I wake slowly, cloudy sunlight filtering into the room, the cool breeze from the cracked window brushing over the bare skin of my back as I lie tangled in the sheets. The house is still, everything wrapped in silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the roof.

I burrow my face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape the light seeping through the curtains. I could stay here forever—just me and Maisie, lost in this quietness. My hand skims across the sheets, searching to tuck her close to me. They smell like her now—sweet, heady, like sugar and sex.

But when my fingers don't find her, I squint one eye open.

"Maisie?" I rasp out. And then I hear her—that angelic, honeyed voice, singing softly through the hallways of my little house.

I slip out of bed, a wry smile tugging at my lips as I grab my boxer briefs from where they dangle off a picture frame on the dresser—from the fourth round of sex we had last night. The one that ended with me lathering her up in soapy bubbles in the shower, right before she sank to her knees and wrapped those perfect lips around my cock.

Last night was better than anything I could've dreamed up, better than anything I ever thought possible.

I tug my briefs on and follow the sound of her voice. It leads me to the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. I pause, blinking as my tired eyes settle on a trail of boxes scattered from the hall closet into the kitchen, each one labeled differently: Maisie's Vintage Mugs, DELICATE - Grammy Awards, and another marked Gwendolyn's Things—a box I still need to give back to her.

I rub the back of my hand to my eye, maneuvering around the boxes and into the kitchen. And there she is.

Maisie's standing at the counter with her back to me, her laptop open, and her old, beat-up MIDI keyboard—the same one she's had since college—in front of her. Her AirPods Max sit snug over her ears so she doesn't hear me come in.

She's wearing nothing but my heather gray Boston College sweatshirt—I know because I passed those pretty pink panties on my way out of the bedroom—and a pair of my thick wool socks. The hem of my sweatshirt just barely skims the tops of her thighs, short enough to reveal the marks I left with my mouth—a trail that leads from the inside of her knee to the dip of her left hip.

I pad across the hardwood toward her as she plays something on her keyboard, quietly singing to herself.

"Heart so full of you, it barely feels like mi—oomph." Her voice cuts off when I wrap my arms low around her hips, my chin resting on her shoulder.

"God, August, you scared me," she gasps, pulling her AirPods off.

"Sorry," I murmur, brushing my lips to the crook of her neck. There's a hickey there, too, and I smile against it as I glance toward the counter. She's made a mess with the coffee and somehow unearthed the strawberry thumbprints I had stashed away. "How long have you been up?"

"I don't know." She tilts her head back to meet my eyes, the curve of her ass pressing firmly against where I'm already aching for her. "Since, like, five-ish."

"Five-ish?" I furrow my brows and twist her to face me. My chest brushes hers, and she tilts her head to see me. Her cheeks are pink, blue eyes darker than usual, blonde hair spilling in messy waves under the warm glow of the stovetop light. "As in five in the morning?"

"Well." She licks her lips, her eyes flicking past me to the mess of boxes she's made in my kitchen. "I woke up with a lyric stuck in my head, so I got up to write it down. But then, while I was writing, the melody came to me, and I went looking through the boxes of my stuff you said you had. Thought I might've left a guitar here, but I found my old keyboard instead, and I kinda got carried away. You've got a lot of my things, you know that?"

"I told you. Maisie-sized closet," I whisper, tipping her chin up to drag her mouth to mine. Her lips taste like strawberries and coffee with too much cream. My hands slip beneath the sweatshirt draped over her. I was right—there's nothing but silky skin underneath.

"I want you," I murmur against her lips, "right here in my kitchen."

Maisie nods against my lips, her breath hitching as my fingers slip between us, finding her already soaked. A pained groan tears from my chest and I press my forehead to her shoulder. "Jesus, Maisie."

Her fingers thread through my hair, pressing a kiss into it, and I'm seconds away from scooping her up, pinning her flat against the kitchen table, and losing myself in yet another one of my fantasies when a sharp knock echoes from the front door.

"Shit," I groan, closing my eyes. "I swear if that's one of my sisters, I'm changing every single lock in this house—no, I'm moving and taking you with me."

Maisie snickers against my hair before pulling back to cup my cheeks with her petite hands. "It's just coffee."

"You ordered coffee?"

"I did."

"Did you accidentally dump all the coffee grounds into the basket again? You didn't, did you? There's a spoon right there in the can, Maisie. Specifically, for scooping."

"No... I just thought we could have Hansen's coffee, so I had it delivered."

"You ordered coffee from... New York?"

"Yes." She scrunches her nose in that way that makes me want to kiss it. So I do. "I think maybe you've forgotten, August, that I'm kinda a big deal now. I don't know if you've heard, but they call me Pop Princess. And as ridiculous as that is, I can have coffee delivered fresh and hot all the way from New York in under three hours if I want to."

I huff out a laugh because it is ridiculous. "Seems extravagant."

"I know." She grimaces. "It kind of felt like too much when I was doing it."

"I did like that coffee, though."

"That's exactly why I ordered it." She presses a quick kiss to my lips, then pats my shoulder as she brushes past me. "Also, I did accidentally knock over your coffee grounds and may have tried to salvage what was left on the counter only to over-cream it. Now, put some pants on. Can't have you spilling coffee on yourself, and I'm pretty sure Rachel isn't going to want to see that."

She glances pointedly at my briefs as she steps back, her eyes lingering on the very obvious erection straining against the fabric.

"Right, okay," I mumble, a sheepish smile pulling at my lips before I head to the laundry room, and Maisie goes for the front door.

"Did you say, Rachel?" I ask, digging through the dryer for a pair of shorts. "And shouldn't you put pants on?"

"Yeah, she's bringing them by," she calls back. "Your sweatshirt covers everything, and she's only staying long enough to drop them off."

"Well, you can borrow whatever you need," I say, finally pulling a pair of black shorts from the pile of clean clothes in the basket by the drying rack. I hear the click of the lock opening the door, and I tug the shorts on quickly, stepping into the hallway. "Anything you want, Mace. It's yours—"

The words die in my throat when I freeze mid-step, my eyes locking on the front door.

Because it's not Rachel standing there. It's Gwen.

And she's face-to-face with Maisie. Half-naked Maisie, in my shirt, that barely brushes the tops of her thighs, hair mussed from my hands, and that hickey at the base of her throat.

My chest tightens in a way it has no business doing. I shouldn't care what Gwen thinks or sees—we broke up two months ago. But this—Maisie and me—was the one thing Gwen could never get past. The root of almost every argument we had over the last five years. She hated how close Maisie and I were. Hated that Maisie was a part of my life. That I refused to erase her from it, which was ultimately the reason she broke up with me.

Gwen's eyes flick from Maisie to me and back again, dragging downward to take in Maisie in my sweatshirt.

"Gwen," I manage, taking a half step forward.

"Oh my god," I hear her whisper. Her head dips to the floor, then turns sharply, walking away so fast she practically runs.

"Gwen!" I call after her, moving toward the door. "Gwen—wait!"

Maisie glances at me, then back to where she had been standing, tugging at the sleeves of my sweatshirt before crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"Maisie, I'll be right back," I promise, pressing a kiss to the top of her forehead. "Few minutes, tops."

She brushes a wisp of hair away from her face, giving me a single quick nod as I slip out the front door and close it behind me.

"Gwen," I call out, spotting her halfway across the lawn. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and she's wrapped in a beige sweater and jeans—practical, considering it's raining and fucking freezing out, unlike the thin cotton shorts I have on. My strides eat up the distance between us, faster than her hurried steps. "Gwen, will you just stop for one second?"

"You lied to me," she snaps, spinning around, her brown eyes locking onto mine. "You lied to me, August. You told me nothing was going on between you two."

"Gwen, I—"

"You were cheating on me."

"No—Jesus, no. I would never have cheated on you. It's just—"

"It's just what?" she cuts me off.

"It's just..." I hold my palms up between us, silently telling her to take a breath. "Complicated."

"Complicated," she repeats, her lips twisting into a humorless smile. She presses her fingers to them. "Right. Of course it is... God, I knew it, too. You made me feel like I was losing my mind, like I was insane for even questioning it."

"I swear, there was never anything—"

"I'm such an idiot," she whispers, placing both hands on her forehead before letting them fall to her side. "The way you looked at her—the way you always looked at her. And I ignored it, hoping—stupidly—that you'd just get over it. But you didn't. You never did."

"Gwen—"

"Don't Gwen me," she shoots back. "I saw the interview."

I glance around, confused—to Mrs. Harris, who's watching intently from her porch, then to the UPS guy unloading packages across the street, pretending he can't hear us arguing, and finally back to Gwen. "What interview?"

"The one from The Tonight Show." She narrows her eyes at me like she's annoyed I don't know what she's talking about. "She said it right there. That she'd been seeing someone secretly for months. Months, August. Which means this didn't start after we broke up, did it? How far back does it go? Years?"

I shake my head and drag a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the ends.

Okay, I have got to watch that interview.

"Oh my God." I watch as her chin starts to wobble. "It's been years, hasn't it?"

"Gwen."

"It's bad enough that I was right all along. You two getting together months later is one thing, but to have you going behind my back?"

"Will you just listen to me—"

"I am listening to you!" She squeezes her eyes shut, like she's now realizing she's shouting, then turns away, taking a deep breath as she tries to calm herself. When she faces me again, her eyes are swimming with unshed tears, her voice quieter now. "I should've never listened to my sister. She kept saying there's no way you'd do something like this to me. That it was just some publicity stunt. And I let myself believe her because the thought of you cheating on me...."

"I didn't cheat," I insist, my jaw clenching. "I need you to believe that. Please."

"And then you didn't answer any of my calls or texts."

A laugh sputters out of me as I tilt my head up to the cloudy sky. "You said you wanted space. You said you didn't want to talk. That's what we agreed on."

"I did want space! Until you were everywhere." Her hand flies up, gesturing wildly around her. "Every magazine, every other fucking Instagram post. It was like you were parading it around, rubbing it in my face."

I glance back at the house, scratching roughly at the back of my head as I blow out a frustrated breath. This conversation is going in circles. I turn back to her, forcing my voice to steady.

"I know how it looks, Gwen—I know. It doesn't look great. And I'm really sorry. But—" I hesitate, my throat working as I search for the right words. "It's not... what you think. Maisie and I—this has only been going on for a few weeks."

"That's what you're going with?" Her voice catches as she swipes a tear from her cheek. "A few weeks?"

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, taking a step away to pace before spinning back around. "Andrea's going to kill me."

"Andrea?" Her brows knit as she looks down at the gravel beneath my bare feet, like she's trying to place the name. "As in Maisie's manager?"

I brace my hands on my hips. "Maisie and I have been... fake dating."

Gwen's eyes narrow at me, and I quickly continue. "Your sister was almost spot-on with her stupid theory. Maisie said something in that interview—something that wasn't true, I guess—and Andrea thought it'd be good for publicity to spin it into this fake relationship. She needed someone to play along, and I—" I pause, shaking my head because I'm pretty sure she doesn't believe a single word that has come out of my mouth. "I said yes."

She continues to glare at me, but I can see the gears turning in her mind as she tries to connect the dots.

"And then... one thing led to another. It was never something I thought would happen," I continue, softer now, "but, Gwen, I never cheated on you. I swear. I would never have done that to you. Jesus, I mean, I was always with you, and most of the time, she wasn't even here. How would I even have managed that?"

She studies me for what feels like forever, her eyes scanning every inch of my face, searching for cracks, for lies, for anything she can hold against me. And I can't even blame her. From her perspective, it looks bad.

Her hand moves to swipe another tear. "So, my sister was right?"

"Close, yes," I admit.

"You're not just saying this to make me feel better? To spare me because I've been so... so naïve about all of it? You swear? Because I'd rather you just tell me the truth, August."

"I swear," I say, placing my hands gently on her shoulders so she can see how earnest I am about all of this. "I'm not lying. I didn't think to warn you, and maybe I should have when this all started. And if you don't believe me, I'll show you the contract I signed."

Her lips press into a tight line before asking, "But now you two are...?"

I let my hands fall away from her. "Honestly? I'm not entirely sure."

She takes a deep breath. Releases it on a shaky sigh. After a long while, her eyes flit up to meet mine and then back down again. "I think I should go."

I nod, and before she can turn away, I say, "Oh, wait."

"What?"

"Did you need something?" I ask. "You came here, to my house..."

"Right." She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear. "I, um—I came to grab that box of stuff. There are some things I need from it. You have my Kindle."

"Oh, did you want to come in and get it?"

"I'd rather not." She hesitates, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I think I've embarrassed myself between the two of you."

I nod and walk her the rest of the way to her car, gently closing the door behind her. I murmur a quick goodbye to Gwen before turning back toward the house—toward Maisie. The house feels quiet, too quiet, when I step inside.

"Maisie?" I call out, shutting the door behind me.

"Hey," she answers, and I turn to find her coming down the stairs. She's wearing a pair of my gray sweatpants, rolled at the waist to fit her, and my Boston College sweatshirt—now cropped, somehow, so it doesn't swallow her whole, and my jean jacket. She looks... well, she looks better in it than I ever have.

"Hi," I say, dragging a hand over my mouth to keep from grinning like an idiot. I like her wearing my things. Too much, probably. "I see you raided my closet."

"Um, yes," she says, glancing down at herself. "Sorry, I don't really have anything here."

"It's fine. I told you—you can have whatever you want." I say, taking two steps closer to her to fix the collar of the jacket. And if I weren't watching her so closely, I'd miss the way her expression shifts—the press of her lips, eyes that drift past me somewhere just over my shoulder. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to take so long."

"It's okay."

I tilt her chin up with two fingers, wanting her to look at me. Finally, she meets my eyes, and she looks at me carefully, her gaze distant. I'm not sure Maisie has ever looked at me like this before, and something jagged and splintered wedges itself in my gut.

I have to swallow three times just to push out the question. "Is everything okay?"

She nods her head, slipping out from under my hand. Her fingers move to fidget with the edge of the collar I just fixed—uneasy, absent movements. "It's, um, fine—actually, I'm going to head out."

I'm confused. I don't understand. What happened between us in the kitchen and right now? Was it Gwen showing up? Did me leaving give her time to overthink things from last night? Was this all she wanted—a one-time thing? Had she finally processed everything with her dad and realized I was a mistake?

"Maisie," I say carefully, trying to keep the growing panic out of my voice. "If this is because of—"

"It's not," she cuts me off, looking up at me with wide, blue eyes. Her bottom lip tilts and my chest squeezes. "I just, uh, have rehearsals. Things I need to get ready for the tour. I leave for New York in two days."

"I know you do," I say, nodding. "I can drive you—"

Before I can finish, there's a knock at the door. Maisie's eyes dart over my shoulder. "Rachel's here."

"Maisie, can we talk before you go?" I ask. She's already stepping around me, her hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Hi," Rachel greets. She's standing there, beaming as she holds a coffee carrier with two cups, eyes flicking between us. "I have your cof—"

"Thanks," Maisie cuts in, pulling one cup free. She presses it into my hand, then turns back to Rachel briskly. "Shall we go then?"

"Oh, you're..." Rachel blinks, her smile faltering, confusion crossing her face as Maisie brushes past her out the door. "You're coming with me?"

"Mhmm," Maisie hums.

"Maisie," I say as a very bewildered Rachel glances back at me. Ignoring her, I set the coffee down on the entry table and step around Rachel to catch up to Maisie. "I can drive you." I hate how desperate it comes out. I swallow around it. "Your car's here—we need to switch, anyway."

She doesn't stop. "You can have my car until we switch. I don't need it."

"Mace, just listen to me for a second. I think we need to talk."

What I don't say burns in my throat: I want her to tell me how to fix this. I want to know where it all went wrong, how we can find our way back to that moment—her in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my sweatshirt, smiling against my lips. I want to take every one of her fears and doubts, crush them into a heap, drench them in gasoline, and watch them burn until there's nothing left.

"We can talk later," she says as she reaches for the car door.

"Maisie—" I wrap my fingers around her wrist to pause her movement.

She stops, twisting back to me, and pulls her hand from my grip, holding it against her chest. She makes a small sound under her breath, and I hold myself still in front of her.

"You don't need to drive me," she says. "Um, it's the weekend. You should enjoy it. I don't want to drag you over to rehearsals. And Rachel's here, anyway." She gestures over to Rachel, who looks uncertain about what is happening. "I'll call you later tonight when I'm done."

"Maisie, I feel like something is wrong," I whisper as she leans in to press a kiss on the corner of my mouth, "and I want to talk to you."

"Everything's fine." Everything's not fine. She's spiraling, and I need her not to. "We'll talk later."

I nod, my hand gripping the back of my neck to stop myself from reaching for her again. Maisie's eyes linger on me for a moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, before she gives me a small smile and turns away.

I stay rooted in place, watching as she climbs into Rachel's car—watching until it's just me and Mrs. Harris, who has apparently witnessed the entire exchange between both Gwen and Maisie. Maybe she can tell me what happened.

I force out a tight smile and wave to her, but she just shakes her head, muttering something under her breath as she adjusts her glasses and returns to her book.

A frustrated sigh slips out as I turn and head back inside.