Farrow tosses the napkin, not flinching or hesitating. Not for a fucking second. He stands and white-knuckles the edge of the table, and then inhales through his nose like he nears a peak. Holy shit.

Shirtless, his abs noticeably tighten. He bucks his hips into the table a fraction like he’s caught mid-thrust.

I flex, my muscles scorching hot.

Farrow grits down, then mock groans, “Fuuuuck.” His head lolls back; his eyes flutter like he’s experiencing mind-numbing, euphoric pleasure.

A brutal noise rumbles in his throat, struggling to break free. He narrows his gaze, eyes partially rolling back, and then suddenly, he sets them on me.

He starts smiling.

Like he caught me jacking off.

I glare. Trying not to show that I’m turned on like a damn broiler.

“You need a second?” he teases.

More than a fucking second. A solid, hard half hour. I play it cool. “To drink some water, hydrate, and maybe nap, read a book, plan my trip to the fucking moon, yeah. Give me a second.”

They all laugh.

Farrow smiles. “Always a precious smartass.”

I give him a middle finger, and he catches my hand as he returns to his seat and tells the table, “That’s how it’s done, boys.”

Donnelly and Oscar throw napkins at him, and Donnelly says, “Here, wipe yourself up.”

Farrow ignores them, still grinning at me.

Only two rounds left. One winner. We roll, and Akara makes a bad bet. He reads the napkin. “Truth, who is your celebrity crush—” His phone rings on the table.

Everyone goes quiet.

He gingerly picks up his phone and puts it to his ear, cigarette between his fingers. “What’s up? You feel alright?”

I can’t hear the other end, but Oscar mouths the word Sulli to the table.

“We did agree on that,” he says, lips lifting. He stacks a tower of dice. “Tomorrow. Bright fucking early. That’s what you said.” He smiles more. “You forgot. I know you forgot…okay, yeah…I’ll be there. Bye.” He hangs up. “That was—”

“Your celebrity crush,” Oscar says.

I go rigid. Naturally, I want to look out for Sulli. That’s my cousin who I’ve known way longer than any of these guys.

Maybe Akara can tell because he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to Oscar.”

“He doesn’t like buddy-guards,” Farrow tells me.

“Too close for comfort,” Oscar gives his reason.

Akara ignores him. “My celebrity crush is Alicia Vikander from Tomb Raider.”

“I’d bang her,” Donnelly says.

“And she wouldn’t let you,” Farrow adds.

I laugh, and Thatcher hones in on Akara. All business. “What was that about?”

“She woke up and thought she forgot to tell me that she planned to hit the hotel gym at six.” Akara searches the peanut bowl, but most are eaten. “Beckett’s coming along.”

“Cool,” Donnelly says.

Sometimes I wonder when they all sleep, but I’ve seen them nap whenever they can. Used to bizarre sleep schedules.

A malfunctioning timer beeps on my watch. I turn it off and look up at Akara. “You know I told Sulli to text Jack Highland?” I suggested that she contact Jack for interview pointers. I thought it’d help calm her nerves since Jack has experience with fans and media as an executive producer on We Are Calloway.

Akara breaks apart a peanut shell into tiny pieces. “You did?”

“Yeah,” I say, not able to read his expression. “What’s your issue with him? Pretty much everyone likes Jack.”

Akara brushes the shells off the table. “This is the first person that Sulli seems to trust enough to be friends with…and I don’t want her to get hurt.”

I nod, feeling the same. Maybe not about Jack specifically but just protecting Sulli from anyone new in her life. In my cousins’ lives. Partly, it’s why Beckett has his guards up with Farrow. We all feel the need to vet the people that come into our trust circle.

From experience, outsiders are the ones that fuck us over the most.

“We should’ve ordered food,” Akara mutters.

“Oscar has food in his hotel room,” Donnelly says.

Oscar swigs his whiskey. “If you’re talking about the cookies, they’re gone. I let the crew have the tin for two seconds, and they ate all of them.”

Everyone groans.

“Audrey’s cookies?” I’m guessing. I heard that my youngest cousin mailed homemade cookies to the hotel. Just for Oscar.

“Yeah…it’s…you know, she’s young.” He finishes off his whiskey, almost wincing. She’s twelve and putting him in a weird spot. I’m starting to think she’s going a bit overboard since he works for our families.

And he’s thirty. I have no fucking clue why she can’t crush on a kid around her age.

“I’m sorry, man.” I rub my jaw. “I can try talking to Audrey.”

“Don’t. I wouldn’t want to break the girl’s heart,” he says. “It’ll pass.”

Farrow nods. “When she’s prescribed glasses.”

Oscar chucks the peanut bowl, but it sails towards me. I grab the bowl midair before Farrow reaches over, and he glares at Oscar, shaking his head.

“Just hitting you where it hurts,” Oscar tells him. “Go for Redford’s boyfriend, and you awake the—”

“Fuck you,” Farrow says easily and hurls the bowl back like a Frisbee.

It knocks over Quinn’s glass and shatters on the floor.

“Shit,” Farrow curses.

“Party foul.” Donnelly stands and tosses down some napkins on the glass.

Akara mentions taking care of the spill and broken glass later, and we’re only one hand away from finishing the game.

Oscar and I face off with a dice-roll, and a bet—fuck.

Me.

Oscar grins and passes the baseball hat to me after my loss. “Last one, bro.”

I dig in the hat and grab a truth or dare. “Dare,” I say aloud, “read the last dirty text you sent.” A dying groan is strangled between my ribs. Before anyone else can react, two guys around my age slip into the bar and their eyes widen at me.

Spotted.

Donnelly whispers, “Under the table.”

“I’m not hiding under the table.” They already see me. It’s a lost cause.

“Maximoff Hale!” one shouts, approaching our table. He wears a Chicago Cubs T-shirt, and his friend has on a Superheroes & Scones beanie.

All the bodyguards are quietly alert, and Farrow is sitting too close to me. He knows it, and in a sly second, he slides off the stool while unwrapping a piece of gum.

And he extends a hand to them, “Watch out for the glass.” He motions to the napkins.

“Oh shit,” one guy says and steps around the broken glass. Nearing me. I stand off the stool, but I rest my forearm on the table. It’s hard to tell if he’s a fan, a guy who likes comics, or a troll.

They ask if they can shake my hand, and you know what, the strangest thing happens. My gut reaction is no. I almost never say no to a fan.

I think about how Farrow Keene lingers a foot next to me. How if I shake their hands and they throw a drink, a punch or pull a knife, my bodyguard will block their path.

And he’ll be the one doused with liquor. Hit in the face.

Or god-fucking-forbid, stabbed.

Telling Farrow to not do his job—that’s not an option. But I’m realizing that if I want to protect him, I need to step back.

Whenever I can, I need to be more careful. He can’t take a bullet for me if the gun is never loaded. And I’m not scared of what people can do to me. I’ve always been afraid of what they can do to the people I love.

And I fucking love him.

So in a resolute, unwavering moment, I tell the guys, “No, sorry. Not tonight.”

Farrow’s eyes flash to me, surprise in them.

“It’ll be super fast,” the geeky guy says.

“Sorry,” I say, not budging.

Farrow adds, “The bar is closed.”

The sportier guy points to the Jack Daniels. “Then how’d you get that?”

“We’re special,” Oscar says.

“Whiskey?” the geekier guy says with the shake of his head. He puts his hands on his S&S beanie and looks to me. “You shouldn’t be drinking, dude.”

It almost makes me smile, how much he speaks like we’re best friends. I like that I’m something for someone out there, and maybe I was for him. When he needed the idea of me, I existed.

“I know,” I tell him.

“You’re supposed to be sober,” he says, genuinely concerned.

“Still am. I promise.”

The Chicago Cubs guy sways a little like he’s been drinking, and he points at me. “Danny is right. Stay away from the booze.”

Thatcher rotates on his stool. “Maybe you two should call it a night?” His tone is like an older brother to a little sibling.

“Can we get some selfies first?” Danny asks, pushing his beanie off and fixing his auburn hair.

“Not tonight,” I tell them.

“Really?” His shoulders sag, bummed, and that’s the worst part. But weighing the safety of my boyfriend over the two-minute happiness of a fan, there’s no contest.

Farrow is going to win every damn time.

“Sorry,” I say, wishing he could see that I’m standing five feet away on purpose. Wishing that he could, maybe or somewhat, take into account that it’s pushing 4:00 a.m. and I might be tired. Or anxious or nervous or scared—because if I were Xander, I’d be all of those things.

And I don’t like thinking about my brother or sisters or cousins in these situations without me there. Right now, most of them are miles and miles away from me.

Cubs guy squints in the dim light. “Is that dice? Can we join? You betting or what?”

If I say no for a third time, I’m the dick. They’ll forever consider me a rude, standoffish celebrity. In an alternate universe where I’m single and not with Farrow, and I say yes, then my night is over. There’s no such thing as just hanging out with strangers or fans or whatever.

I have to put on a public persona like a facemask. It’s me, but not all of me. It’s not completely real.

Right when I’m about to say no, Farrow cuts in and tells them, “We’re actually done with the game.”

Cubs guy wobbles and checks over his shoulder. “Is Jane Cobalt here?”

I solidify.

The entire bar goes quiet. I wait for him to mention the rumor, but maybe he’s just asking because she’s Jane Cobalt. Or maybe no one even cares about the tabloid garbage fire anymore.

I can’t tell yet.

“Nope,” I say. “Not here.”

“But she’ll be at the meet-and-greet tomorrow?”

“That’s what you two are here for?” Farrow asks, chewing his gum.

“Hell yeah,” Danny says. “I’m a huge fan of The Fourth Degree. Gotta get my merch signed by the son of Halway Comics. I missed you at Comic-Con last year.”

I didn’t attend that one, but when I do go, I usually stop by the Halway Comics booth. My dad built the comics publishing company from the ground up before I was born.

I nod a couple times. “Jane will be at the meet-and-greet.”

“Cool, cool,” Danny says and nudges his friend’s arm.

Cubs guy takes one step forward. “Hey, do you think I could get like a private interview with her or something? I’m not shitting you when I say…that I think she might be my soul mate.”

Thatcher stands off his stool. “Don’t push your luck, kid. Security will be tight tomorrow. No private interviews or anything in quotes or asterisks.”

“What about italics?” the Cubs guy snickers.

Quinn sticks up for his client too. “No, seriously, she’s a real person. If you’re just trying to fuck with her—”

“No, no,” Danny butts in. “Sorry, my friend’s kinda drunk. He just likes Jane Cobalt. He won’t be weird, I promise.” He smiles sympathetically at me. “And that totally sucks about the tabloids. Just so you know, no one I’ve talked to at the FanCon here believes it.”

I nod, my chest rising. Not even realizing how badly I needed to hear that from a stranger. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

They spend about two more minutes telling me how they wish Loren Hale could be at the FanCon. They love my dad, and at that, they leave the bar.

Tension evaporates, and then Oscar reminds me and all of SFO, “Someone has a dare to fulfill.”

Great.

Read the last dirty text you sent. I keep an elbow on the wet tabletop. Standing near Farrow. I scroll through our text message thread with one hand. “Hold on.” It’s not like we’re apart a lot and need to text in the first place.

But have we before? Since the phone security update?

Yeah.

We have.

Farrow and the other bodyguards make small talk while I search. Quinn mops up a spill. “She’s into you,” he tells Akara. “I saw her watching you in Cleveland.”

“Who?” Oscar asks.

“Macey,” Akara says and puts his baseball hat on backwards. “Jane’s line coordinator. She’s cute.”

“But…” Farrow waves him onward.

“She’s tour crew, and I’m a lead in the security team.”

“Yeah.” Donnelly nods, smoke billowing out of his nose. “I’ve heard of that romance movie before. It’s on Lifetime.”

“Hallmark,” Farrow quips.

Akara gathers all the dice. “Not into that drama.”

I suddenly land on my recent dirty text—and my brain flat-lines, short circuits. Sputters and spins. Warning signs flash like do not pass go.

Stop while you fucking can.

Mostly, I feel like I need Farrow’s consent. This is a text about him. Us. Fuck. I rub my mouth and my eyes lift.

They’re all staring right at me.

Farrow balances his knee on the peg of a stool. At ease. I was about to ask do you care if I share this but I can already tell he doesn’t. Maybe he even remembers the text word-for-word.

Donnelly hunches forward. “High-key anticipating this.”

I take a breath, confident. No reservations left.

Instead of reading the text to them, I turn slightly. More towards Farrow. And I tell him, “I’m going to fuck you deep and hard until your legs give out.”

Farrow smiles so fucking wide, and he lifts his brows in a wave like that just happened, wolf scout.

Yeah.

That just happened. And I can’t believe I’m smiling.

“Damn,” Quinn says.

“Coulda used some emojis,” Donnelly suggests.

“Fuck,” Oscar says with a breathy whistle. “Was the promise kept, Redford?”

“Jealous?” Farrow asks, but his gaze never leaves me.