I have no gun and no radio.

Security commandeered both while they evaluate my standing on the team. I accept change better than most people, so I naturally have trouble feeling “dread” when I meet a crossroads. But I see what I may lose. Almost like a cumbersome nostalgia, staring up at a beloved college and knowing in a minute I may never step foot on campus again.

I may lose those late-night SFO meetings at Studio 9, the lighthearted jabs over coms, being kept in the loop on private issues, the overwhelming Cobalt, Meadows, and Hale pride we all share, and this tight-knit team who willingly, wholeheartedly sacrifice their time and lives to protect three families.

I zip up my leather jacket, a December wind rustling maple trees and sweeping through the Smoky Mountains. We’re not at Camp Calloway anymore.

When the Camp-Away officially ended yesterday morning, Maximoff didn’t want to return to Philly right away. There’s only one place the families use as a sanctuary away from the media and public.

A four-story lake house hidden in the Smoky Mountains.

Fifty-miles of winding gravel and dirt reach a peaceful place the families visit for holidays and summer. The cherry roof blends into the thicket of maple trees, the leaves bright red before they fall.

I’ve been here before. Only one mile to the east, they built another house for security. Essentially, we help keep the acres and acres of land private from the public and media—and any sightseeing cars looking to drive down random gravel roads.

I descend the house’s porch stairs and hill, heading towards the lake.

Jane and Maximoff sit on the edge of the dock together. Glittering water reflects the landscape of mountains.

What’s noticeable: the distance between them. It’s just a weird sight.

Two bodies could squeeze in between theirs. And she’s bundled alone in a quilt, not sharing with him. They’re barely facing one another, but at least they’re talking.

The three of us, plus Quinn, are the only ones at the lake house. The media won’t stop speculating about their so-called “love affair” and Twitter even coined a name: #HaleCocest.

The actual Hale Co. is enduring a publicity nightmare. Since Maximoff’s dad is the CEO, Loren Hale is combatting most of the fallout.

When I reach the dock, Jane and Maximoff are in quiet contemplation. They’ve been acting tough. Saying shit like, rumors happen all the time and it’s no different and we can get through anything together.

But this is the first attack on their friendship.

Maximoff is about to stand when he sees me, but I take a seat close to him instead. Shoulder-to-shoulder, he wraps his arm around mine.

“Any news from security?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

I notice his cellphone lying on the wooden dock. Black screen. With the amount of mayhem that’s going on, the screen should be lit up with notifications.

I raise my brows at him. “You turned your phone off?” This is a first.

Jane tightens the quilt around her frame. “He just gave full autonomy to the COO of H.M.C. Philanthropies to make decisions, and then he powered off his phone.”

“The COO has control for only two days,” Maximoff clarifies. Then he speaks to his best friend. “I’m not here to work. I’m trying to be here for us, Janie—”

“We’re fine. We said we’re fine.” She grabs a folded tabloid that she bought at a gas station and absentmindedly flips through the pages. “It means nothing.”

Maximoff drops his arm off me, just to crack his knuckles. I knead his shoulders, his muscle extremely taut.

I ask, “Then what’s with the five-feet of space between you two?”

Jane scoots closer, until she’s only a foot away. “I still feel strange knowing our parents and some family members believed we were sleeping together. Not to mention the security team.” She sighs into a tiny growl and then cringes. “Nothing has made me more embarrassed in my life…”

Maximoff’s face contorts, torn to shreds. He can’t fix this by physically consoling Jane. That’s the problem.

I try to remind Jane, “Omega didn’t believe the rumor.”

Maximoff adds, “And our family believes us now.”

Jane’s big blue eyes lift to us. “Because you two kissed. Not because they trusted us, and we did nothing to lose their trust. They projected their own pasts onto us like the media always does, and they should’ve never doubted us. They shouldn’t have,” she emphasizes.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize as rare guilt gnaws at me. “It’s my fault.” For one, I could’ve tried not to sink my teeth so hard into him. For another, the lie I created that night fueled their parents’ doubt. “The evidence they used against you—that’s on me.”

Maximoff gives me a look. “Pretty sure you’re not the one who cradled her in your arms, kissed her cheek a thousand times, put your arm around her—”

“We all played a hand in this,” Jane interjects, “but let’s be terribly honest, this is the strangest situation we’ve ever been in, by far.”

No shit.

She skims the tabloid before pushing the pages to her chest. “Have you two seen the new Like Us article?”

“No,” we say together.

“Guess the title,” Jane says.

Maximoff glares out at the water. “Enraged Like Us.”

“I think you mean Strange Like Us,” I tease.

Jane nearly smiles, which makes Maximoff’s shoulder slacken, and then she flashes the tabloid.

Damaged Like Us

The photographs show Jane and Maximoff from the Camp-Away: him carrying her in a piggyback, him kissing her cheek, Jane hugging him around the waist, smiling and laughing. All twisted to fit the headline.

I steal the magazine and throw that tabloid like a Frisbee across the lake. I hear the plop.

When I look back at Maximoff, he asks me, “If those pictures had been me and you, what do you think the title would’ve been?”

I start to smile. And I tell him the first thing that comes to me. “Lovers Like Us.”