I take the stairs two at a time, like moving faster will somehow outrun the fact that my mouth still tastes like him.

Chapstick. Cedar. Toothpaste. And something else that's just... Richie.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath as I unlock my door.

Angie is literally going to kill me.

Not metaphorically. Not in a haha-you're-dead kind of way. No—she is going to show up, take one look at my face, and decide I'm no longer worth the friendship we've built over the last almost seven years.

How did I let that happen?

I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second, staring straight ahead like the answer might be written on my wall.

It was just a kiss. Right?

A short one.

And I stopped it. Didn't invite him up. Didn't let it turn into more.

That has to count for something? Right?

I push off the door and move through my apartment like I'm following instructions on a checklist. Shoes off. Shirt in the hamper. Open the fridge. Close the fridge. Open it again like something new might've appeared in the last ten seconds.

I settle on leftovers I don't really want, and eat sitting in front of the television, barely paying attention to the screen or tasting any of the food.

Robot mode.

At ten, I push myself off the couch. Brush my teeth. Shower. Pajamas. Lights off.

I climb into bed and lie there, hands folded over my stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

Don't think about it.

Don't replay it.

Don't—

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I let it sit there for a second, like if I ignore it long enough it might turn out to just be my imagination.

Then I grab it.

DICK: Sorry.

Just that.

One word. Simple and careful.

"I'm sorry too," I say quietly to the empty room. Because I didn't stop right away. Because I kissed him back. Because maybe I'm even the one who initiated it.

I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly.

Angie's voice is loud in my head.: Don't make things messy.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Working on it."

I unlock my phone and stare at the message for a second longer before typing.

ME: We need boundaries.

Three words.

Measured. Controlled. Responsible.

I hit send before I can overthink it.

Then I plug my phone in, switch it to Do Not Disturb, and flip it face down.

I roll onto my side, tug the blanket up, and close my eyes.

It takes longer than it should to fall asleep. And when I finally do, of course my mind won't let it go. Of course he shows up anyway.

In one dream, I'm running. I don't know from what, just that something is chasing me, something heavy and loud and inevitable. My legs feel slow, like I'm moving through water, and every step takes too much effort. I turn a corner and there he is, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like he's been waiting for me.

Richie.

He doesn't look surprised. Just lifts his hand, like come here.

Like it's that simple.

I veer away from him. Hard. My foot catches on nothing, and suddenly there's no ground under me. I'm falling—fast enough that my stomach flips—but instead of hitting anything, the whole scene shifts.

Now we're inside some kind of building. Nondescript. Unfocused. But we are out in the open. Exposed.

He's kissing me again before I can figure out how we got there. My back hits a wall. His hand finds my waist. It's not rushed. Intentional. Like he knows I'm not going to stop him.

Without needing words, we decide to seek privacy. Suddenly there are doors everywhere, all slightly open like they're inviting us in. We walk into a room, but the door won't close.

But worse: someone is it.

Angie.

I wake up gasping.

My sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat. My shirt sticks to my back. There's that gross, overheated feeling like my body ran a marathon without asking me first.

"Jesus," I mutter, and reach for my phone to check the time. But before I can register the numbers, I see the notification banner along the bottom of the screen. I have two texts from Richie.

I can't. Just can't.

My neck aches. There's a sharp pull between my shoulder blades when I sit up, like I slept wrong or maybe just tensed up all night.

Cool.

Great.

Exactly what I needed.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a second, trying to shake the remnants of the dream, trying to shake the urge I feel to read what he replied to me.

"Stop," I say out loud, like that's going to do anything. Then I get out of bed and head to the bathroom.

The shower helps. A little.

Hot water pounds against my shoulders, loosening some of the tension, but my brain is still stuck on a loop: after the club, outside my building, in my dreams.

Same sequence. Different versions. None of them helpful.

I need a distraction.

A real one.

So, after I get dried off, I go to the one place that always works.

The gym.

And the second I walk in, something shifts. I don't know if it's the smell, or the lighting, the steady rhythm of weights clanking, or the music pulsing just loud enough to blur everything else. But it works.

It's structured. Controlled.

Reliable.

I climb onto a treadmill and start slowly, focusing on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Let everything else fall away.

My legs fall into rhythm. My mind quiets just enough that I can almost pretend I'm back in control.

I don't even notice her at first.

It's only when I hit the cooldown and step off, reaching to stop the machine, that I turn my head—

—and there she is.

Running right next to me.

Blonde Girl.

I wonder if she's been here the whole time. Wonder if she was just waiting for me to look over.

We make eye contact instantly.

Too instantly.

"Oh—hey," I say, the word slipping out before I can think about it. I've seen her so many times she feels familiar. Like part of the routine. Easy to forget she's still technically a stranger.

"Hey," she says back, her lips curving into a casual, effortless smile, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

She hits the stop button and steps off her treadmill. She's not even winded.

I grab my water bottle mostly to give my hands something to do.

"You're here a lot," she says, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and retying it.

I huff out a small laugh. "That a compliment or a concern?"

"Observation," she says, glancing over at me. "You're consistent."

There's something about the way she says it that lands differently than it should. Like consistency is a good thing. Like it means something.

"Yeah, well," I shrug. "I'm a man of routine."

"That checks out," she says. "You've got very... routine energy."

I raise an eyebrow. "I don't know how to take that."

She smiles again, wider this time. "Disciplined. Focused. Slightly intimidating, but in a way that makes me want to beat your mile time."

I laugh, a real one this time. "Bold of you to assume you could."

"Oh, I definitely could," she shoots back, grabbing her water bottle. "Even though I don't actually know your best time."

"Convenient."

She shrugs. Playful. Coy.

There's an easy rhythm to it. Back and forth. No weird pauses. No overthinking what anything means.

"So," she says, tilting her head slightly, "do you talk to a lot of people here, or am I a special case?"

"Special," I say automatically, then immediately regret how that sounds.

Her eyebrow lifts.

I clear my throat. "I mean—yeah. Special case. I usually keep to myself."

"Lucky me."

There's a beat where neither of us looks away.

And I realize this is the moment. The part where I either retreat back into my routine or actually do something. Say something.

Be the version of myself I know how to be.

"So what's your name?" I ask.

"Megan," she says. "Yours?"

"Dylan."

"Dylan," she repeats, like she's testing it. "Okay. I like that."

My chest does something small and annoying.

"Thanks," I say, trying to keep it casual.

She slings her bag over her shoulder. "Well, Dylan-who-likes-routine, that was my cool down. So..."

I blink.

She grins.

There's a pause, but I know what to say next.

"Do you want to grab food sometime?" I ask. "Not, like, right now. But this weekend?"

She doesn't hesitate.

"Yeah," she says. "I'd like that. I'm actually free tomorrow."

Simple.

Easy.

I pull my phone out. "You want to put your number in?"

She takes it from me, types quickly, then hands it back.

"Megan," she says, tapping her name into the contact. "Don't overthink the text."

I almost laugh at that. "Not my style."

She gives me a look that says she doesn't quite believe me, then starts backing toward the women's changing room.

"See you around, Dylan."

"Yeah," I say. "See you."

I watch her go for a second longer than necessary before looking down at my phone.

Megan.

New contact.

No drama.

No second-guessing. Or rethinking of my identity. Or threatening to ruin my most important friendship.

Exactly what I need.

I slide my phone back into my pocket and head for the weights, already telling myself this is the right move.

That this makes sense.

That this is going to fix whatever the hell is going on in my head.

And I don't think about the fact that I still haven't opened Richie's message.