the three people who'll remember your name while our girl is collecting her Grammys.'" She snorts and moves on. "'Goodbye. You're canceled. Permanently.'" And then, "'I hope she destroys you in her next album.'"

"She would destroy you in her next album," Clara agrees, almost to herself, before moving on to the next comment. She reads it silently, snorts, and shakes her head. "I can't read that one out loud."

"Wait, let me see," Lucy says, pausing mid-piping to glance at Clara's phone. Clara flips it around, and Lucy's nose scrunches. "Oh my gosh, why is that so accurate?"

"I know, right?"

"Okay, alright," I interject, sighing as the knot tightens in my chest, my throat thick with unease. "Everyone's mad at me. I get it."

"I still don't understand what happened," Clara says, clicking off her phone and tossing it on the counter before swiveling to face me. "Three days ago, you two were holding hands, all googly-eyed on your way to meet her dad, and now you're suddenly hanging out with Gwen shirtless?"

"I told you already."

"Actually, Gus, you haven't told us anything," Lucy says, straightening up and brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face with her wrist—smearing a streak of pink frosting across her forehead in the process. "All you said was"—she drops her voice, attempting to mimic mine—"I didn't kiss Gwen, and then, Maisie and I had an argument, and we're not talking right now."

I let out a frustrated sigh, my eyes dropping to the kitten curled in my arms as I mumble, "I didn't kiss Gwen."

"Care to explain to the classroom what exactly happened then?" Clara asks, reaching across the counter to swipe a dollop of frosting from Lucy's teal-colored KitchenAid. Lucy tries to smack her hand away.

"Not particularly."

"Come on, August. We're your sisters. We're here to help you. We love you—even if you did cheat on the world's most famous pop star. We may love you a little less"—Clara pinches her frosting-covered fingers together dramatically, showing just how much less she apparently loves me before swiping more frosting from Lucy—"but we love you, nonetheless."

"Clara," Lucy scolds, "stop eating all of Maisie's frosting."

"Your older sister can help you, Gussie," Clara says around a mouthful, ignoring Lucy.

I glance up at her from the kitten. "You're only older by fourteen months, Clara."

"But still older and all the more wiser."

"Come on, Gus," Lucy pleads, the edges of her lips tilting into a pout. She turns to the cooling rack and grabs one of her strawberry cupcakes—the frosting swirled into perfectly piped pink daisy petals with a soft yellow center—and slides it across the counter to me. I pick it up and take a monstrous bite, frosting first. "Please. For us."

They watch me with wide, expectant eyes as I swallow my cupcake. My heart rattles in my chest, my throat tightening as I blow out a deep breath and look down at the counter. I brace myself before the words tumble out of me.

"I'm in love with Maisie."

Clara gasps dramatically, clutching her chest as frosting flies from her finger like we're in the middle of some daytime soap opera, while Lucy snorts a laugh at Clara and grabs the frosting bag to finish another cupcake.

The noise between the two of them makes the kitten in my arms stir. Its tiny eyes blink open, darting around the room before it lets out a soft yawn and hops toward Clara.

"What? Why are you laughing?" I ask after a moment, confusion knotting in my chest because they don't look surprised. Why don't they look surprised? "Why is that so funny to you?"

"Oh, come on, Gus," Clara says, rolling her eyes. She wiggles her fingers in front of the kitten, and it bats at them with its tiny paws. "We already knew that."

I blink between them. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I don't know, because it's you and Maisie." Lucy tilts her head to the side, spinning the cupcake around to inspect it. "You've always had a thing for her."

"You don't—how do—" I stammer, shaking my head. "You can't just—"

"Tell us something we don't already know," Clara cuts in over me. "Like, I'm in love with Maisie and—"

"I slept with her," I blurt out, finishing her sentence for her.

Clara's head snaps up, her wide brown eyes locking onto mine as her hand hovers mid-air above the kitten. Lucy's grip tightens on the piping bag, and strawberry frosting squirts out everywhere as her other hand flies to her mouth, muffling what sounds like either a squeal or a screech. I can't tell which.

"You slept with her?" Lucy says, her voice muffled behind her hand.

"Oh my god. This changes things," Clara whispers as the kitten clings to her shoulder, trying to climb into her curly hair.

"I really don't understand, then," Lucy says, raking two hands through her hair, her elbows braced on the counter. One of them is now pressed into a frosted cupcake, but she doesn't even seem to notice. "Why were you with Gwen, then?"

I sigh, dragging my hand down my face before I recount everything to my sisters: dinner at Maisie's dad's house, the night we spent together after, Gwen showing up unannounced, and finally, Maisie ending our arrangement.

"Oh, I see where things went wrong," Clara breathes out, her gaze fixed on the window behind Lucy, like the answer is out there somewhere in the hydrangeas.

"You do?" I ask, peeling the wrapper off my third cupcake. "Care to explain? Because I have no idea."

"August, it's so obvious."

"It is?" I say, voice muffled with cupcake.

"You went after the wrong girl."

I freeze, swallowing thickly as I stare down at the cupcake in my hand. "I didn't go after Gwen. I just—I had to make sure she didn't think I was cheating. There were things I needed to explain to her."

"But you did go after her," Lucy points out, carefully setting another frosted cupcake into the holder. "You left Maisie in the house and went to talk to Gwen instead. And that, for Maisie, is like... probably a really big deal."

"Why?"

"The only reason she told you she wanted to break your stupid agreement is because she's trying to protect herself," Clara says, pulling out her phone again. "She doesn't want to lose you, you dumbass. And you running after Gwen probably made her think that. And let's not forget—this all happened the day after she saw her dad. Which, by the way, she's never going back to that ass-hats house again. And then... oh god. The pictures." She has TMZ pulled up again. I glance away, not wanting to look. "The pictures, August."

"I'm not getting back together with Gwen. I've told Maisie a thousand times—I'm not getting back together with her."

"But from Maisie's perspective?" Clara holds the phone up an inch from my face. I push her hand away. "It sure as hell doesn't look that way."

"You do have a tendency of getting back together with Gwen," Lucy agrees.

"Which is probably," Clara continues, "why she told you what she told you. She's protecting herself. You know how she gets—those smiles, the Yes, of course I'd love to, and the Of course I loved your lemon curds. They're so good."

Lucy gasps, clutching the frosting bag to her chest. "You don't think she liked my lemon curds?"

"No, they're gross. No one likes them," Clara says, waving her hand dismissively before turning back to me. "Has she tried to call you? Maybe you should text her."

I glance at my phone on the counter, remembering the text she sent me yesterday—the one I didn't respond to. The one that read: "I know the last time we talked, you said you'd text me when you were ready, but August, I'd really like to talk to you about what happened."

"She texted me yesterday, but I haven't responded," I admit.

"Gus!" Lucy scolds, while Clara yells, "August Reid Williams, please do not tell me you left Maisie Rhodes on read."

"Don't say her name like that," I mutter, toying with the wrapper on my cupcake.

"Like what, Gus? Like she's a famous pop star?" Clara deadpans, one brow raised. "Respond to her, you dumbass. She's your best friend. And you're both hopelessly in love with each other, for God's sake!" She yells the last part at me.

I shake my head, avoiding their eyes. "You don't know that, though."

"Seriously? How long are you going to refuse to believe it? I mean, she literally spelled it out to the entire world on The Tonight Show."

I scratch the back of my head, nodding faintly like I know exactly what she's talking about, even though I have no idea because I still haven't watched the interview. Clara narrows her eyes, suspicion creeping into her expression. Then her jaw drops, and she gasps, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

"Oh my god—you still haven't watched it, have you?" Clara yells, while Lucy practically shrieks, "August, watch the video!"

"Why are you guys yelling at me so much today?" I grumble, slouching further into my stool. "And why is everyone so obsessed with this interview? She's done plenty before."

"For the love of all that is holy, August," Clara grits out through clenched teeth, her fingers flying across her phone screen before she shoves it hard against my chest. "Watch. The. Goddamn. Video."

I glance between the two of them, genuinely a little scared by their expressions. The last time they looked at me like this was in high school, when I accidentally told Mom they were sneaking out to a concert she'd specifically told them not to go to. They didn't speak to me for three weeks.

I take the phone being pressed aggressively against my chest, glance down at it, then look at them once more before pressing play.

"Now, there's something we came across online that many of your fans talk about, and I want to ask about it," Ricky Falcon says, but his words barely register. Because all I see is Maisie. She's gorgeous—glowing—and it feels like my heart falls straight through my chest. She's wearing a short, pale blue dress that makes her eyes look like the brightest summer sky, with delicate, thin straps and matching blue heels. She's fucking stunning. Jesus Christ. How am I ever going to get over her? "Claiming you write songs about what you know and your experiences, is this true?"

"Yeah, I mean, of course. This album and the last have been like my own personal diary."

"Your own diary? Wow," he says, shuffling his cards on the desk in front of him. "So, the rumors are all true then? Your songs are written about someone specific?"

"Oh, uh," she stumbles out. I'll be honest—I haven't heard a single word that's been said up until now. My attention has been entirely on Maisie, but that's when I hear her nervous laugh. "Well, I mean, um..."

"Oh my god, I caught you off guard, didn't I?" Ricky says through a laugh.

"Maybe a little."

"Okay, let me read you one of your lyrics. Are you ready?"

"No," Maisie says quickly, but the audience erupts into wild cheers, drowning her out. My jaw tightens as Ricky ignores her answer entirely.

"I wish you could see what you do to me, You wouldn't believe it, but it's always been true, It's always been you, my sweet brown-headed boy, yeah." Ricky pauses, lowering the card to look at her. "You can't tell me this isn't about someone. It's way too specific."

"I, um," Maisie clears her throat. "I mean, is brown hair really that specific, Ricky?"

"Well, your other songs mention similar traits. Let's see here," Ricky says, glancing down at his notecards again. "Brown hair is mentioned five times. Brown eyes, ten. There's even a Boston baseball cap mentioned in three different songs—"

"I'm from Boston," Maisie cuts in dryly, but I catch the way her throat bobs as she swallows hard, and her fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"And according to your Rhodies—you know, the die-hard ones that like to dissect every single lyric you've put out there—you've never really described anyone else in your songs. They're convinced it's all about the same person." He leans forward with a grin. "It's becoming a thing. Your fans analyzing your lyrics. I don't know if you've noticed."

Maisie nods, her lips pressed together as one of her smiles curls at the edges. It's the same smile she manages on TV, at award shows, or whenever she's cornered in public. The fake one for everyone else but me. "I'm aware."

"They're saying it's been the same man for the last five years—well, according to your devoted Rhodies. Not me, of course. I'd never."

"No, of course not," Maisie says, rolling her eyes with just the right amount of sass to make the audience laugh. A smile tugs at my lips.

Ricky chuckles, pausing for a moment. "What are your thoughts on that?"

Maisie glances at the audience before turning back to him as she scratches the edge of her eyebrow to buy herself a second, I think. She looks nervous before her expression smooths out. "I mean, how could it be the same man if I've dated other people in those five years, Ricky?"

"Alright then—a newer relationship, but someone you've been friends with in the past, maybe? Someone you've obviously known while recording all your songs?" He raises an eyebrow, and the word friends lands square at my chest.

"Ricky..." she says, letting out a nervous laugh as her hands smooth over the fabric of her dress. Leaning in slightly toward his desk, she lowers her voice to a playful, conspiratorial tone. "Are you even allowed to ask these kinds of questions on the spot?"

"Well, what fun would it be if I couldn't? It is a talk show," he counters, grinning as the audience bursts into laughter at her quick deflection. Maisie is too busy flashing the audience a mock scolding look, shaking her head with exaggerated disapproval when Ricky asks over the laughter, "This mystery man is a secret, then?"

"Of course he's a secret," she says, but as the words settle, her smile falters, and my heart thunders in my chest. Her eyes widen with the realization of her misstep, and she opens her mouth to backtrack, her cheeks burning. "I mean—of course, as in no, he's not! As in, he's not a secret because... he doesn't... exist?" She winces, her voice rising slightly at the end as it's swallowed by the audience's cheers and gasps.

"Maisie, do you have a secret boyfriend?" Ricky whisper-yells, leaning forward with wide eyes, looking genuinely startled, as if he hadn't expected her slip-up to be real.

"No," Maisie says, shaking her head vehemently.

"Should we read another lyric?" he half-laughs out.

"God, no, please," Maisie blurts, her voice breaking slightly as she squeezes her eyes closed briefly before she looks back at him, her eyes wide and pleading, practically begging him to drop it.

Ricky laughs, clapping his hands together once before putting them over his mouth. "Oh my god, it's true. I wasn't sure if it was."

Maisie bites down on the corner of her lip, her head shaking ever so slightly as her expression twists into a this cannot be happening look.

"Are you in love with him?" Ricky whispers to her, almost as if he means to ask her privately, like he's forgotten they're on live television and really just wants to know.

"Ricky," she grinds out. The audience is losing their minds now.

"Right, okay!" Ricky straightens, turning to flash a grin at the camera. "Maisie Rhodes, everyone! Her newest album, It's Always Been You, is officially out. More of The Tonight Show after the break!"

I just stare at the screen as the show's jingle plays, the video fading into clickable buttons for other episodes where Maisie has been a guest. Her face lingers there, frozen in a perfect frame, and I start backtracking.

I backtrack to the time I asked Maisie—years ago—who her songs were about. It had taken three beers and a whole lot of nerve to finally push the question out. I'd been so worked up over the idea that they might be about some guy she was seeing—someone she hadn't even bothered to tell me about, someone who wasn't me. And I was jealous. I was jealous as fuck.

She'd snapped her head toward me, eyes wide, her teeth catching on her bottom lip before she smiled sweetly at me and said, They're just made-up songs, Gus.

For a split second, though, I saw it—the flicker of panic in her eyes. But I ignored it. I was too relieved, too caught up in the fact that they weren't about anyone real. And then, just as quickly, I was mad at myself—for caring so much, for letting it matter at all. She wasn't mine.

I think back to that time with Gwen—the way she got upset hearing one of Maisie's songs on the radio. She was convinced it was about me, yelling hysterically at me, She wrote the album about you, August. You can't tell me she doesn't have feelings for you.

And then I think about all the lyrics Maisie has written over the last five years. They all come rushing back to me.

"Your love is the secret I long for, ache for, live and breathe for."

"I've loved you through every summer, darling, and I'll always want them all."

"We weren't meant to be just friends, 'cause when I close my eyes, you're mending my broken ends."

It's been right here. Obvious this entire time, staring me in the face, and somehow, I haven't seen it. I've been too worried she never felt anything for me beyond friendship. And this whole time... this whole time, she's felt the same way.

"Fuck," I whisper.

"There it is," Clara says, her voice threaded with a smile. "You're finally getting it, aren't you?"

I glance up at them, my heart thundering in my chest. Lucy's nose is scrunched, a grin tugging at her lips, and Clara has her thumb nervously between her teeth, smiling against it.

My stool scrapes harshly against the floor as I push up from it, startling the kitten so much that it hops backward and flops onto its back.

"What time is your flight?"

—————————

We are almost there, you guys.

Are you ready for it? It's been a long time coming. The wildest dream getting to this point. But long story short, we survived.

Okay, enough Taylor puns. I'm just about finished writing offline and I'm currently crying over the ending 😭 I'll be posting as I finish, hoping to have them all out before the year ends.