"Don't make fun of me."

The bathroom door is cracked just enough for me to peek out at August. He's sprawled on the bed under the sheets, one hand behind his head, the other holding his phone in front of his face. He looks completely calm and unaffected by the fact that we're sharing a bed tonight, while I—unknowingly to him—am very much not calm and definitely not unaffected, standing behind this door.

Especially after he stepped out of the bathroom, trailing steam behind him like something straight out of a rom-com. I'd told him he could get ready for bed first since I was the one forcing him to share a bed with me, and he'd agreed—surprisingly. He was halfway through tugging his t-shirt over his head when he emerged, sweat shorts hanging low on his hips, revealing those six-pack abs—those taut, defined muscles that I've struggled to keep my eyes off of every summer for the last nine years.

His hair was wet, droplets still clinging to the tips, when I thought he said, "I'm really hard right now."

"W-what?" I stammered breathlessly, my cheeks burning as nervous laughter bubbled out.

He blinked at me, his brows knitting together. "I said, I'm sorry if it's really hot in there. I forgot to turn on the fan."

"Oh, right, yeah," I mumbled and then quickly ducked into the steamy bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I peek through the opening in the door now, watching as his expression twists. He looks up from his phone, gazing out at the faint glow of windows scattered across the dark, inky silhouette of the New York City skyline through the sheer curtains at the foot of the bed. "Why would I make fun of you?"

"Because it's you," I mutter, pressing my forehead against the walnut door frame with a soft thunk, my fingers toying with the edges of my pajamas as I glance down at them.

"I'm not going to make fun of you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Slowly, I crack the door open and step out, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to hide the fact that I'm not wearing a bra. Because apparently, just the thought of sleeping in the same bed as August has me so worked up that it's made my nipples hard little pebbles.

He looks up as I pass the foot of the bed, his eyes trailing over me as I walk from the bathroom to my side of the room. He clears his throat, setting his phone on the nightstand, and I can practically hear the amusement in his voice. "Are those—"

"Stop."

"Geese?"

"You promised you wouldn't say anything," I groan, pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.

"That was before I saw what you were wearing," he says, watching me adjust the pillows the way I like them. "Are they wearing cowboy hats?"

"Shut up."

"And cowboy boots?"

"August Reid Williams!" I scold, glancing down at my pink pajamas covered in tiny prints of adorable little geese wearing cowboy hats and boots, twirling lassos. I bought them from some influencer in Wyoming, and they're cute, damn it. "If you must know, they are silly goose's. And if I'd known I'd be sharing a bed with you, I would've packed less... amusing pajamas. Something to match your snarky attitude."

He snickers, dragging a hand through his still-damp hair. "What? Like ones with swans?"

I grab one of the pillows from behind me and swat him with it, which only makes him laugh harder. And then, with a determined huff, I place that same pillow right in the middle of the bed, creating a firm barrier between August and me.

He turns to glance at it, one eyebrow lifting slowly, then looks back at me. I offer him a tight-lipped smile before clicking off the lamp on the nightstand.

"Worried you'll make a move on me in your sleep, Maisie?" he asks into the darkness.

"No," I say, turning to fluff my pillow trying not to shiver at how low and velvety his voice was when he said my name. "I'm worried you're a psychotic sleeper and who'll start yelling there's a man on the wing of the plane in the middle of the night."

"That was one time," he defends, holding up a finger over the pillow barrier. "One time that happened."

"I can still hear the crack in your voice when you yelled it," I laugh out.

We had dozed off at his house at some point in the middle of the night, the soft glow of the TV screen asking, Are you still watching The Twilight Zone? the only light in the room. His hair was all mussed, the imprint of the TV remote pressed into his cheek from falling asleep on it, and pepperoni grease smeared on his I Closed My Book to Be Here T-shirt—the one I'm convinced he bought for himself but still denies—when he shot up from the couch.

"That was after you made me watch The Twilight Zone for four weeks straight," August says. "What did you expect me to be dreaming about?"

"August," I wheeze out between laughs. "You were— you were so scared."

"I was not."

"Y-you stood up so abruptly it woke me and started y-yelling I saw something out there."

"I did not."

"You did. And— and then I had to convince you you weren't in the Twilight Zone," I howl, rolling to my side from laughter. It comes out in a rush, sounding more like AndthenIhadtoconvinceyouyouweren'tintheTwilightZone, but he understands me—he always does.

"I was disoriented and fifty hours deep into The Twilight Zone." I bark out another laugh, and he huffs as a smile pulls at the edges of his lips, trying not to laugh at how much I am. "And there was a gremlin on the wing of the plane."

"There most definitely was not." I wipe away tears from laughing. "You were William Shatner having a nervous breakdown."

"Okay, alright," he says, grabbing the pillow I'd placed between us and whacking me in the face before flinging it across the room. It tips over a basket of snacks, sending Snickers bars tumbling to the floor.

The dark hotel room suddenly lights up with a blue glow as August's phone vibrates on his nightstand. It's been buzzing non-stop, and he's been glued to it, texting since we made the decision to be adult enough to share a bed. I've been trying—and failing—not to let my thoughts drift back to the phone call this morning on the plane. To Gwen calling.

Don't let it get to you, Maisie, I keep telling myself. It's not like he was ever yours to begin with.

Five minutes pass as I stare aimlessly at the ceiling, listening to the soft tapping of his thumbs against the screen, followed by the buzzing of incoming texts. I decide the best course of action is to just say goodnight and push it all down to worry about another day. But when I open my mouth, instead of a simple goodnight, what slips out is, "You seem to be popular tonight."

I immediately press my palm to my forehead, grateful it's dark in the room because if it weren't, I'm sure he'd see how my face is as red as a tomato.

I hear him shift his head against the pillow as he turns to look at me, his phone still hovering above his face. The room is dark, but the light spilling through the windows is just enough to illuminate the outline of our features. And I can feel his gaze on me, studying me.

"Clara and Lucy wanted to know how it went today," he finally offers after a few seconds. "Apparently, that paparazzo did manage to get a picture of us at the coffee shop. They sent it over."

"Oh," I mumble, closing my eyes and silently scolding myself to chill out for once. "That was quick."

He shuffles closer, angling his phone so I can see the screen. It's a different picture from the one Andrea sent earlier—this one looks a bit tamer, less tongue. He swipes through the Instagram carousel with the caption: Maisie Rhodes and rumored boyfriend can't keep their hands off each other in New York City.

A twinge settles in my chest, an anxious feeling just beneath my skin, like everything is about to unravel and I can't do anything to stop it. Everyone will see these pictures of us making out. They'll be all over the internet, plastered across social media, on every magazine rack. If Clara and Lucy have already seen them, then everyone August and I know either has or is about to—including Gwen. And I can't imagine she's happy about it.

I clear my throat and inch a little bit away from him because he's still halfway on my side of the bed. "August."

He pauses. "You changed your mind."

"What? No, that's not—"

"I'll sleep on the floor," he says, already pushing the sheets off. "But I get to pick the shows we watch for at least two months when you get back from your tour."

"No, that's—not what I meant," I blurt out, instinctively grabbing his arm to stop him. The touch feels too intimate, especially here in bed, and I quickly pull my hand back. "I want you to stay."

"Okay, what then?"

I turn on my side to face him. "Gus, everyone thinks we're dating," I say, watching as his brow furrows in the dark, his expression saying, Isn't that the whole point of this?

"Well, yeah, I'd say so after that picture," he replies.

"It's just... Well, everyone thinks we're dating."

"You just said that."

I pull the comforter up to my chin, hugging it tightly against my chest. "Don't you think there are people who won't be happy about us being seen together like this?"

"Like who? Mrs. Harris?" He shakes his head. "I doubt she likes us, whether or not she sees us together on the magazine racks at Hannigan's."

"Not Mrs. Harris, Gus."

"Who then? My mom? I know she didn't seem like she—"

"I meant Gwen," I blurt out, quickly pulling the comforter over my mouth.

"Gwen," he repeats, more as a statement than a question.

"She's going to think we're actually dating," I mumble against the sheets.

He sighs, dragging his hands down his face. "You saw her call this morning, didn't you?"

"No," I say, but even I can tell it doesn't sound convincing. My voice is two octaves too low. "Okay, yes, maybe I saw her calling you this morning."

"Maisie, I don't even know why she's—"

"That's not the point," I cut in. "It's just... if she thinks we're really together, like, actually dating, then she might—" I hesitate, fumbling for the right words, then rush out before I decide not to say anything at all, "She might hate me being your best friend even more than she already does, and if that happens, Gus, then I'll never be able to see you again."

"Maisie, I don't care what Gwen thinks."

"Oh, sure, you say that now, but what about in a month or two?"

"In a month or two?" he repeats incredulously, turning his head to look at me. "In a month or two, I'm going to care even less."

A grumble in protest leaves my chest and I shift onto my back because I find that extremely hard to believe. They've never been apart for more than two months before one of them starts thinking about getting back together.

"What I'm trying to say, August," I begin, determined to keep calm about this because I hate arguing with him, "if we don't tell her that this is all for publicity, it's only going to get more complicated when one of you decides you want to get back together—"

"I'm not getting back together with her," he grinds out.

"—and that you kissing me," I press on, ignoring his frustration, "and me kissing you, might start looking more real than what it actually is."

"Isn't it, though?"

"Isn't what?"

"Us kissing—real."

"That's..." Not what I expected him to say. Of course, in the literal sense, yes, us kissing is real, and yes, for me, it's very much in every sense is real, but for him... well I'm not so sure what it is for him. "That's not the point. The point is, Gwen isn't going to like it."

"Which is not a point that even matters, Maisie," he snaps back, sounding both irritated and a little hurt. "Because if there were any part of me that wanted to be with Gwen, do you really think I would be kissing you the way I did earlier? We are not getting back together. I don't get why I have to keep telling you this."

"Because you always go back to her!" I blurt out.

"Yeah, given that it's you that pushes me there. Every time we break up, you're right there, talking me back into it—"

"I am not."

"I don't want to date Gwen," he insists, firmly. "Breaking up three times is bad enough, and the idea of trying again? We're not right for each other. I don't think we ever were. She wasn't meant to be someone I dated for that long. She was someone to fill my time when I was younger, and then it got comfortable—for both of us. And yes, maybe I liked the familiarity of it, but I'm not what she needs, and she sure as hell isn't who I want."

He sighs, annoyed with this conversation, as if I'm the one to blame for doubting he'll go back to her—like I don't have every single one of our past conversations about this burned into the back of my brain.

It was a lack of foresight, an impulse decision, he'd said once, and I just nodded along because what else was I supposed to do? We didn't realize how much we'd miss each other, and she wants to try again.

"I wish you'd just believe me," he says, exasperated.

"Okay, fine." He's wrong about all of this, but okay fine. "I believe you."

"Good. Glad that's settled, then," he mutters as he kicks the sheets off like they're too warm. He shifts restlessly, turning from side to side, finally settling on his back with his hands tucked under his head, but he seems anything but comfortable.

"What's wrong?" I finally ask when he doesn't stop fidgeting.

"Nothing," he grumbles.

"August."

"I don't usually sleep with a shirt on, and it's fucking suffocating me," he grumbles as if the shirt is somehow part of our argument.

"Oh." I pause, caught between wanting to laugh at the way he just growled out what he said and being serious. "Well, um, you can take it off if you need to."

"No, it's fine," he mutters.

"Are you sure?" I ask, watching as he kicks the sheets loose at the bottom to free his feet.

"Yup."

He shifts again to his side, slipping one arm under his head before yanking the pillow out from under him and tossing it to the floor in frustration.

"For the love of God, August, just please take your shirt off."

He pauses, and I can almost hear him smiling from his side of the bed. "Demanding in bed. Who knew?" he teases, but there's a huskiness in his voice that I feel all the way down to my toes. "I'll take it off—only because you asked so nicely."

A breathy sigh slips from my lips before I can stop it, my cheeks burning as I mumble quietly, "You can't say things like that to me."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, watching as he sits up just enough to tug off his shirt with one hand. Even in the dim light, I catch a glimpse of his torso flexing and I silently curse myself for not leaving the nightstand light on. He lays back down, pulling the covers over himself, and I snap my gaze back to the ceiling.

After five minutes of both of us staring into the darkness, his knee nudges mine, and his fingers brush lightly against my hand until his palm settles against mine.

"I don't like arguing with you," he says quietly, his voice soft in the stillness. I turn on my side to face him, and he mirrors me, so we're face to face.

"I don't like arguing with you either," I confess in a whisper.

"I just wish you'd trust me."

"I do trust you."

"Then trust me when I say not to worry about Gwen."

I nod, instinctively shuffling an inch or two closer before I even realize it. "Okay, I won't."

He shifts his head closer, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over my hand, and my heart flutters wildly. "Good."

We stay like this for a while, and I'm not sure if he's drifted to sleep or not because I can't really see his eyes in the darkness. Finally, I whisper, "August."

"Hmm?"

"Promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"That you won't think I'm a gremlin and yell at me in the middle of the night."

He snorts out a laugh, rolling over to his side of the bed. "Go to sleep, Maisie."

——————

Anyone else watch every episode of The Twilight Zone in high school? No, just me? Cool, cool.

Double update this week because, well, I have my reasons. I know I'm really just dragging this slow burn out, but things for Maisie and August are going to start snowballing quite quickly from here on out.

Also, if you're here from Broken Rules and Mixed Signals, I've been really thinking about Ellis, and I'm itching to get back to working on our very own cowboy, Rhett Lawson  🤠

Anyway, I hope you all are enjoying it. Let me know if you are! All comments and votes are appreciated and very welcome. See you next week xoxo