After Maximoff left the two-hour board meeting, he told me, “I’ll explain at Lucky’s Diner.”

What I assume: it can’t be outright bad news. Or else he would’ve popped a blood vessel in the car. He’s been clinging to some fragment of hope.

And I’m clinging onto something else entirely.

I’ve spent the majority of the morning hawkeyed on hands and pockets. Making a mental account of every person we’ve crossed or encountered.

Shit, I see the headstone photo clearly in each passing second.

Died: April 4^th.

Today.

“Is this peak Farrow Keene hyper-vigilance?” Maximoff asks across from me, both of us seated in a vinyl booth towards the back. He slides me a plastic menu and lowers his voice. “You haven’t even checked me out today.”

My lips want to rise, and I fix my earpiece, radio volume high. “Wolf scout, who said I ever check you out?”

“Pretty sure I didn’t imagine you staring at my fucking ass yesterday.”

I whistle. “Pretty sure you’ve fantasized about my ass before you even saw it.”

Maximoff blinks slowly. “And now my brain has short-circuited, thank you.” His sarcasm is thick, almost pulling my mouth upward. “And thanks for the ass digression.”

“You’re welcome.” I pick up the menu, but I don’t even skim the words yet.

I just canvas the bustling Philly diner: fifty paparazzi and twenty-something teens peer through the glass window, 3/5 of customers in booths and barstools crane their necks to watch the celebrity and his bodyguard, about 1/3 of those snap pictures and record videos.

Harmless.

“Order up!” a cook calls, and waitresses zip around tables, trays hoisted high. Bacon and maple syrup smells permeate. An atmosphere I typically love.

But today isn’t a typical day. The stalker is a Philly resident.

Likelihood of them being close = too high for comfort.

I focus back on Maximoff.

He jots a note on a napkin, but he shields the words with his hand.

I eye him a little bit more. His dark brown hair is windblown, his cheekbones sharp, shoulders squared, and his gray Winter Solider T-shirt hugs the ridges of his muscles.

“Wanted me at the meeting with you?” I tease and motion to his shirt choice.

Maximoff frowns, then glances at the shirt. “Jesus Christ.” He glares at the ceiling, then his forest-greens drop to mine. “It was unintentional.”

“I think you mean subconscious.” I dump out the sugar packets and reorder them in the container.

Very quietly, he contemplates, “Subconsciously I’m in love with you?” He pauses. “Sounds about right.”

“And consciously,” I add.

“No. Just subconscious.” His voice is firm.

I roll my eyes, and my small smile falls flat. Because our waitress approaches. Maximoff hasn’t even ordered yet, but the tiny brunette carries a mug of hot tea.

“Glad to see you back in town,” Ava says, usually the one who serves us when we’re at Lucky’s. She places the hot tea on a paper coaster.

“Thanks,” Maximoff says sincerely. “Happy to be back.”

I order a coffee, and we’re still deciding on food when she leaves. Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers that fiddle with the sugar packets.

I shouldn’t be smiling, not right now. But being in his company, all I want to do is grin ear-to-ear.

Damn.

It hits me again and again. How I could spend hours and hours upon hours doing absolutely nothing with Maximoff Hale. Just this.

Charlie and Oscar drove back to New York after the meeting, and for the first time in a while, there’s no full tour bus, no extra SFO guys lingering, none of his cousins are here.

It’s just us. And the paparazzi, the fans. But they’ve always been set decoration to his world. Now my world.

“Are you?” I ask him. “Happy to be back?”

Maximoff scans the retro diner. April rain starts trickling outside, and paparazzi and fans pull out umbrellas. Noises everywhere. Talking, dishes clattering, the door clings. An old man with a strong Philly lilt complains about the storm. And Maximoff smiles as two girls on bar stools wave excitedly.

He waves back and then focuses on me, but I already see the revere and fondness overtake his gorgeous features. “Yeah,” he says. “I am. This is home.”

Our attention drifts, Ava setting my coffee in front of me. “Ready to order?”

Maximoff and I exchange a look of confirmation.

Then he stacks our menus and hands them to Ava, along with the paper napkin note. I saw that, wolf scout. “I’ll get the breakfast burrito, no jalapeño.”

“Egg, bacon, cheddar bagel sandwich,” I say, “and a side of potato latke.”

Ava leaves again, and I tear open a creamer. I’m about to ask about the napkin note, but he suddenly spills the news.

“I have to cancel the tour.” He pauses. “The board is shutting it down early.”

I process this quickly. “They’re not going to reinstate you as CEO then,” I say with the tilt of my head. He’s calmer than usual. I don’t understand why.

Maximoff takes a swig of hot tea. “There was no reasoning with the board. Charlie and I came in hot, but their minds were made. No one was even pretending to care.”

“You don’t look that upset about it,” I mention, coffee mug to my mouth.

Maximoff leans back. “Oh, I’m fucking pissed. But I’m not wasting my energy on them. I have to move forward, and besides…it may not be over.”

I sip my coffee. “What does that mean?”

He cracks a knuckle and smiles briefly at a boy who calls his name. Forest-greens back on me, he says, “They were vague, but they said there might be a way for me to be reinstated as CEO. They didn’t say what yet.”

I tap my fingers against my mug, my rings clink, clink. See, I don’t like that they conveniently left out what the hell he has to do. It could be anything, and they could tell him to do anything.

“They’re in a position of power,” I remind him. He has almost no leverage.

Maximoff nods. “I know, but it’s all the hope I have. They said they’ll tell me more in the second quarter.”

At least he’s not completely shut out yet. “That’s good,” I tell him.

He dunks his tea bag a few times. “I keep thinking about how tomorrow I’m going to wake up, and I have zero phone calls to make. No emails to send. No employees, no company, and I think about what else I can do. I can volunteer at the rehab center. I can help other charities, but this thing…” He gestures around, but I know he’s referring to H.M.C. Philanthropies. “…I built this thing and it meant something to me. And now it’s gone for I don’t know how long. One day? Two months? Five years?” A beat passes. “Forever?”

I stop myself from stretching my arm across the table and grabbing his hand. We’re in public. My grip tightens on the mug. “It’s okay to feel lost when you’ve lost something.”

Maximoff rakes a hand through his hair. “Have you ever felt like this?”

I recall my past. “When my life alters outside of my control, I usually feel a sense of nostalgia, but I also like change, so…” I raise my brows at him.

He has trouble containing a smile. “Sounds like a superpower.”

I bring my coffee up. “That you don’t have.”

Maximoff growls out, but he blinks repeatedly to glare. And I’ll be honest. He’s not glaring. He’s not even scowling. He’s smiling, and I’m entrapped, unable to detach—do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

I abruptly break eye contact and survey the diner again. As soon as I look at the window, a few girls squeal, “Oh my God, it’s Farrow!”

“Is Quinn with him?!” another shrieks.

“I will die if Quinn is in there!”

“Maybe he has Quinn’s number?!”

Of course I do.

I keep scrutinizing the diner, the people, but I talk to Maximoff. “I wouldn’t have even bet ten bucks on Quinn being the most famous bodyguard.” But it happened.

Girls are obsessed with him.

“Where do you think you rank?” Maximoff asks.

I meet his serious gaze. “I’m the least famous,” I say honestly. “Because I’m taken, remember?” He declared my relationship status to a FanCon panel, which reached the internet and the world. In result, Tumblr and Twitter lost interest in me. Not that I care.

I’m still the best damned bodyguard in the whole team.

Maximoff rubs his tensed shoulder. “Being the least famous bodyguard is like coming in first place. So you won.”

I stare harder at him. “Okay…but I wouldn’t mind being the most famous out of Omega.”

Maximoff quiets, thinking, and staring off into space.

My pulse starts racing. I can’t read him.

We haven’t talked about going public with our relationship. Something that’d spike my level of fame. But it’s a real, feasible option now. Especially since Omega lasted the tour without a major mistake. We proved we’re too experienced to let notoriety ruin our careers.

And I need to know where Maximoff’s head is at. “Maximoff—”

“It’ll be worse than this. By ten billion times, and it’ll bother you,” he refutes, straightening up. “All the screaming in your ear, the articles on shit you wouldn’t even expect, and the never-ending personal questions.”

He’s convinced himself that no one in their right mind would be fine with the invasiveness, but I’ve been around him and his family enough to understand what the hell I’d be sacrificing and signing up for.

I rest my arm on the table, my fingers close to his elbow. Can’t touch him in public. Can’t comfort him. Can’t love him loudly or proudly.

“That shit won’t bother me,” I say, “and if it does, the tradeoff is worth it.”

Maximoff knows the tradeoff is him. “I’m not worth it.”

“Yeah you are.” My eyes burn. I wake up every morning, and I’m more in love with him than the day before.

And I think, can I do this for another year, two years, three? The answer isn’t just yes. I can picture us together for longer, stronger, and I’ve never seen that far ahead. Yet, I’m now in a position I’ve never been in before.

I’m sitting on the other side. Wondering what his answer is to the same question. Can he see us another year, two years, three? Longer, stronger? I’m a guy with almost no fears, but there is one change I’m terrified to face.

I’m terrified of losing him.

I just sit here and wait, my pulse drumming in my ears. I remember this is his first relationship, and I’m actually afraid to scare him off. I want to go public, but I can’t pressure him. He just needs to know where I stand.

I’m doing that now.

The rest is up to him.

Maximoff swishes his hot tea, thinking. “I can’t do this to you, Farrow.”

“I’m asking you to,” I say.

He instinctively shakes his head. “I can’t…once we cross that line, there’s no going back. Your life is forever fucked—”

“Or it’s better.” My fingers almost brush his elbow.

He sets a hand on the back of his neck. “Or it’s not.”

My heart rate is at an all-time high.

Maximoff looks resolute. “I can’t knowingly do this to you.” He’ll keep returning to this point. No matter what, and I understand. He was upfront with me at the jumpstart—about not ever wanting a public relationship, not wanting to subject his significant other to the media—and he’s too stubborn to change his mind.

It’s my fault for falling this hard for him.

“Okay.” My stomach sinks. “It’s okay.”

Maximoff crumples a napkin and eyes me more intensely than I’m eyeing him. “By your expression, I feel like I fucked up somewhere.”

My brows ratchet up. “What’s my expression?”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” I say indifferently. I run my tongue over the inside of my lip piercing, and just nod slowly. Okay, I may be nervous. But I’m not upset.

What do I say: Maximoff, you know how you were the one nervous about this being your first relationship? Yeah, well, now I’m the nervous one. Cheers.

I don’t say that.

I don’t even say that I’m disappointed. He’d feel guilty, and I don’t want to guilt him into going public. It has to be his choice.

Instead, I land on this, “I promise I’ll be happy with how things are now. All I want is you, wolf scout, and in this scenario, I have you.”

It’s the truth.

Before he can reply, waitresses start singing loudly, “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” And the whole diner joins.

I crane my neck over my shoulder. With five waitresses in tow, Ava carries my bagel sandwich, lit candles stuck in the bread.

My chest swells because I know…Maximoff did that.

With the napkin note.

I fucking love breakfast more than cake. And this gesture crashes into my body. Hard. Shit, I’m really, really in love.

I turn back to him.

Maximoff finishes singing the song with the diner, and his eyes just melt against mine. How no one else can see the affection, I don’t know. It seems overpoweringly clear to me.

I’m choked up for a second. After all that we’ve been through on tour, coming back to Philly and having my boyfriend do this is priceless.

Ava sets the birthday candle bagel in front of me.

Maximoff leans forward. Almost like he could go in for a kiss. I smile, even though he stops. And my smile stretches as he tells me, “Make a wish.”

At the moment, I only wish for two things: a public relationship and the stalker to be found.

Between the two, it’s an easy choice which to pick. There’s no real contest. No hesitation. I blow out the candles.

Hoping to catch this motherfucker. Once and for all.

* * *

“Ten, nine, eight…” Maximoff counts down to midnight on his watch. Back in his attic bedroom, I hover over his build on the mattress. Sweat built on our skin, our hair damp. We’re down to pants and boxer-briefs. My hands are planted on either side of his broad shoulders.

Fuck, I’ve never been more ready for my birthday to end—and then I tense. A sharp noise rakes the window. I sit up off Maximoff.

“Farrow.” He props himself on his elbows.

My gut says, it’s a tree branch, Farrow. Calm the fuck down. I am calm as I climb off him and the bed to check his only windowpane. I have to know for sure.

Maximoff glances at his watch. “Now it’s April 5^th. It’s over, man.”

“It’s not over until the stalker is caught,” I say and fling the curtain.

A twig scrapes the glass with another gust of wind. My shoulders slacken. Paparazzi are in sight of the old townhouse, lingering on the street curb below. I shut the curtain before they see me.

Exhaustion tries to draw me back to bed. But I rest on the edge of the windowsill. I cross my arms casually, but fuck, I wish that’d been the stalker. Then I could’ve chased and tackled that dipshit.

Before I even look up at Maximoff, my phone rings in my pocket. Caller ID: Acelighter (Tech)

Tech Team.

I put the phone to my ear. “Farrow,” I answer and listen to them update me on the stalker. I frown. “Are you sure?”

Maximoff stands, coming closer. I mouth, tech team to him. He nods, and I thank the team and hang up.

“Your ex-swimmer friend, Jason Motlic,” I explain. “Apparently, he left Philly. He’s now in San Diego.” If the stalker lives in Philly, it makes little sense why they’d leave once Maximoff just returned.

Maximoff digests this news. “He’s probably not the stalker.”

“Probably not,” I agree. Crossing off Jason means that I only have two top suspects left. Vincent Webber, the asshole one-night stand who talked shit about Maximoff on social media.

And my father.