We’re in the kitchen pantry. I’d say that I led us here, but I clearly trailed behind Farrow, broken collarbone and all. I’m slower, but right now, I’m not as frustrated about it and he’s not teasing me since we’re dealing with heavier things. Waist-deep in quicksand.

I swear we can’t catch a break.

Farrow tugs the string to the ceiling light bulb. A warm glow casts on cluttered wooden shelves, stocked with cereal boxes, protein bars, candy, and crackers.

We both agreed on this spot. The pantry is the quietest place in the townhouse. Farrow and I have fucked against these shelves more than once. Rough enough that as I pounded into him, soup cans fell to the floorboards. No one upstairs heard, and with the door locked now, our voices shouldn’t echo up the staircase.

So it’s climax-proof.

I hold out my left hand for my phone that’s still in Farrow’s grip.

He rests his elbow beside a half-opened box of Pop-Tarts, not relinquishing my phone. He tilts his head at me. “I meant it when I said let’s look together.”

I don’t stand next to him yet. “Farrow, just let me be the one to check the tabloids.”

He frowns. “You realize I’ve dealt with internet trolls calling you, my boyfriend, a sack of shit, a dumb fuck, a spoiled bastard, and much, much worse. I couldn’t do a fucking thing, and still, I’m standing. I haven’t broken down yet, so what the hell are you protecting me from, Maximoff?”

Farrow is used to internet trolls harassing me, but it’s a different feeling when the unwanted opinions are about us.

“Street hecklers are my kryptonite,” I admit, then I gesture to his chest. “Grating, unsolicited commentary about our relationship is going to be yours.”

Farrow is close to shaking his head, but he stops himself and looks up at the pantry ceiling. Cringing slightly. Eyes reddening. He rubs his mouth a couple times. We’ve been around each other every waking minute for almost a whole year.

I know him.

I fucking know Farrow like he knows me. He will tell you that he has no best friends. He has two that he treats like brothers. He will say that he’s an open book. But it’s a book he only allows his boyfriend to open. His casualness reads to some like indifference. Yet, he lives to save people.

He’s independent and self-reliant, but he seeks out companionship and love.

If he says you’re “good people”—he’ll surround himself around you, and you’ll be glad. Because he’s the kind of man who puts his whole soul into what he loves, and if he loves you, goddamn.

So when his eyes fall back to mine, I say, “I know you. You can barely stand Beckett prying in our relationship. You think you can stomach the entire world?”

Farrow touches his obsidian earring, contemplating for a millisecond. “You think you can stomach it?” he asks me. “It’s not like you’ve had a public relationship before me. I’m your first—hopefully your last. You’ve never experienced this shit either.”

Hopefully your last.

I hang onto those three words. Unblinking at him.

Farrow is trying to read my expression at an alarming rate. Is he nervous? I think…

I think he’s nervous.

It makes me ten billion times more nervous.

My pulse accelerates, heart beating out of my chest, and Farrow’s breath quickens like he’s running the same marathon. He sets my phone on a shelf.

“Are you still high?” I ask.

“No.” Farrow keeps sweeping my face for my reaction. “Not at all.”

“Same.” I’m completely lucid, mentally shutting out any pain, because I can’t get over those three words.

Hopefully your last.

He wants to be my last, and he’s not just saying this on the side of a road, thinking I’m about to die. He’s saying this when we’re about to face the roughest storm together.

Farrow combs both hands through his bleach-white hair, his chest elevating. “Maximoff…”

“Am I your forever guy?” I just ask.

His eyes are bloodshot, so much emotion slamming into him, then me, and he says, “I don’t want to scare you off—”

“You’re not scaring me,” I shake my head repeatedly, my pulse on a sky-scraping ascent.

He drums a shelf with his fingertips, prolonging whatever you want to call this moment. When he does speak, each word comes out like fifty tons of brick that he’s wrenching forward. “I’m afraid that if I say anything else, I’m going to fucking lose you…we can do this another day—”

“Why the fuck would you lose me?” I cut him off, brows furrowed.

He leans his weight back. “We’re really doing this right now,” he realizes.

“Yeah, unless you’d like me to overthink for the next millennium.”

His mouth stretches. “I wouldn’t take that long, wolf scout.” But the fleeting smile completely disappears as he processes what he needs to say.

His gaze slowly rises to meet mine. “See, you’re twenty-two and I’m only your first—and there is better than me out there. Shit, even Oscar is waiting for you to realize it, and I’ve dumped my fair share of guys. For the first fucking time, I’m the one terrified…” He stops himself short, eyeing me hard. “You look petrified.”

I clear my throat. “This is me looking nervous,” I tell him, my brows cinched and eyes a bit wide. I’m actually scared to lose him in this whole conversation.

Maybe that’s why we prefer joking around than having serious talks. It always takes us a while to reach the center, but we usually find a way.

His smile starts widening to new profound levels. “I’ve seen you nervous plenty of times. That’s not it.”

“Not plenty of times,” I retort. “Sometimes, a few times…no times. Less than you.”

Farrow laughs, and then as the sound quiets, our eyes melt against each other.

“There’s no one better than you,” I tell him, assured about this. “And I get why you haven’t brought this up before.” I nod to myself a few more times, and I stop there.

Farrow waves me onwards.

I feign confusion. “Isn’t it your turn? Pretty sure it’s your turn.”

He rolls his eyes, but they land on me as he says, “So you must know you’re brick-walled when it comes to future shit, particularly our future.”

I nod strongly. “Highly aware.” I think about how to say this perfectly, but I don’t think there’s a perfect way. “I always thought I’d never be in a relationship….for as much as I overanalyze my life, I never let myself imagine a boyfriend, let alone something more…”

Farrow props his elbows on the shelf behind him. “I figured, but you realize you’ve had me for a while. Fuck, anytime I mentioned marriage, even jokingly, you looked ready to piss your pants.”

I grimace. “Did I?”

“You did,” he nods.

“I’m not right now.” I rake my hand through my thick hair—a pained groan tangles inside my throat. That fucking hurt. A sharp pang stabs my bone. Even raising my good hand pulls my bad shoulder sometimes.

“Careful,” Farrow whispers, concern deepening his voice.

Something swells in my chest, but I continue on. “I guess I didn’t want to think about it before,” I explain, “because thinking meant overanalyzing and for once, I just wanted to live in the present. With you.”

Farrow nods slowly. Understanding in his eyes.

“But after the crash, I’ve been thinking a lot more about the rest of my life. Where I go from here, and now I can’t stop thinking about us and it.”

“Marriage,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Marriage,” I say with stubborn emphasis, not allergic to the word. “Yeah. I keep thinking…” I gesture to my head, more careful this time. “Do you even want to be married someday? Maybe you’re not into it, maybe that’s why you rejected your ex’s proposal—”

“No,” Farrow cuts me off, his foot kicked back on the shelf. He looks cool even when we’re discussing life-altering, earth-changing topics. “Man, I want that commitment one day. I just didn’t want it with him.”

So he’s into marriage…

“Maximoff.” He catches my attention before I stare into space, and he’s already straightened up, no longer lounging against the shelves. He nears until our legs knock together, his fingers toy with hooking my fingers.

And he asks, “What do you want, wolf scout?” He clutches my hand.

What do I want?

I can almost feel the rain from the crash site. Water kissing my face and how Farrow hovered over me. How he painted a picture of our lives together. Decades, longer—which, for Farrow, means an expanse of time that lasts forever.

I could’ve died happy inside that future, and I can’t think of a greater sign than that.

So I know… “I want everything you said in the rain. All of it.”

Farrow easily recalls each word, and his eyes stroke mine in hot, tender affection. “That’s good because it looks like we want the same thing.”

I inhale like I haven’t taken a breath in eons. The one constant in my off-kilter world has been us—Farrow and me. Hearing him say that he wants to stand upright next to me, for the long haul—it’s a goddamn dream.

The corner of his mouth rises. “You’re smiling,” he breathes against my lips before kissing me. One of those brief, teasing kisses that stings. Aching for more.

“I’m really happy,” I whisper, but my brows cinch at a thought. “Strangely since we’re in a DEFCON 1 situation.”

Farrow nods and drops my hand, just so he can return to the shelves. He grabs my phone next to the Pop-Tart box. “Do you remember what I asked you?”

I try to rewind my brain, but all I remember is hopefully your last.

A knowing smile edges across his face. “I said that you’ve never experienced this shit either. You can’t know how it’ll affect you when you read about us.” He makes a come closer gesture with two fingers and unlocks my phone with the passcode.

I near him, my red sling rubbing coarsely against my chest. “I’ve also had paparazzi and journalists ask about my love life since I was fourteen.” Our eyes meet. “I’ve dealt with speculations before. Maybe not about us, but I’m better equipped for this.”

Farrow waits to open a web page. “Okay, but I’m not sitting on the sidelines. I’d rather learn to deal with it than avoid it.”

I nod. “I can get behind that.”

He reaches for the Pop-Tart box. “That’s because you love getting behind me.” Farrow tears open the silver individual pastry wrapper with his teeth, his smile my fucking undoing.

My blood heats, but I also eagle-eye the phone in his other hand. “Let me prep you first.”

His brows shoot up. “Prep me?”

I rest my hand on my neck, the strain in my muscle uncomfortable. “It’s what I used to do when I was younger. You tell yourself what people are probably saying before you see or hear it—that way it doesn’t cut as badly.”

Farrow passes me the cinnamon Pop-Tart. “You would prepare. Pack your survival gear, remember your life raft—”

“Alright,” I interject. I get that he’s him and I’m me and we’ll handle every crisis a bit differently. But I had to offer anyway. “So you don’t want a raft then?” I take a large bite of the cold Pop-Tart.

I haven’t eaten in forever, and Farrow knew that. He must’ve also known that I wouldn’t be as nauseous. My uneasy stomach is instantly grateful for the food. Settling down.

“No raft,” he confirms, typing on my phone. “Let’s just dive in, wolf scout.”

I’m the better swimmer, so in this analogy or metaphor, I can save him if the current pulls him under. I wonder if he’s thinking about that.

I lean back, shelves digging in my spine, but my side is up against Farrow’s, our shoulders nearly at equal height. He wraps his arm around my muscular waist and searches the internet with his other hand.

Janie’s cat scratches and meows at the pantry door, slicing into the short silence.

“Try Celebrity Crush first,” I tell him.

He types the tabloid site into the search engine, and as soon as we’re on the homepage, we both read the biggest headline: Popular Male Porn Star Buys Night with Maximoff Hale at Charity Auction.

It’s pretty generic.

Something we both expected.

I swallow the last of the Pop-Tart while Farrow clicks into the article. He scrolls really goddamn fast. Skim-reading, and then he reaches the comments, slowing down…

My eyes glaze over more of the same, and I do what my parents have always told me to do.

I take a breath.

Remember that they don’t know me, they don’t know us.

Repeat it.

They don’t know us.

Their opinions are just opinions, and they don’t get to live inside my body and make my choices. The world watches my failures, my mistakes, and you criticize me and my relationship, but in the end, you don’t have the full picture. Just whatever narrative you’ve created in your head.

I glance at my boyfriend. He keeps scrolling through the comments, his cool exterior not shaken, but his eyes seem to tighten. So something’s troubling him.

I extend my left arm across his back and hold his shoulder. “They don’t know us,” I tell Farrow. “They’ll never really know us.”

He pauses scrolling. “I don’t understand why they’d say that I’m in it for the fame. I’ve barely been on your social media so far.”

Since I’ve been dealing with the auction, I haven’t posted a lot in the past two weeks. The pictures on my Instagram of him are the lovers like us photo from my parent’s vow renewal and one where he’s cooking breakfast. I haven’t even recorded an Instagram story with Farrow yet.

“They’ll make up anything off nothing,” I say, but I notice how he’s fixated on another fame whore comment. “That’s what’s getting to you?”

Farrow scrolls again. “It’s all eating at me differently, but people questioning my intentions with you is probably my least favorite thing.” He glares at another comment on a different article. “I’m protective of you, wolf scout, and the thought of people believing I’m fucking you over…” His jaw muscle tics.

It’s not sitting well with him.

Before I can reply, Farrow adds, “See, I understand how this works: I appear on your social media more, I only strengthen their ‘he’s in it for the fame’ bullshit, but fuck.” He lets out a deep, aggravated breath.

There is no permanent fix.

After being around my family, he knows this too. People will always believe what they want to believe—and it’ll hurt. With the rumors about my paternity, I felt like I needed to scream and scream for people to hear me.

I still have to talk about the truth. How my dad is Loren Hale. And I’ll occasionally wear red to honor him. Like now, I consciously chose a red sling. But using my voice is the best thing I can do. It’s why We Are Calloway exists.

My sore arm falls to his hip. “I was going to ask you to do an Instagram video with me, but if you’d feel better backing away from social media, I’d understand.”

I’d be okay with whatever he decides since this is new for him and since my world is the thing that’s drastically changing his life.

“I don’t have to post pictures of us—”

“No,” Farrow says, shutting off my phone. He rotates to face me, resting his forearm on the shelf, and he opens his mouth to speak, but I’m already talking.

“Joining me in videos, posting more pictures together, it won’t change public perception in the way you want,” I remind him.

“It’ll most likely make it worse,” Farrow agrees. “I’m ready for that, wolf scout.” He runs his thumb over his lip piercing.

“You sure?” I ask.

Farrow notices me watching his hand, and his lips begin to lift beneath his thumb. He moves that hand to the back of my neck.

His grip feels better than good.

And his gaze plunges into me. “When I love someone,” he says in a rough whisper, “I love them proudly, and you deserve the achingly normal, romantic shit more than anyone. Everything you’ve never had. All the pictures you post, all the videos you do on your own, I want to be in them—and it’d kill me not to give you that. Especially now that we’re public.”

The declaration overwhelms me. I swallow the ball in my throat. And I zero in on how fast that was for Farrow. “Just like that?” I ask, my brows cinching. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“Because I do what I feel is right, not just what I think is right.” His hand ascends into my hair, and mine is on a descent to his back pocket.

Farrow listened to his instincts, and I’ve been ignoring mine that have screamed at me for weeks on end.

A sudden clarity washes over me.

And I say, “I’m cancelling the night with a celebrity.” Content with this choice.

His hold on the back of my head is twice as protective, ten times as comforting. “When did you decide this?” he asks, skimming my features for signs of what I’m feeling.

“Right now.” I look at him. “I’ve been fighting against what I feel is right. Anytime the night with a celebrity is brought up, it’s like a parasite crawling down my body.” I cringe. “I can’t put you through that fucking night. I can’t put my sister or my cousins through that night. I don’t care if you’re all willing to go through with it—something inside of me is pleading with me to just stop.”

Concern narrows his eyes—Farrow looks like he wants to hug the fuck out of me. But with my broken bone, he can only draw closer. “Maximoff.” He whispers my name like he’s caressing each syllable. “Shit, if I’d known you were feeling like that…I thought you were just paranoid.”

I was that, too. “What would’ve you done if you’d known?” I ask, my eyes tracing the wings and crossed swords inked on his neck.

“I would’ve told you that if something is so parasitic that every instinct is screaming at you to stop, then stop. Because at that point, doing it isn’t benefiting what or who you love. It’s hurting something or someone you love.” He runs his hand through my thick hair. “And then I would’ve held you.”

I stare at his mouth for a second, my blood hot. “Or I would’ve held you.”

Farrow doesn’t play into the banter like usual, or even say we would’ve held each other. He’s focused on the crux of my choice. “You’re going to lose your job for real.”

If no one goes through with the night with a celebrity, Ernest Mangold won’t give me a second chance to be reinstated as CEO of H.M.C. Philanthropies.

It doesn’t knock me backwards. I inhale a stronger breath. “I think I’m okay with that.”

Something inside of me has changed. I can’t tell you if it’s being in love or almost dying or maybe I’m just getting older—but something in me is different. And being CEO of my company doesn’t feel as important anymore.

I also recognize that I’m leaving my family’s wealth in the hands of a prick. But Charlie is still on the H.M.C. board, and I need to trust that he’ll take care of our families.

I’m letting go.

“Are you okay with that?” I ask him.

His eyes brush my cheekbones. “You look more unburdened, and now there’s no porn star run-in. This is win-win any way you turn it.”

I think about Ace Steel. How he was a straight porn star. I don’t get it. “I wonder what Ace Steel wanted—”

“You don’t need to wonder,” Farrow interjects.

Off my confusion, he reaches behind his back and then he guides my hand that has slowly crept towards his back pocket into said pocket.

The ass-grab doesn’t make sense…until I feel the outline of a card. This is what Farrow must’ve taken from the end table earlier. Which I theorized was a condom.

Not a condom.

A business card.

“That dickhole told me what he wanted when we were at the auction,” Farrow explains. “It’s why I wanted to talk to you in private in the first place. The topic just kept getting derailed.”

I read the card and immediately freeze at the name: Sensual Flixxxs. “This porn company used to call me a hundred times when I turned eighteen. I had to block their number.” I look up at Farrow.

His jaw hardens. “I figured. Apparently they sent Ace on their behalf to convince you to do a scene. He said the company thought he’d be able to sell you on the idea since he’s a sex worker and not a producer.”

I scowl. “They really thought I’d fuck someone else even though I’m with you?”

“No.” Farrow lets out a short, vexed laugh at the memory. “He told me—and I quote—‘Sexual Flixxxs wants to film you fucking Maximoff Hale in the ass’, and I said they could film me fracturing Ace’s cock with a hammer.”

Since Farrow is literal a lot of the time, that threat or offer seems more real than mine would’ve been. Though, I think I would’ve just punched the porn star.

My face twists as I process. “So they spent millions of dollars on me, just for a meeting? In hopes that we’d agree to fuck on camera, and what…they hoped to make a profit on the video? It’s an insane gamble.”

“They couldn’t get ahold of you,” Farrow says. “The auction was the only way they could even breathe on your fucking neck. If they thought they could manipulate you during the one-on-one night, it could’ve been worth it on their end.”

If my choice to cancel the auction nights wasn’t already cemented, now it’s marbleized, staple-gunned and set to stone. “It’s never happening.” I’m about to rip up the business card, but I only have one damn hand. So I crumple it in my fist.