"Fury, Fire, and the Finest Fuck Off Served Cold in Black Silk"

My nerves say a second glass of wine.
The beige in me drags Nick to my room for the full makeover montage.

I thank the surge in need of retail therapy paired with a knack for thrifting — and well, the expense account — for spotting the extra baggage ticket. Out of four options, Nick picks the black backless silk dress. Of course he does.

Short. Sleeveless. Boatneck. Square. A conservative politician's wife — just until you see the back. Just one thread tied, keeping the fabric from falling from my shoulders. Framing a clean V-line that dips to my lower back.

It screamed '80s on the rack, but ditching the shoulder pads made it whisper Minimalist - Cool - Prada SS24. I hope.

Nick gave up on fighting me for anything – but berry lips and bronzer. Low bun Strappy sandal heels. My trusty Loewe Hammock Mini.

Confidence first. Provoking heart flutter to follow.

***

The rooftop's been rented out just for us. Fairy lights strung like constellations, a long linen-draped table winding through the center, dotted with mismatched wildflowers in low glass jars. It's cleverly built over the infinity pool—camouflaged by a temporary floor—like someone at HQ didn't want to risk a PR-disaster and a wet intern in the same night. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and the kind of budget that needs at least five layers of approval to breathe.

It looks suspiciously like a wedding — the tasteful kind, curated by someone who claims not to care about weddings.

I arrive five minutes later than planned, just confident enough to make an entrance, and tell myself I'm not here to fall apart in public.

But with this much mood lighting and unresolved feelings in the air?
Even emotional collapse might look romantic.

He enters in a way that makes it clear I was just the unpaid warm-up act. I spot him half-hidden behind Martin and Clara — or at least anyone else would've missed him. My trained eye never stood a chance.

Suit jacket slung over one shoulder. Crisp white shirt draped with casual precision over every line designed to undo me. He never bothers with anything tight—doesn't have to. The fabric clings just enough to whisper what it's working with.

No tie. Sharp jaw. Sharper silence.

He makes a formal dress code look like an editorial in Rolling Stone—undone, unbothered, somehow more himself in the chaos of collarbones and cufflinks than anyone else in the room.

And those flickers of yellow I used to imagine—private, like tricks of memory—are now scattered plainly across his face, courtesy of the Barcelona sun. What was once mine to notice... no longer is.

Then again, he could wear a clown costume and I'd still spiral into some dark, unsponsored corner of the LGBTQ+ alphabet.

He looks stupidly good.
Which feels deeply unfair.
Like he should, at the very least, be suffering visually while I suffer emotionally.

Still half-buffering, I realize Clara's fingers are grazing the bare skin of my back — her version of a breezy hello. They're all here. Her, Martin, and August. At the high table Nick and I claimed earlier. August willingly stepped into my personal space. Okay — not space, exactly. Vicinity. But close enough to feel it.

It takes me a beat too long to smile, to greet them.
I'd almost forgotten where I was. What this is.
Right — emotional exile. Nothing's changed.

And then I feel it.
His gaze, drifting across the crowd... landing.
On me.

Just for a second. Maybe two.
Long enough that something sparks hot beneath my skin.

I turn slightly toward Nick, keeping my voice low. "Did he just—look at me?"

Nick doesn't even glance up from his glass. "Yup."

I blink. "Are you sure? Because I might've hallucinated that."

"He blinked twice. That's practically a sonnet coming from him."

I stare straight ahead, pulse high. "I don't know what to do with that."

Nick shrugs. "You? Nothing. The dress? It's already doing all the talking."

I try not to smile. I fail.

Clara's in the middle of telling a story about her and Martin's near-breakup over a flat-pack sofa. Lucas is pretending to be outraged, hands flailing like he's on a cooking show. I'm half-listening, half-watching August out of the corner of my eye, when Nick suddenly jerks upright like he's just been struck by lightning.

"Oh my God," he blurts, eyes wide, wineglass frozen mid-air. "It's you."

Everyone turns. I brace for impact.

Nick points at me like he's just cracked the Da Vinci Code. "That's what's been bugging me. Clara and Martin—" he waves vaguely between them, "—you two look like the actual poster for penguin monogamy. And she—" now I'm the unfortunate subject, "—is the reason I can't see penguins without laughing anymore."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Sascha's," he says, like it's obvious. "You. A whiskey in each hand. Preaching from the bar about selective freedom and how monogamy is for penguins. You had disciples. You had chants."

"I did not climb anything," I say, already regretting everything I've ever done.

"Oh, she did," Nick says with relish. "There was yelling. There was audience participation. There was a bartender with stars in his eyes."

"I wasn't yelling," I mutter.

He leans in, mock-conspiratorial. "She was recruiting, Clara. Like a drunk Attenborough for the emotionally unstable."

Clara's snorting into her wine. "So wait—we look like penguins?"

"You glow like penguins," I say smoothly. "In the best way."

She turns to Martin, beaming. "We glow, huh?"

Martin raises his glass. "Waddle squad for life."

Lucas frowns. "Wait, so... did you call penguins stupid, or monogamy stupid?"

"Yes," Nick says, proud.

I roll my eyes and shake my head. Everybody clearly forgot about Nick's reenactment of this very story in Copenhagen. I take it, run with it, and play along,

"All I'm saying is—not everyone's born wanting the full premium penguin package. Some people need to try a few oceans before they know where – and if – they want to build a nest."

Nick whistles. "Careful. You're one metaphor away from a cease and desist from SeaWorld."

I grin into my glass. "Some of us are born – naturally prone to be – more... migratory. Limited nesting rights. Seasonal pairings. Altitude flings."

I take a sip of wine, pretending I didn't just make that personal.:

"But the built-in instinct to avoid exclusive penguin-on-penguin for life..." I pause, twirling the stem of my wine glass. "It can be overridden."

A beat. Then I add, a little quieter—

"I think."

And then it happens—a sharp, real laugh.

August.

Not loud, but unmistakable. It cuts through those of the others around the table's like a breeze off the water — sudden, unguarded. I catch his eyes, just as his mouth settles into a smile – dimples even – and his eyes crease. I brace for any sign of being ejected into emotional exile, but it doesn't show.

It's like we just.. look, laugh and smile.. now?

Nick catches my arm before I fall on my ass — a subtle warning from my legs that they've officially entered Wobble Mode with a capital W. I hear them. My body parts seem to know the chant.

Still, the near-collapse flings me straight back into the riveting discussion at the high table — Lucas debating what color to paint his new apartment, Martin explaining carabiner strength ratings, and Nick speculating about his odds in the award show. I barely register anything. My brain's tuned entirely to one station: August's movements, nods, laughs... the direction of his exit.

Then an elderly voice explodes from the mic, ripping me back into reality.

The Spanish office CEO, naturally. The microphone shrieks. Twice. Then crackles as he clears his throat like he's about to announce the next Pope. His opening clearly echoes as Spanish with English accent rather than the other way around.

Nick leans in. "Five euros says he cries before the punchline."

I fake-cough to cover a laugh. "Ten says he accidentally proposes to someone."

The CEO launches into his speech. The mic cuts out again. A bird cries somewhere. Tragedy looms.

Then—

A low voice, right behind my ear:

"He says the office is like a family. A deeply dysfunctional family. Bound together by productivity metrics and a shared addiction to light yogurt."

Nick snorts. I turn, startled, to find August behind us. A shade. A whisper.

He stays just far enough back to keep polite distance, but close enough that when he leans in, I feel the air shift against my neck.

"Now," August murmurs, deadpan, "he's calling this rooftop a beacon of strategic collaboration and — wait for it — announcing biometric locks for all leadership's open-door policies."

I bite down a laugh. Hard. Nick isn't even trying.

"Also," August adds, "he's thanking HQ for their innovation. And reminding everyone not to steal other people's oat milk."

I don't dare glance over my shoulder, but I can feel him smile — in the way his voice softens, the way his breath drags just slightly as he speaks.

Then the tone changes. The CEO's voice lifts — and suddenly, Nick's name echoes across the rooftop.

"Talent of the Year," someone repeats in a heavy accent.

Nick blinks. "What?"

"Go!" I hiss, shoving him forward.

He bows. To absolutely no one. Then strolls up toward the stage as the CEO dramatically holds up a small hand-painted dolphin like it's a Nobel Prize. Nick takes it with two hands and an unnecessary curtsy. Of course.

While applause still echoes, the CEO launches into another speech.

More Spanish.

August shifts — now beside me, not behind.

And this time, the whisper is just for me.

"Nick's a saint — and oh—ah, here we go. This part's about cracking down on HR violations," August says, tilting his head closer. "Specifically: hoodie theft. And criminally short skirt lengths."

I shoot him a side-eye. "That can't possibly be what he said."

He shrugs. "No. What he actually said was: neither of you are saints."

My cheeks flush.

I force myself to face forward, pretend to listen, but I can feel August's smirk like it's radiating warmth.

"He says," August stage-whispers, "this award is for displaying deep emotional intelligence. And the rare ability to match socks under pressure."

I snort. "Those are literally the only two reasons I'm friends with him."

He leans in again, too close for comfort. Too close for me to pretend I don't feel it.

"And that Nick's greatest talent is cultivating office harmony through mischief. And..." a beat, "maintaining suspiciously close proximity to women way out of his league."

I whip my head toward him.

He lifts a brow, all innocence.

"Just translating."

But he holds my eyes in a way that tells me he wasn't, and long enough for it to say he wanted to make sure I got it.

The applause crescendos again as Nick rejoins the table. Clara grabs him first. Lucas raises his glass. Martin claps him on the back.

And August just... stays beside me. Just close enough for our shoulders to brush when we laugh at something. Like he's decided to end our tug of emotional war, and leave it be.

***

Dinner begins — the string of fairy lights now just decorative noise, outshone by the golden hour drenching everything in cinematic glow. The wildflowers, somehow not yet scorched by the sun, look almost edible — laid out buffet-style down the center of the long linen-draped table, like a florist and a chef got wine-drunk and deeply inspired.

Or maybe I just can't remember the last time I ate.

It's still very much giving wedding — minus the vows.
Unless Nick's dolphin award counts.

He plants himself directly across from me, still riding the high of applause and attention, while August settles into his left — which means he's at the end of the table. On my right. He's right next to me and the gesture alone has my heart flutter.

No polite gap.
A dangerous absence of one.

Wine's poured. Bread passed. Plates appear — grilled artichokes, olives, something fluffy pretending to be a soufflé. Conversation flows in overlapping waves, and for once, I'm not adjacent to it. I'm in it. So is he.

I don't even remember what we're laughing at when it happens — something dumb, something shared — but I throw my head back, and when I glance over, his eyes are already on me. No ice. No edges.
Just that flicker of heat I keep catching, like a match struck quietly.

Our eyes seem to remember they used to know each other - his eyes meet mine more than once — not overtly, not long enough to count, but enough. Enough to notice. Enough to question.

He tosses out a dry comment about the soufflé caving under emotional pressure. I fire back something equally ridiculous, and he actually laughs. Quiet. Low. Real.
And he looks at me when he does it.

He smiles at me.

And then, a silent grenade detonates within me –when he just brushes my arm, and I can't say if it's accidental or not, but I nearly inhale my full glass of wine as a consequence. Like the sparks he ignited had me turn to the closest sedative available. A sad attempt at calming an electrical fire, really.

There's moments on moments — soft, forgettable to anyone else — where he leans close just to say something conspiratorial about Nick's dolphin being definitely haunted.
And I laugh. Can't help it.

And I catch his smirk when I do.

***

It really starts somewhere between the grilled peaches and the third round of wine refills.

Lucas raises his glass — again — and declares, "Alright. Last night at Bizarro Summer Camp. It's Award Night. Everyone gets one."

Nick clutches his ceramic dolphin protectively. "Speak for yourself. I already have mine."

"Doesn't count," Clara says, topping off her glass. "We're doing real awards now. Possibly personal. Deeply offensive."

"Emotionally binding," Lucas adds, deadpan. "In the true spirit of never being contractually obligated to see each other again."

That gets a cheer.

"Allright, I was born for this," Nick mutters in my direction, adjusting the sleeve of his linen shirt like he's prepping for court. "My truth deserves candlelight and applause."

"You terrify me," I reply.

"I'm on your side," he says, smug.

"Exactly," I reply. "That's why I sleep with a knife under my pillow."

Clara clears her throat dramatically. "Nick is what happens when you raise a French boy on unfiltered cigarettes, unsolicited opinions, and suspiciously good skincare."

Lucas jumps in. "He looks like a Chanel ad. But will emotionally flay you with surgical precision and then hand you a mint."

"He once told me my outfit looked like it was still buffering," Martin adds. "And I said thank you."

August, raising his glass: "He's an agent of chaos in designer sneakers."

I raise my glass. "He has the vibe of a man who'd help you bury a body, but critique your shovel form."

Clara lifts her glass and declares, "Most likely to start a revolution over brunch, then leave the group chat for philosophical reasons."

Nick accepts this with a gracious bow. "Liberté, égalité, aesthetic superiority."

"Cheers," I murmur. "To our pretty little war criminal."

He smiles like he's already gotten away with something.
And honestly? He probably has.

Nick gives Martin a long, considering look. "You're Liam Hemsworth if Liam had anxiety about group photos and emotional depth deeper than a fjord."

Martin blinks. "So... I'm Nordic and sensitive?"

"You're a human weighted blanket," Nick replies. "Emotionally safe. Weirdly strong. But also somehow scared of confrontation and red wine."

August nods, serious. "Like if a forest animal learned Excel."

Martin just grins. "I love all of this."

"Of course you do," Nick says. "You're biologically incapable of taking offense."

Then he turns to Clara.

"You are," he begins, dramatically, "Florence Pugh. But the version who does ayahuasca once a year and cries artistically on Instagram."

Clara gasps. "How dare you."

I raise a brow, "That's either the most offensive thing or the highest compliment."

"Both," Nick confirms. "She's terrifying in the way only deeply self-aware people are. You'd do couples therapy for fun. And the therapist would thank you afterward."

Clara sips her drink smugly. "Correct."

Nick eyes him like a puzzle he's just solved. "You're Ryan Reynolds in an indie film. All charisma, no conscience."

Lucas frowns. "I have conscience."

"You do," Nick agrees. "You just store it next to your ankle cleavage and emotional unavailability."

Lucas gestures to his perfectly cuffed pants. "These are art."

"You once ghosted someone with a Spotify link," Nick deadpans. "A playlist called 'For Closure.'"

"I curated that," Lucas says proudly.

Nick leans back. "You're welcome. I give and I diagnose."

Then his eyes turn to me, "And now—our favorite wildcard."

All eyes turn to me.

I raise a hand. "Don't you dare."

Lucas, already grinning like he's been waiting for this moment: "Britney Spears. Toxic era. Glittery. Dangerous. Will absolutely ruin your life, shave her head just to make a point, then headline Coachella the next day."

Clara sips her wine. "You give 'Oops I did it again,' but with lawsuits."

Martin: "Would stab you with a cocktail umbrella and then make you apologize for being in the way"

Nick nods solemnly. "Messy. Magnetic. The reason three different men think they were 'the one that got away.'"

"I've literally been minding my business for weeks," I protest.

Lucas: "Which is exactly when you're plotting something."

Clara raises her glass. "We love a woman who looks like heartbreak and sounds like an alibi."

Nick whispers, "She's not mad. She's just releasing her next album."

Then August — quiet, smooth, and infuriatingly well-timed — says, "Very close - but wrong ."

Everyone turns to him.

"She's Shakira. She Wolf."

He barely looks at me when he says it — just lets the words land, easy and knowing, like the punchline to a joke I didn't know I was part of.

Lucas chokes on his wine. "Oh my god. She is. Half-night creature, half girl-next-door to cover it up."

"She did bite a man for offering breakfast," Nick says.

"He deserved it," I mutter.

Clara tips her glass. "Unhinged in disguise. Boardroom passable on the surface, but we all know you feast after dark."

Martin, deadpan: "Probably has night vision. Definitely sleeps upside down."

"She's biologically allergic to quiet mornings," Nick adds, waving his fork. "Give her anything but coffee and she'll throw it. Offer midnight tequila and she'll write your name in blood on a napkin."

Lucas gasps. "She literally said she was born with the instinct to avoid exclusive penguin-on-penguin for life."

"But — possibly overrideable," I protest.

The table howls.

I raise my glass, grinning. "Fine. I'll take it. Wolf's a step up from Nick saving my number as 'Kesha — Unhinged Era.'"

Nick shrugs. "It was that or 'Legal Risk: Minor.'"

Then all eyes shift to August. This time, it's not just me watching him. It's everyone.

"Alright," Clara says. "Let's build this properly. Tall, dark, dimples. Looks like John Mayer—"

"—with a conscience," Lucas finishes.

"John Mayer would fuck his boss in good conscience," Nick adds, swirling his wine. "But only Harry Styles–Watermelon Sugar would have the confidence to date her."

Martin leans in. "He's like Wagyu. Bond-villain-penguin. The Killers — The Man."

Clara gasps. "Wait, no — Style. Taylor Swift. Timeless. Flirt like a fling, and then — poof — you're either in flames or in paradise. And you wouldn't even care, as long as he's there."

August raises a brow, amused, but doesn't protest.

Lucas: "No. He's definitely Your Body Is a Wonderland. But like — weaponized."

That breaks the table. August half-laughs, shaking his head, clearly trying to hide his dimples — and failing.

"Wonderland," I echo, raising an eyebrow. "That's generous. And almost right."

I tilt my glass toward him. Slow. Measured.

"But if I'm Shakira's She Wolf..."

A pause — enough for him to register the trap.

"...then you," I say, eyes locked on his, "are Maroon 5."

He blinks once, wary.

I smile. Sweet. Dangerous.

"And the only question is—"
I lean in just slightly,
"Animals... or She Will Be Loved?"

The table doesn't catch it. But he does.

His jaw tics. Brief. Sharp. Then smooths over with that slow, infuriating smirk.

Clara exhales, pointing at me like she's just solved a crime. "Okay but... that is him. That's literally the album. Feral impulse meets slow heartbreak."

Lucas groans. "Either way, sort of workplace appropriate. But also—he's definitely Animals. Look at the bone structure. That's not She-Will-Be-Loved energy."

Nick sips his drink, eyes narrowed. "No no. He's the deluxe edition. Like, he'll pin you to a door and text you good luck before your interview."

Martin, deadpan: "He's the reason both songs exist."

Clara's leaning in, animated now. "No, no—he wants you to think he's She Will Be Loved. That's the bait. But give it five minutes and it's Animals. The man radiates moral ambiguity."

August just shrugs, utterly unbothered. "Maroon 5's fine."

I glance at him, dry. "So... which one are you going to be?"

His look is slow and deliberate—eyes catching mine like he's already halfway through an answer I'm not ready for.

"I don't believe in false choices," he says low, only for me.

My pulse skips. My lips twitch. Then his hand lands casually at the top of my knee, fingers resting there like punctuation.

And he—
Smirks. Like I just lit a fuse.
Like he's already planning the fire.

Not grazing.

Not cautious.

He places it there like it belongs. Like he's reclaiming old ground and knows exactly where to press.

And he watches me.

Eyes locked.

Just a steady, unbearable awareness.

My body betrays me instantly. My inhale catches, chest tight. I don't blink either, afraid the spell might snap if I do. I can't believe my body behaves like this from a mere hand-knee holding - the effect this man has is nothing shy of the sun's.

He watches that too.

A slight tightening on his grip, and there it is. The shift in my breath. The subtle widening of my eyes. The falter in my grip around the wineglass.

It's like he's studying the collapse, measuring what he does to me.

And I swear, he enjoys watching me try to hide it more than he'd enjoy taking me apart out loud.

His thumb moves — slow, steady circles.

Claiming, not asking.

"To summer camp," Clara says somewhere to my left, oblivious.

"To haunted dolphins and morally corrupt decisions," Lucas adds, already halfway into one.

I raise my glass, shaky. I barely remember why. My eyes still locked to his, heat crawling up my spine like I've been pinned to the moment.

And just before I break the stare — just before I sip — he leans in, voice low enough to melt steel.

"Still feeling personally victimized by Siberian daggers?"

I nearly drop the glass.

Partly from the molten daggers now replacing the Siberian ones in his stare.

Mostly from the way he wields that same practiced iciness — like he wasn't the one who hurled it, with perfect aim and all his force.

A beat passes.
His thumb presses just slightly.
And then I see it.

The smirk.
Full. Dangerous. Beautiful.

He goes on to sip his wine like he's toasting himself for succeeding to unravel me.
It hits me, hard.. And maybe it's injustice. Or something meaner. Or maybe it's just the non-beige in me that have had enough — but after all the silence, all the daggers?
It feels plain wrong not to at least try for a comeback.

Before his glass hits the table again, I place my hand on top of his. Just holding his in place.
His eyes find mine the second I do — and this time, mine don't flinch.
This time, I'm the one measuring.

And that wipes away the edge of his smirk.
Just a crack.
A flicker of something darker behind his eyes. A twitch of jaw.
Maybe even a what the fuck.

I feel heat rise in my cheeks — not from nerves, but from seeing it.
Seeing him like this.

So I lead his hand up my thigh.

Desperately slow.

Every inch reveals something:
The rising pulse.
The clench of his jaw.
His grip tightening on the stem of his glass.

It's priceless.

I know this isn't the place to play this kind of game —
but something in his expression, that flicker of restraint, the subtle shift from smug to stunned?

It's wrong in all the best ways.

I stop his hand a mere inch from the hem of my panties.
And I can't quite tell if what I hear is relief or shallow breath.

His expression, however, gives: tortured, but please don't stop.

I suppress a laugh and decide to quit while the table is still none the wiser.
As a final act of service, I signal his thumb — a slight nudge.
It obeys.
Slow circles.

I remove my hand when it picks up the pace.

We sit like that.
Him, seeing me — pleased.
Me, reading every line of his restraint.

The stop-but-don't-really-stop look.
The bite to the inside of his cheek.
The tension in his jaw, hanging on by a thread.

And just when he seems to recover — a flicker of something like enjoyment creeping back in —
I push one step further.

I inch my chair slightly forward, just enough for him to reach further — in theory.

His involuntary gulp tells me he's apparently quite skilled in applied geometry.

I grin, lean in, lift my glass, and murmur:

"See? Wasn't that hard to find the right spot."

He lets out a low, involuntary laugh — sharp and warm, almost like it surprises him.
Then, without missing a beat, he says under his breath, "Touché."

And just as I start to pull away — smug, victorious —
his hand gives a parting squeeze.

Not rushed.
Not shy.
Just enough to remind me he's still very much here.
Still very much in this game.

Then he lifts his wine glass — effortless, composed — and tilts it slightly toward mine.

A silent toast.

His eyes find mine again, steady as ever, but something new simmers underneath.
Amusement.
Challenge.
Hunger, dressed like patience.

Our glasses clink, soft and small under the noise of the others.

And for a moment — maybe just one — I feel drunk on something that isn't wine at all. Like my feet aren't quite touching the ground, like I'm floating a few inches above the roof, beaming without trying.

That's when I realize the rest of the table has silently agreed to skip Never Have I Ever and go straight to shots. I lift one, hold it to the light, inspect the liquid — a color I don't recognize and probably shouldn't trust.

Then I down it anyway.

Because whatever it is, at least it's not beige.

***

It starts with a beat drop and a crime against volume settings.

In honor of our last night, someone greenlit an open bar, dimmed the fairy lights, and let dignity die a glittery death. What was once a civilized dinner under string lights has become a rooftop rave curated by an intern with a grudge against subtlety.

The long linen table's abandoned. Mismatched wildflowers tipped like they've fainted. Someone's taken the HR code of conduct and used it for rollies. Bread baskets replaced with shot glasses. At least six people are barefoot.

The DJ (a very unqualified intern named Diego) is playing like his life depends on well-timed public breakdowns and just discovered early-2010s bangers. The kind of playlist that makes people scream entire verses they don't know,  and don't care it cost them every last bit of their dignity in the process. 

So scream we do.

Bodies blur. Light flickers. Sweat glints.

I'm pulled in — no clue who starts it — just that suddenly I'm in the middle of something that feels choreographed by a damp toaster and blind confidence.

Nick's already air-grabbing like he's in a boy band reunion tour. He grabs my hand, dramatically spins me like we're headlining prom, then drops into a pretend sob as the bridge hits like heartbreak.

August shows up with the energy of a man scorned by autotune. Head bobbing. Hands in slow, emotional claps. He acts out a ballad breakdown like he's just lost custody of his dog and the house in Ibiza.

Nick is on the floor now. Literally. Grabbing his chest. Screaming the chorus like a soap opera star whose lover just left him for someone who owns a boat.

I try to breathe. I can't. I'm wheezing from laughing too hard.

Then August points to me — mock-serious — like I'm up.

He mouths something that could be lyrics, could be a dramatic monologue.
I curtsy. Because of course I do. Then throw myself into the next verse like it's a Tony nom.

Hair toss. Arm flail. Slow spin with a fake tear swipe.

August pretends to swoon. Nick fake faints. Lucas claps like he's paid to judge us and hates every second.

And we keep going.

August and I act out an entire fake romance across two songs. Love at first sight. Misunderstanding. Longing glances. A dramatic back-turn during a key change.

At one point he dips me — dips me — badly, but with commitment.

I retaliate by grabbing his tie-that-he's-not-actually-wearing and pretending to storm off.

We don't break. We play it through like bad theater kids on espresso.

Then I get spun again. This time by both of them. I land against August, breathless.

He keeps me there.

His hand on the small of my back.

Just a pause. Just a second too long.

We're still laughing — but something lingers in it now. My hands are still on his arms. I don't let go. Neither does he.

I'm grinning too hard, tipsy and dizzy and maybe floating a little.

Then he lets go, and Nick yells something I don't catch and yanks me back into the mayhem.

The beat drops again. Diego the intern is clearly possessed. The music's a war crime. Lucas is dramatically moonwalking. Clara has decided she's a backup dancer for someone.

I laugh again — more out of self-defense than anything — and suddenly I know I need a second. Just one. A pause from the sound, the lights, the feeling of August's hand still mapped across my back like a print I can't shake.

My feet move before I think.
I slip out of the crowd, head for the bar.
I'm still smiling. Still high from the dancing.

I find a quiet-but-not-really corner at the bar. Instantly decide I'm not going to try shout-ordering in Spanish. The bartender seems to get it — I just point to the right glass, gesture for the right number of ice cubes, and aim at the only whiskey bottle I recognize.

It works. Thank God.

I love being front and center of August's attention — the heat of it, the pull — but I'm still shaky. Overwhelmed. Barely hanging onto beige. Trying to steady myself after too many whiplash moments and not enough warning.

II take a sip. Then another.

Sometime before the next sip, my brain catches the song playing and automatically starts tracing the lyrical genius of Katy Perry's greatest philosophical work — Hot n Cold — and it hits me.

He's the fucking muse.
And she? She clearly meant to call him love-bipolar.

When I laugh — loud, too loud, unfortunately — he appears.

Right next to me.

Because of course he does.
Classic August — relentless in ways that never made the top twenty things I missed. And yes, that list exists. On an actual spreadsheet. Color-coded. With footnotes.

He just takes the spot beside mine, easy, relaxed — like he belongs there. His gaze lingers, amused. Pleased. Definitely aware of what he's doing to me.

I squirm. A little.

He stays silent just long enough for me to catch the dare in the air and say, "What?"

He grins, teeth and trouble.
"Just wondering why neither customs nor HR have flagged that dress down yet."

I burst out laughing — startled and delighted in equal measure.
His smile sharpens. He liked that one. Maybe too much.

"How long did it take to come up with that one?" I ask, tilting my glass.

He shrugs. "Far too long. But honestly? That's really the legs' fault. Way too distracting to land anything truly cheesy."

I smile, hesitate just a beat, then decide to play along.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Well, customs tried. Threatened to detain it for public indecency — said the back was MIA and a security risk. Almost cuffed me in the arrivals hall."

He blinks, then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. "That's not real."

"Just as real as them confiscating all my underwear," I say, deadpan. "Apparently there wasn't enough fabric to qualify as clothing."

He chokes out a laugh — loud and surprised, absolutely eating it up — then shakes his head like he's trying not to give me the satisfaction.

But it's too late.

The grin is there. Wide and real. Eyes creased into crescent monos.
And God help me, it lights something in my chest I wasn't ready to feel again.

August chuckles low under his breath, like he wasn't the one who started all this.
He glances sideways at me — amused, a little incredulous. "You're still brutal."

I swirl the ice in my glass like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. "You're one to talk. That customs line was borderline rom-com."

"It was shameless," he agrees, not even pretending to be sorry. "I'm usually more dignified."

"No," I say, meeting his eyes. "But you're funny. When you want to be. Sneaky funny."

That gets him. His brow lifts. Mouth twitches. A little smug, a little something else.

"I'll take it," he says, quiet.

I force a deep breath, like I'm bracing for impact — the moment of truth I've been quietly begging for.

My voice softens. "Do you maybe want to... talk?"

His expression doesn't shift. Still easy. Still flirty.
Still the guy who just made me laugh about my confiscated underwear like we haven't gone weeks without speaking.

But his eyes hold.
And I swear something in them settles — or maybe stirs.

I press on.
"Want to see the shitty side of the roof?"

That gets a laugh. And a smile I decide means yes.
I could be wrong. God, I could be so wrong.
But his hand finds mine anyway, and that makes me run - walk very fast - around the bar, pass the the bins, and through the theatrical plastic-curtains.

It's not far.
But the sound drops as if someone muted the night — like we've stepped sideways out of the party and into something quieter, a place the fairy lights forgot. It really is shitty - still smells like tar and the buds from almost two full packs of my Marlboro lights.

I stop walking.
And we basically bump into each other when I do.

But he doesn't let the pause stretch. Doesn't give me time to second-guess what I'm doing or why.

He just kisses me—no warning, no wind-up. Like Copenhagen, but this time there's no hesitation, no room for second-guessing. His hands slide around my waist and pull—hard—until I'm flush against him, until I feel the heat of every breath, every intention. His mouth finds mine like we're mid-sentence, like we've been talking like this for years. It's rougher than I remember. Deeper. All tongue and heat and hunger barely held back. Like he's punishing me for waiting, and I'm thanking him for finally breaking.

I gasp into it, and he catches that too—swallows the sound like it does something to him. My hands fist in his shirt without thinking. His thumb finds the bare skin at my lower back, and it's almost too much. I feel everything at once: the slick pull of his lips, the press of his hips, the goddamn noise I almost make when his teeth catch my bottom lip just to feel the edge of me tremble.

And I let it happen. I want all of it—want to be kissed until I can't remember why I ever told myself no. Until my knees give out or he takes the ground from under me. Whichever comes first.

***

"Wait—does this mean you forgive me?" I ask, already regretting it the second the words leave my mouth. My body half-tilts toward him without permission, like that might pull something back.

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

"No," he says. Flat. Unshaken. A little tired maybe.

That single syllable knocks the breath out of me. "Then what?" I ask, trying to recover. "Is this some long con to get in my room and get your hoodie back?"

His mouth twitches — not into a smile, just the suggestion of one. Then he shrugs, like this is logistics, not heartbreak.

"Our talk got me thinking," he says. "Maybe we should just go back. Before all the questions. Before the illusions."
He shrugs. "We're not going to see each other after this anyway. You get to stop torturing yourself with emotional growth. Figured, we might as well try the whole 'spend-the-night, no-names' thing."

The words rips me apart.

It seems like I should take this and run downstairs with him. Agree and take what he wants to give. Maybe I should laugh, keep it - keep this light version of him. I want to keep this person, not the icy dagger guy. Cave into my instinct telling me to do what I do best.

But I don't.

I look at him — really look — and then I voice the worst thing I know of,

"I'm in love with you."

He fucking laughs. Or maybe it's a scoff. Either way, it's brutal.

Then he takes a step back, peels his hands off me like I'm something burning.

"You don't even know what that is," he says. His voice isn't angry. Just... disappointed. Detached. The kind of tone that's worse than shouting.

"I do," I say, already fumbling. "I figured it out. In Amsterdam. And I know it sounds crazy, but I—I thought it was a hypomanic episode. I panicked. I just... I needed to check myself before I made it worse."

He lets out a breathy, bitter laugh. A way of both affirming we're having this conversation, but that he's also already over it. "You told me six times you weren't 'that person.' You think I didn't look it up? The symptoms? The risks? All of it."

He levels me with a look. "So? What's the diagnosis? Was it an episode?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. "I don't think so," I say finally. "Which is exactly what led me to think I'm in love with you."

He stares at me like I've just built a house of cards and asked him to live in it.

"Right," he says. "So what—this was all one big emotional experiment? Are you trying to test if it was real? Hoping to trigger another high?"

"No." I try to stay calm. "I don't need an episode to feel that kind of high. I just didn't want to mistake something real for something chemical. I had to just steady myself to be sure. I'm sorry. I was really just trying to protect you. The last thing I want to do is to hurt you."

He takes a step closer now, his jaw tense, eyes unreadable.

"Here's the thing," he says, voice low, sharp. "You ran – disappeared altogether – the second it asked anything of you."

"I know," I say. "But it's not that simple, I was trying to separate—"

"And that," he cuts in, "is how I know you'll run again and again. That thing right there. The need to make it about managing your condition, not your choice."

"That's not fair—" I start, but he doesn't stop.

"You thought you were unraveling, and you didn't think once about talking to me. Letting me in. Not even asking for help. You just disappeared. Complete radio silence. That's not managing bipolar - that's just poor judgement."

And it's then I see it — not just anger. But the quiet, wounded part of him. The part that still sees his mom shutting down instead of speaking up. The part that lets Lea believe what happened was an accident. The particular disdain in his voice talking to his dad on the phone.

"I'm sorry," I say, and this time my voice shakes. "I didn't want to hurt you more than I already did. I just—I didn't know how to explain what was happening. I didn't even understand it myself."

I search his face. "I'm trying. I really am. I'm beige now—better. More aware. I'm owning it—"

"No." His voice slices clean. "This fucking beige thing is just another costume. Another one of your monologues in neutral tones. It's not healing. It's hiding. You've just made it palatable so people stop asking if you're drowning."

That hits. Because maybe he's not wrong.

I want to say that I am honest now. That I don't lie to my friends, that I don't disappear in the middle of the night anymore. But somewhere behind all the improvements, the core reflex remains — the instinct to fold in on myself. I know, because it's the only thing I want to do at this exact moment. Bleed somewhere he or no one else can see.

I swallow hard. "I want to trust you. I do. I'm in love with you."

He exhales — something halfway between a breath and a laugh. But there's no humor in it. Just exhaustion.

"No," he says, soft and devastating. "You're not."

"I am," I insist, a little breathless now. "I know I am."

He meets my eyes — not cruel, not loud. Just calm. Brutal.

"Then you're either delusional... or just plain crazy."

I blink. Hard. "What did you just say?"

He doesn't even flinch. Doesn't raise his voice.

"You're crazy, Frederika," he says. "And that has absolutely nothing to do with your bipolar."

Silence falls like a dropped glass.

And something inside me cracks open, it's so much worse than anything Kasper said, what I've ever said to myself — but it doesn't break, It ignites purple fire, not the explosive kind,

"Oh," I say slowly. "Got it."

Because now I do.

I laugh once — quiet and sharp — and shake my head. "You know what's actually crazy, August? Thinking I was the only one who needed fixing."

He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to.

"You say I'm not in love, but maybe I was just naive enough to think you could be," I go on. "But I see it now. All I ever was to you was a challenge. An opportunity. A project you could improve and walk away from with a hero complex and a clean conscience."

His jaw tightens.

"You want to be needed, but only on your terms. You want to be trusted, but the second I didn't let you in backstage for my freakshow, you lost interest and just tried to fuck me instead."

His mouth opens — but no.
Not now.
Not this time.

"Don't bother," I snap, cutting in before he can twist it.
"Go find some Stepford fuck-up in decline — soft voice, low IQ, just damaged enough to think your bullshit means something. Someone dumb enough to actually believe it's love, and thank you for it like it's a fucking gift."

A beat.

"And while you're at it? Go play savior at a shelter. Adopt a rescue dog — one that wags its tail no matter how little you give."

A breath. Mean. Final.

"No need to thank me — you just dodged a fucking bullet."

Then I walk.