“Hey, everyone. It’s morning here in Cleveland.” I hoist my phone, camera pointed at my face for an Instagram Live video. Janie films twice as many live videos as me, but I thought I should do one before the event. I smash a couple pillows against the headboard.

I’m buck-ass naked, but I stay beneath the champagne comforter. Plus, my abs are barely in frame.

I slouch on the pillow mound. More comfortable. “My cousins and I are pumped to meet some fans today at the meet-and-greet,” I tell the viewers, “and we can’t thank you all enough for buying tickets. We sold out of today’s FanCon within thirty minutes. You all are amazing. Seriously, this is going to help a lot of people.”

I was on the phone with the H.M.C. Philanthropies board this morning, and we all agreed to allocate the money raised to our College Merit programs and LGBTQ+ initiatives.

I yawn into my bicep. “Someone have any hot tea?” I smile tiredly at the viewers. Then I glance at the hotel door, but Farrow hasn’t returned. He left about an hour ago.

Hearts flutter nonstop on the right side of the Instagram Live video. Comments scroll fast, new ones pushing old out of view. 94.4k viewers and counting.

I catch a few comments:

I’ll give you tea in bed!!!

wait for me, boo <3

What kind of tea??????

DID YOU GET IN A FIGHT?!

I purposefully didn’t put on sunglasses. Bruises are in full black-and-blue glory under my eyes.

“Earl Grey tea,” I say and brush a hand through my disheveled hair. “Or green tea. I’m not that picky.”

WHAT HAPPENED?!

Are you okay? omg maximoff!!

“So some of you already noticed my face. I didn’t get into a fight. Shocker.” I lick my dry lips. “It was a total fluke accident. Got elbowed in the nose on the tour bus.”

Get better soon!!

Be safe OMG

I love u Maximoff

I wanna be those sheets so bad

“Love you all too,” I say with another sleepy smile. I prefer being open. And while I like privacy in my relationship and sex life—I’m more used to being public in every other area. Keeping up some charades isn’t worth the headache and trouble.

And telling the truth on an Instagram Live is better than a tabloid creating an elaborate fake story off a paparazzi photo.

Where’s the next tour stop?!

“We haven’t revealed where we’ll be next, but keep checking the FanCon website for updates. We could be in your city soon…” I trail off as the hotel door clicks and Farrow waltzes inside. Carrying a Wendy’s bag in one hand and a cardboard tray with two drinks in the other.

Yeah, he left to get us breakfast. My internal alarms blare in warning. I have rules. Safety measures. Protocols.

Don’t look in love.

Don’t act like I’m semi-obsessed with someone off-screen.

Don’t appear fucking interested in the six-foot-three maverick who’s about to bring me breakfast in bed.

You can’t know about Farrow Redford Keene.

“So anyway,” I say to the viewers and sit up more.

Farrow nears the bed and hands me a paper to-go cup. The exchange off-screen.

I sip the hot liquid. Earl Grey. “I have my tea—” He chucks the Wendy’s bag onto my lap after he takes a bowl and spoon and his coffee. I soak in his assured gait, the way his hands shift. I could watch him move around a room in silence for hours. Is that weird?

That’s weird, right?

Jesus, I’m so fucking weird.

Farrow climbs on the bed beside me. Still out of frame and completely aware that he can’t talk. He arches his brows at me and cocks his head.

Dammit. I’m literally ogling him.

I glance at the comments.

Who are you looking at???

Omg someone brought him food!

Watcha eating?

I can’t catch the rest. Too many comments. I’m up to 99.1k viewers. “Plan is to eat some breakfast,” I tell them, “take a shower, and I’ll be meeting some of you soon. Stay safe, everyone.” I end the Instagram Live at that and dig into the Wendy’s bag.

He smiles into his coffee.

“What?” I ask, unwrapping a chicken biscuit. We unconsciously draw closer together, side-by-side, one of my legs hooking his.

“You had fuck me eyes,” he says matter-of-factly.

I grimace and do my best to smother a smile. I want to be an asshat to him for once, but I’m struggling. “Thanks for stating the impossible.”

“It’s possible.” He sets aside his coffee and stirs his oatmeal. “I saw it.”

No way. “I wasn’t thinking about fucking you, so I couldn’t have had fuck me eyes.”

The corner of his mouth upturns. “I’m fucking with you, Maximoff.”

I blink and blink. “It’s like you want to be kicked out of the bed.” I bite into my chicken biscuit. “You get a pass for bringing me breakfast. You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you,” he tells me.

I shake my head. “I swear you get off on pissing on my sarcasm.”

He lifts his brows in a wave, but his smile slowly and surely morphs into a real frown. I realize he’s been stirring his oatmeal. Not eating. Farrow pretty much always eats hurriedly in case SFO needs him.

I straighten even more. Then I take a larger sip of hot tea. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

My stomach nosedives, and my brows cinch. “What about?” I jump to the worst conclusion. This is the end of my short-lived relationship. He woke up this morning and realized he couldn’t bear to spend another day with me.

I think about last night. I think about sex. Did I hurt him? Was I somehow selfish? Is that it? No…no, that can’t be it.

Even assured about that, something raw and cold impales my chest. Like an iron fist banging against my ribs. I solidify to stone.

Dear World, did he just bring me a “break up” breakfast? Is that even a thing? Worst regards, a broken-hearted human.

My guards skyrocket.

I mortar my face with nothingness. Pushing out the hurt. Preparing myself for anything and everything. Bones rigid, shoulders squared.

I can handle this.

Farrow scoots around to face me, his knees casually bent. He keeps a hand on my leg. I can’t tell if it’s in pity or comfort.

“Generally,” I say in a flat voice, “when someone says they need to talk, they talk.”

“I’m getting there.” He’s not looking forward to this conversation. That’s for sure.

Appetite lost, I wrap up the chicken biscuit and shove it into the Wendy’s bag. I can’t sit in tense silence. “If you want to break up, just do it—”

“Whoa.” He raises a hand, eyes narrowed. “I never even considered breaking up with you. It’s not what I want.” Farrow sweeps my blank face. “…do you want that?”

“No, no. Not at all.” I’m fucking confused. “We’re still good together.”

“Really good,” he says, his confidence fortifying those words.

“Then what?”

Farrow stretches forward to put his oatmeal on an end table. “That Instagram account that I showed you back at the lake house.” He seizes my gaze. “It turned out to be a real threat.”

I shake my head. “No, there’s no way.”

“We traced the IP address to Philly. The entire security team is treating the user as a high risk to your safety.”

I stare off, processing this fact with little to no emotion. “Who is it?” I open Instagram on my cellphone.

Farrow hangs his arm on his bent knee. “We’re still trying to identify them.” He’s quiet. “I’m not supposed to share any of this with you, but I know you’d rather be aware.”

I nod a few times. Even before we got together, he always kept me in the loop. Even at the cost of disobeying the security team. “Thanks,” I say. “You know I won’t share with anyone but Janie.” I’m not about to scare my younger cousins.

I click into the @maximoffdeadhale account.

Farrow watches me, our silence more uneasy. I thought that tension would disappear.

“You don’t need to worry,” I tell him. “I’m not afraid of stalkers.”

“I didn’t think you were.” He combs a hand through his white hair. “There’s more.”

I frown at him before looking at the account. 52 photos. Most recent one shows me lying bloodied on a neon Cleveland sign, their Photoshop skills top-notch.

My first and only thought: I’m happy it’s me and not Farrow, not Jane, not my siblings, not my family, not anyone I love.

And I think about that. How I’m staring at dozens of pics where I’m dying or already dead and the only thing I feel is gratitude. Happy that the user didn’t choose to mock-kill someone else.

Farrow adjusts his earpiece, gaze drifting like another bodyguard is speaking. When his attention returns to me, he says, “It’s likely the account belongs to someone you personally know. Someone who hates you. Someone you’ve intentionally or unintentionally pissed off, and since I’m closest to you, I need to narrow down a list.”

I think back. Who did I piss off? “Most of my fistfights with hecklers made the news, so those names are somewhere online. That should help.” I stare faraway. “I can’t think of anyone else who’d want me dead besides anonymous trolls.”

Farrow slowly edges into the next question. “What about any of your hookups?”

Blood just drains out of my head. I’m not an idiot. I rapidly connect all the pieces and fully comprehend his reservations.

He needs to search my old NDAs for possible suspects.

And by search, I mean discover the names and number of people I’ve fucked.

I start shutting down. Brick upon brick upon brick. I climb off the bed and grab a pair of boxer-briefs.

He stands. “Maximoff—”

“I’ll go through my NDAs,” I say confidently, pulling my underwear to my waist. “I’ll give you the names of anyone that I think could be capable of creating an account like that.”

His jaw tics. “That’s not how this works. I’m your bodyguard. I protect you, Maximoff. You can’t do this yourself—”

“Why not?” I shake my head, my neck stiff and hot. “I’ve met these people. You haven’t. I can filter out the ones who would never—”

“How the fuck do you know they’d never hurt you?” he snaps, not backing down. “You were only with these people for one night. How much do you even know about them?”

I cast a glare at the wall. Not much.

“Omega wants to research all of your NDAs, and I agree—”

“No,” I say out of impulse and step back from him. Two feet. Three and four. Hands up. “You don’t need to know the faces of every person I’ve ever slept with.”

Farrow laughs out a pained smile. “Man, you think this is easy for me? I don’t want to rifle in your past when I know it hurts you for me to be there.”

“Then don’t.” I gesture to his chest. “Give the job to me or if not me, then Akara—”

“I’m your fucking bodyguard.” His narrowed gaze drives deeper into me. “Not Akara. Not anyone else. And as your bodyguard and your boyfriend, I want to protect you. It’s my job to take care of your NDAs, your safety, and if you don’t let me help you, then I’m hurting you by being a worse bodyguard than what you need.”

I set my hands on my head, almost out of breath. Like I just swam a 400-meter IM without coming up for air. I just stop. I breathe, and I try my best to understand him. Because I don’t want to fuck with his job.

My mind reels, and I just say what hits me. “I want to not care about the fucking NDAs, the faces, the names,” I tell him. “I get it. If our positions were reversed, I’d hope you’d value your life over something trivial. And that you’d let me sift through papers about your one-night stands and let me help…” I cringe at the thought of anyone stepping into a sex life that I kept private from the world.

From you.

How do I open a door that I padlocked, chained, and bolted shut? “Fuck,” I breathe, glaring at the ceiling.

“It’s not trivial,” Farrow says, swiveling the knob to his radio.

“What do you mean?”

“What you feel, what’s important to you—it’s not trivial,” he clarifies and sits half on the desk, casually stuffing his hands in his black pants pockets.

I can’t unglue my feet from the middle of the room. “I’m not ashamed of my number, but if you learn about all of this—I don’t want it to affect our relationship.”

“It won’t,” he says strongly. “I promise you, Maximoff. I don’t give a flying shit about your number or who you’ve fucked. I’ve never judged anyone for being promiscuous.” He shrugs. “It’s a personal choice, and that’s your business, not mine.”

“Exactly.”

He rolls his eyes and stands off the desk. “Unless this psychotic dickhole is someone you enraged after fucking them, then it becomes my business.”

“I’m not an asshole,” I say, my chest tight. “I’d like to believe I treated all of my one-night stands with respect.”

“I know.” His voice is almost a whisper.

I crack my knuckles. “I always thought about how every hookup had to sign NDAs and jump through hoops to sleep with me. To protect me.” I look up at Farrow. “And I always thought who’s protecting them? And I knew, I fucking knew, that it was my job to protect the people I had sex with. I had to care or else it felt like my life meant more than theirs because I’m famous. And that’s just bullshit.”

Farrow stares deeply. “And now I just want to protect the fuck out of you ten times more.”

I lick my lips, knowing that I need to let go of control. I need help, and I need him. If I create a roadblock, then I’ll lose Farrow as my bodyguard. He’d probably quit his job before he failed me—and maybe he’s been struggling with that idea.

Maybe he still will. But I have to make it easier on him.

So I say, “I’m okay with that.”

Farrow closes the distance between us before I unfreeze. I hold the back of his neck, and he clasps my jaw, his hand affectionate and forceful. I hear our heavy breaths.

His brown eyes melt against my forest-green, and he says, “I’m really, really in love with you, and whatever happens, keeping you safe is my priority.”

“Same here.”

He begins to smile. “You’re going to keep me safe?”

“Yeah.” I nod heartily. “No one’s fucking with you.”

“They’re not fucking with me because I’m not the famous one,” he says. “And unfortunately for you, it’s my job to jump in front a bullet that’s aimed for your head.”

I grimace. “Thanks for reminding me.” We eye each other’s lips, a half-second from kissing, and then my phone rings. I pull away. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Farrow leaves my side to pick up his oatmeal, finally eating.

I take the call. “Hey?”

“Moffy, can you come into the gift store downstairs?” Sulli whispers softly. “Please? Fuck, this is so hard.”

I already start grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a crew-neck shirt. “I’ll be right there.”