RED FLAGS ONLY

A SWEET, PEN PALS ROM-COM

Copyright © 2025 by Storm Sterling

All rights reserved.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the proper written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters are not real people. Any resemblance to real individuals is coincidental. The mention of any celebrities, brands, or media does not necessarily reflect the author’s actual feelings or ideas on those subjects.

If you are reading this book and did not purchase it from Amazon.com or receive a copy through Storm Sterling or associates of Gossamer Wings & Ink Press, please report this to the author at stormsterlingauthor@gmail.com

Thank you for respecting the hard work that goes into publishing a book.

Edited by Moonbig Editing ft. a Strange Little Squirrel

Cover Art by House of Orian

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Reader Expectations

Heat Level: This is a closed-door romcom, as mentioned in the blurb and on the cover, and implied by the fact that I, Storm Sterling, only write closed-door romcoms. This one contains kissing and, not at the same time, a shirtless man. No spice happens within these pages, unless you count the consumption of spicy chicken nuggets. If you want spice, kindly go away.

Notable Tropes: Fake dating, pen pals, forced proximity, only one bed, mistaken identity, he takes care of her when she’s sick, closed doors everywhere

Triggers: Parental loss, crimes: various and not too large, dual POV

Ending: HEA

For the Bad Boys.

May your carrot cake always come with milk.
May your sunglasses hide your funeral tears.

May your love for your mother always shine.

And may you always be a good boy at heart.

And for Mouse, the baddest boy of all.

Author’s Note

Please do not commit crimes. Please, please, do not commit crimes and then say that you thought they were cool and fine because of a Storm Sterling book. Jove is a lunatic, people. He’s bonkers. He’s nuts. Do not be like Jove. Except, you know, definitely be hot like Jove. Everyone should be hot like Jove.

A very important term you will want to know: unreliable narrator. Give it a wee google if you don’t already know it. I’d copy paste the definition for you, but… honestly I did that and the font pasted wrong and there were blue letters and black letters and underlined things and wow do I hate formatting, so I said haha, nope, and deleted that right back off of my doc. The burden of education is now resting on your shoulders. I absolve myself of it. Do with it what you will. (Please let that will be to look it up because if you read this book and think that Brianna, mail lover extraordinaire, was actually manhandling the mail, you’re dumb. Please, please, please use Google and the media literacy skills they taught you in high school.)

Another thing. Ted Yeats? Ted Yeats is never explained. He will never be explained. He is a representative of an IRL man that deserves to be put in a book and treated as he is in this one. Consider him to be your own personal villain, and all of the misfortune that falls on him your own personal revenge. You’re welcome.

And also! Take a second right now to go read the reader expectations. Those are the things beneath the big, bold font declaring “Reader Expectations” a few pages over. They’re there to help you, and to save me from any dumb emails from people wanting spice and not getting it. If you desire spice, kindly go away. Especially if you’re going to be dumb about not getting it. There’s a whole wide world of spicy novels just waiting for you. That world is not here in these pages.

Don’t be a flagging idiot,

Storm Sterling

Prologue

Go ahead, skip this. Who cares anyway.

Storm

Officially, I like the way a prologue looks in the line up of chapters to the left of my screen when I’m writing. It’s like a soft launch on a book. Dipping my toe into the water. A maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

Unofficially, I know you losers don’t read these, so I’m no longer writing them.

Except.

I want them for my line up. I want them for my wee toes.

So you get extra Storm time instead.

Lucky you!

Now, what to do with all this extra time… hmm… to bore you with Stardew Valley facts? To rank apples, from least favorite to favorite? (Cosmic Crisp, Gala) To write a poem depicting my love for Camilla Evergreen?

To leave you be so you can get on to the book, you few readers who are actually reading the prologue?

Yes, I suppose that last one.

One page over, then. Enjoy!

Chapter One

The old man probably deserved it.

Lyra

Dear Jupiter,

Oh. My. Goodness.

You’ve outdone yourself. I opened my mailbox, saw the shimmery, shiny pink, and nearly got run over by Old Man Norman in my excitement. Note to self: move out of the road before bouncing with glee. Ole’ Normy almost had a heart attack. I know, because he stopped the car in the middle of the road to get out and lecture me on proper safety precautions. Then we both had to jump into my yard to avoid Mrs. Jokic cosplaying Lightning McQueen. Norman did not like that. Left mid-yelling at me so that he could chase after her and “give her a piece of my mind!” Not gonna lie, I considered following him. Can you imagine anyone giving Mrs. Jokic a piece of their mind? I’d bet my entire life savings – all three dollars of it – that she ate him for lunch.

Speaking of lunch, you’d be so proud of me!! I ate not one, not two, but THREE Taco Bell burritos today. At an almost appropriate lunch time! I mean, okay, sure. It was 3:00 PM. And, yeah, I didn’t have any food in the house, so I had to bribe the probably-not-on-drugs teenager next door with a taco to get him to drive to pick it up for me because I couldn’t quite afford the delivery fees. But. I ate lunch! Just like you’re always telling me to do! I will take my praises now, please. You can serve them on a pretty pink platter decorated like your letter to me. Lots of shimmer, lace, and butterflies requested. Hearts mandatory.

Really, though. I can’t stop looking at my letter. I’m obsessed. I’m going to frame it. The shoebox on my desk is unworthy of this beauty. Not that it’s ever really been worthy of any of the beauties you’ve sent me.

Hm.

Maybe I should frame them all…

No, no. You’re right. I don’t have the wall space. What a silly thought.

I’ll just frame my very, very favorites!

How long did my newest favorite take you? All these sequins… My goodness, Jupie, it looks like you glued them on individually. This is insanity.

Oop. Ah. Ugh.

Chrissy is calling.

I guess I better answer…

“Hello,” I greet, shoving my phone between my face and my shoulder so that I can work on the sticker pocket for Jupiter’s letter, even if I can’t keep writing. I’m going to get a crick in my neck, I know, but Chrissy hates being put on speaker phone, and I hate making Chrissy upset. It’s never worth it.

Unfortunately, a lot of things make Chrissy upset, and they aren’t all avoidable.

“Jove Rogue has lost his mind!” she screeches.

I wince, squeezing the phone tight to my head through the piercing noise even though I’d really rather not. Chrissy doesn’t like the clattering sound it makes when I drop it, though, and I know from experience that whatever headache this causes is nothing compared to what she’ll give me if she has to hear the clunk of phone on floor.

“Did Jove ever have possession of his mind?” I ask when the ringing in my ears stops.

As far as I’m aware, Jove Rogue is a maniac masquerading as a maniac. He’s been slashing tires and setting buildings on fire since the third grade. Why she thinks that now is when his mind has gone, I have not one single clue.

“Do you know that he went to Grandpa Ferris’ house, hopped into his tractor, and used it to flip grandpa’s car in the driveway? It’s completely totaled!”

My brows furrow as I contemplate that, keeping half of my focus on the task at hand.

I lay double-sided tape down on a large square of brown cardstock, then use it to press a smaller, forest-themed piece of scrapbook paper onto it, making an adorable little pouch to fill with stickers for Jupiter.

“Why would Jove do that?” I ask.

“He’s cracked, that’s why!” Chrissy all but screams. “Grandpa probably stole his parking spot or something three years ago and this is some sick form of revenge.”

“More likely that your grandpa stole his brother’s parking spot,” I point out, reaching for my big color-coded file folder full of stickers.

Jove’s maniac is, as far as I’ve ever been able to tell, mostly confined to defending his brother – whether that defense is appropriate given the “offense” or not. Jove’s justice-o-meter is broken, and the rest of us pay the price for it.

Thankfully, I’ve never personally had to pay his price, likely because I avoid the Rogue brothers like the plague – a task that’s fairly easy considering I so rarely leave my house to go any further than the mailbox. Even my job as owner of Bandera, West Virginia’s best, and only, plant nursery only requires me to venture as far as my backyard. The closest I ever get to a Rogue brother is when I accidentally run into Mars at Taco Bell, and I may or may not have taken to hiding behind the soda machine if I see his car pull into the parking lot.

The more distance between me and a Rogue brother, the better.

“Who cares whose parking spot he stole?” Chrissy curses in my ear. “He should be in jail!”

Well. Yes, probably. But who’s going to put him there?

No one has any evidence that he’s ever done anything illegal, except for that one time when he set the courthouse on fire, but he was a kid when that happened and they don’t usually give kids life in prison for things like that… I don’t think. They didn’t give him life in prison, at any rate.

“Is your grandpa’s insurance going to cover the car?” I ask.

My thumb abandons its job of flipping through stickers to find the perfect ones for my beloved pen pal and moves toward my mouth instead. I halt its progress just before the nail makes its way between my teeth. Not today, thumb. I’m breaking that habit. With purpose, I force it back to the sticker folder.

“Of course it’s not going to cover the car!” she snaps again. “It was 40 years old and hadn't run in 30. That’s not the point, Lyra.”

Um. Except. Isn’t it though?

“So Jove junked your grandpa’s junker?” I ask, pulling out a harp sticker and putting it in the to-send pile, where it joins a planet Jupiter, a monarch butterfly, and a rosy maple moth. “That’s not so bad. Last week he slashed Muffy Goodman’s tires and stole her spare. She was late to work, and I heard she got fired because of it. I guess it wasn’t the first time she’d been late.” I mean, sure, Muffy kind of sucks. She took the last chocolate cake from the grocery store bakery last month – out of my shopping cart, where it had been for the entire 20 minutes I’d been in the store. Still. Ruining an already useless car seems pretty tame in comparison to costing someone their job, no matter how sucky that person is, if you ask me.

Which, of course, Chrissy didn’t.

“Muffy Goodman deserved what she got,” Chrissy hisses. “My grandpa didn’t.”

Ah.

Right.

I remember that not only did she not ask my opinion, but she’s also got a long-standing arch nemesis thing going on with Muffy. Something about… something? I can’t recall. Chrissy has a long-standing arch nemesis thing going on with just about half of Bandera.

“Of course he didn’t deserve that,” I try to defuse. “I just meant-”

“You just meant that you’d rather defend a complete lunatic than be on my side,” she interrupts, scoffing. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re always on everyone’s team but mine.”

I’m…

I’m always… What now?

“Chrissy,” I try again. “I didn’t-”

“And you know what, Lyra,” she spits my name like a curse. “I don’t have to put up with this, you know? I’m better than this. I’m better than you with your holier than thou attitude and the way you argue with every single thing I say and your seriously ugly outfits. Do you know you dress like a forest witch’s toddler? It really matches your immature, selfish, annoying personality.”

Uh.

Um.

Wow.

Okay.

Wow.

I swallow, blinking hard at my hand, which hovers over an ever-growing pile of stickers on my desk.

I hate that her words slice me, bringing up a myriad of emotions better kept under the surface, covered with a plastic liner, a layer of mulch, and a very pretty plant. Perhaps a tulip.

Chrissy’s hard breathing pushes through the phone for several agonizing seconds while I attempt to shove the horrible, icky, gross gross gross feelings breaking through the garden bed of my brain way back down into the depths of me, next to all of my other repressed emotions. Self-hatred can stay in the box where it belongs, far below the roots of lovelier things, thank you very much. Inadequacies and that I’ve-never-been-good-or-right-and-I-never-will-be feeling can stay there too.

Goodbye, feelings, see you never.

“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” Chrissy cuts into my valiant attempts at feeling absolutely nothing at all in the wake of feeling absolutely way too much.

Do I have anything to say for myself?

Huh.

“Not really,” I mutter.

I’m not one to make excuses.

I try my best to be kind and helpful and a good friend, but she’s probably not wrong. At my core, I am selfish. It’s no surprise that Chrissy would see that and point it out, being as close to me as she is. It’s not even really a surprise that she’d call me holier than thou, because what is self-righteousness if not the root of selfishness? At its core, selfishness is simply the belief that you deserve exactly what you want and exactly as much attention as you crave because you are better and more worthy of those things.

My mother always called me too big for my britches. She ingrained in me a full understanding of just how selfish I really am, pointing out transgressions and correcting them as she saw fit until I learned how to work harder at kindness and be more considerate of those around me. I’m not raising no selfish witch, she always said. Except the word she used wasn’t exactly appropriate for children.

Chrissy scoffs, and I pull my legs up onto my chair with me, wrapping my arms around them, being careful to keep the phone tucked against my ear through the movement.

“Of course you don’t,” she scorns. “An innocent person would defend themselves, but you can’t do that because I’m right.”

My desk goes blurry in front of me as I struggle to bury the unpleasant things in my mind.

I squeeze my legs tighter.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, wishing she’d hang up. Mom would leave when I was in Big Trouble. It’s the polite thing to do. Let me sit and think about what I’ve done as I piece my garden back together.

“Sorry,” she echoes. “You’re sorry? Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

Yes, I know my own sins quite intimately, if perhaps I don’t know which specific instances have led to this final straw for her.

Still, I don’t answer.

She scoffs again. “Don’t come to me when you figure it out.”

And then she’s gone.

Like they always are when they figure out what I’m really like.

Selfish. Self-righteous. Unkind. Inconsiderate.

The opposite of good soup, me.

I let my phone fall, ignoring the would-infuriate-Chrissy thump it makes as it hits the plastic mat beneath my ergonomic desk chair. Ergonomic because I felt I deserved it. Felt my back and shoulders and neck should have top of what my bank account could afford for me to sit in while I write my silly little letters to Jupiter.

As if I have ever deserved anything good. Selfish people do not deserve good things. I know this. My mother taught me well.

But stupid stupid stupid, I always forget. And what happens when a selfish person forgets to not be selfish?

People notice, and they hate her for it. Hate her so much that she ends up sitting in her perfectly peach ergonomic desk chair hugging herself because her only in-real-life friend has just ended their friendship and now all she has for companionship is a semi-anonymous pen pal who is sure to realize her horribleness any day now. Then she will, truly, be all alone.

My garden is full of thorns and thistles, and no amount of weed killer is cleaning it up.

I sniff, dragging my eyes across my knees to dry my tears on my forest-witch’s-toddler-daughter flowy green skirt. I’m probably getting mascara all over the butterfly pattern, ruining it forever.

Good.

It’s my favorite skirt, and I deserve a consequence right about now. Consequences breed correction. The next time I want to wear this skirt, I’ll see the makeup stains and remember that, actually, it’s no longer available to me because I was a horrible friend, and horrible friends don’t deserve to be able to wear their favorite skirt.

I should buy a new chair while I’m at it – something wooden from 1988 with wheels that stick and a serious lack of lumbar support. Maybe it’ll have a divet meant to fit my bottom that will dig into my tailbone and cause irreparable damage to my spine. It’s only exactly what I deserve: chair induced scoliosis.

I groan, tipping sideways to lean over my armrest and wiggle my fingers at my phone. I need to see the time so I know how much longer to allot this pity party.

After a fair bit of stretching, grumbling, and nearly toppling out of my chair, I manage to pinch the corner of the phone and bring it up to my tear-soaked face. 3:43 PM. Excellent. That’s 17 whole minutes of pity party left for me.

17 minutes of sniffling and whimpering and generally feeling sorry for myself.

My mother would be disgusted.

I’m disgusted.

The worst part is knowing that she’s right. I try my hardest, but I’m still not able to just. Be better.

If I were a good person, it wouldn’t be so… so…

So hard.

3:48 PM.

Good people do not struggle this much to be good. There’s no way. There has to be something in me that’s so intrinsically not good that makes it impossible for me – that makes it so that people can tell just looking at me that I’m bad. Something that tips them off. Something that, try as I might, I can’t ever pinpoint to eradicate from my being.

It’s probably the fact that I eat tomatoes like apples. Or the way that I never shampoo twice, even though I know I’m supposed to. Or maybe it’s something more constant – the way I walk or the way I talk or the way I breathe.

3:51 PM.

Less than 10 minutes.

Less than 10 minutes to pull myself together and stop feeling sorry for myself. Crying about it isn’t going to fix anything. Nobody became a better person by crying.

If you don’t stop cryin’, I’ll give you somethin’ ta cry about, and then we’ll both be bad people. Is that what you want? You want your momma to be a bad person?

I shake my head, probably flinging snot and tears all over my desk. “Stop that,” I whisper. “Momma isn’t here. You’re just making yourself feel worse.”

Yeah, well, acknowledging a truth doesn’t make it go away, does it?

Seriously, Lyra, stop throwin’ a fit or I’ll–

4:00 PM.

I sniff, grab a tissue – or twelve – from the box on my desk, and dry my face off, avoiding my reflection in the mirror above the dresser to my right. No, thank you, I would not like to see the evidence of my incredible stupidity and weakness. Instead, I toss my used tissues in the big trash can under my desk, not to be confused with the tiny dumpster I use for small paper scraps on top of the desk, and force my focus back to my letter to Jupiter.

Morale.

Sweet, sweet morale, waiting for me to come back to it.

I sniffle.

Yes, please.

Pulling the mess of cardstock, stickers, and washi tape closer to me, I ignore the pounding in my head and the burning in my sinuses.

No time for a breakdown, Lyra. You’ve got a letter to finish.

Chapter Two

Someone get the man a chill pill.

Jove

I scowl at Brianna Single, the post office’s most dedicated worker, and wonder exactly how illegal it is to vandalize an official mail truck. Then I wonder exactly how much I care about how illegal it is to vandalize an official mail truck.

“I mean, he works in an office building,” she rambles, waving a forest-green envelope around in the air.

My eyes lock on that envelope.

“It’s despicable! Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous thing?” she huffs, carelessly tossing the letter into a postal box full of ugly white envelopes addressed to Rouge, one name, because when you’re famous, you get to go by one name – even if you’re actually two people. And you pick a name that’s barely different from your last name because your lifelong pen pal and best friend gave it to you as a nickname, and why wouldn’t you want to be reminded of her sweetness every time you sit down to work? As an author, you can pretty much do whatever you want.

Apparently, as a postal worker, Brianna can do whatever she wants too. Including not giving me my mail.

“And then he has the nerve to act like he’s doing well?” She scoffs. “Can you believe that? Doing well! As if!”

“If you’ve damaged that green letter, I’m going to be unhappy,” I warn her, eyes narrowed at her hand as it shoves the overflowing pile of mail down into the box.

Her hand lifts from its offensive position on my letter, moving to rest on her chest, directly over her heart. “You wound me, sir! I would never disrespect the post in such a manner!”

Uh huh. Sure she wouldn’t. “Can I have my mail?” I ask.

She sniffs. “You’re rather cranky today.”

I’m not any more cranky than any other day. She’s just mad I insulted her esteemed profession, and she thinks cranky is the worst insult you could give to a person. She’s like that elf from that Christmas movie. Not the one with mail… the other one. With the grown man traipsing about New York City like it’s a playground.

I squint at her.

Yeah, she definitely gives frolicking-around-the-big-city-in-a-ridiculous-costume-spreading-“cheer” energy. Talk about ridiculous.

“Are you going to give me the mail or not?” I grunt, eying the not-quite-opaque white box holding more letters than I care to go through and one which I very much would like to be in possession of approximately yesterday. Mars can have the rest to do with as he likes. I vote for burning them, personally, but something about reader relations dictates we don’t. A pity, as I do so love a little arson to end my day.

She huffs, puffing a stray bit of honey-blonde hair out of her face. I’d like to take that strand of honey and pull until she gives me my forest-green letter like she’s supposed to.

“Yes, yes, I just need you to sign. You know, like you have to every time, Mr. Impatient.”

Producing a growl reminiscent of the male lead in my brother’s and my last Rouge novel, I snatch up the plastic pen and scribble what could maybe pass as letters onto the electric pad on the counter. “There,” I grumble. “Now give me my mail.”

She hums, inspecting my signature. You know. Just in case I’m not me.

“I’ve come here three times a week every week since the fourth grade,” I comment, eying the distance between me and my box. I have long arms. I could probably just…

“You can never be too cautious these days,” she chirps. “There are scallywags everywhere!”

Scally…

Is my eye twitching? I think my eye is twitching.

Her truck is not making it through this week.

“Here’s your mail, sir! Come again!” She grins, finally finally finally placing the box on the counter and sliding it toward me. I snatch it before she changes her puny little mind.

“Regrettably, I will,” I say in farewell before thoroughly enjoying the stomp of my boots on the tile as I head for the door. No sweeter sound have I ever heard than the sound of my feet taking me away from Brianna Single’s irritating, mail hostage taking presence.

Approaching my truck, which Mars calls my attempt at cosplaying the poor, I settle the box on the floor in front of the passenger seat and pluck my precious green letter out to enjoy the drive home on my lap. No dirty, candy-bar-wrapper-littered floors for this one. I’d put it on a velvet pillow if I had one.

Hmm.

I pull out my phone, tapping out a reminder to buy a velvet pillow – a peach one, if I can find it, Lyra’s favorite color.

It takes roughly 10 minutes to get to my house from the post office, five of which are spent on a pit stop to let the air out of Ted Yeats’ tires.

He knows what he did.

When I walk in the door of the small house I share with my brother, Mars greets me from the couch where he lounges, head half-hanging off the side and leg tossed up over the back cushions as he flips through movie options, green eyes several shades lighter than my own languid with boredom. “Hey, babe. I ordered pizza for dinner. And I made a carrot cake.”

I hum my approval. I love carrot cake. It goes great with milk. And fresh letters from Lyra.

Speaking of fresh letters from Lyra…

I drop the box of fan mail on the dining room table as I pass it, ready and waiting for Mars to sift through later, then gently pull the adorably green envelope out of the chest pocket of my coat. It’s warm from my body heat and Lyra’s love for me.

I get two steps toward my bedroom before Mars speaks, stopping me dead next to his hamster, Ginger’s, enclosure. “Before you lose yourself to stickers, midline markers, and wax seals, it’s meeting day.”

I frown. It is very distinctly not meeting day. “It’s Friday,” I tell my clearly amnesiad brother. “Meeting day is four days from now.”

Ginger squeaks ominously beside me as her father rolls off the couch, slinking upright with a quickness that puts me on edge. What, pray tell, is my little brother doing?

I eye him warily as he approaches, jabbering nonsense, “Don’t you just love when days cosplay as other days? Sure, it looks like a Friday, but there’s Tuesday energy here. It crawled up on us… since someone has been mysteriously absent for the past two Tuesdays.” A spark of dastardly something sparks in his eyes as he reaches me, lifting long-fingered hands to squish my pouting face. “Have a seat, Jovey. It won’t be too painful.”

Yeah, says him. He’s not the one who can’t write.

My shoulders slump, and I stick my tongue out to lick his fingers.

He, unfortunately, does not remove them from my face, instead choosing to wiggle me back and forth with them like he’s practicing for being someone’s great-aunt.

I huff, then raise one quick hand to flutter my fingers against his side. He yelps, jumping away from me with much the same speed as he approached and startling Ginger into her substrate to hide.

Heh.

I smirk. “What were you saying?”

Green eyes glare, then soften. “Seriously, what’s going on? Is this new project not working?”

I sigh, fiddling with Lyra’s letter in my hands and avoiding eye contact. Perhaps if I watch the clouds float away in the sky outside the window of our modest home, my problems will float away with them.

Shocking no one, this does not work.

“Jupiter?” Mars asks, and my jaw clenches.

He’s just so caring. Loving. Wonderful. He picks up all my slack, of which there is much, and then more, taking on the emotional burden that is me. I might be the oldest, but Mars has always been the one taking care of me. Picking up after me. Fixing my mistakes and filling in the holes of inadequacy I leave behind, in life and in our work.

After our mom died, Dad became a shell of a man, barely able to feed himself, let alone us. I wasn’t much better. Mars though? He took care of us, even through his hurt and his grief. He was barely six, feeding us PB&Js and making sure Dad got off to work on time so we’d have money for more.

Then when we got older, it was Mars who suggested we start writing so that we didn’t have to watch Dad suffer through eight hour work days when all he really wanted was to spend his days visiting mom at the graveyard.

We couldn’t get a job in town for… surely no reason at all, but we could write, and we could do it well. Even as teenagers we were capable of producing books that were hitting bestseller status within weeks of launch. We did research, figured out what tropes to hit and how to hit them, how to market, and lucked out early with an amazing cover artist. Frank, bless her, made covers for us that pulled heavy for our marketing early on when we couldn’t afford to run ads or do much more than post about the books and hope they sold.

We love Frank.

Being Rouge – award-winning author and mysterious celebrity figure in the world of book publishing – wouldn’t have been possible without her. And it definitely wouldn’t have been possible without Mars, the ultimate mastermind behind this operation.

I might write the first drafts, but he’s the one who puts all of the heart and soul into them. He handles our developmental editing – the bit where you fix consistency and make the story a cohesive thing. I just throw words onto pages and hope to make something salvageable for him to do his magic, adding spicy scenes and romance and character backstories that I am simply not capable of creating on my own.

Wasn’t capable of creating on my own, I should say. I’m overcoming that roadblock. Sort of. If overcoming means staring at my blank document willing something frilly to pour forth from my fingertips.

It’s a work in progress. The goal: to lessen the load on Mars when he gets this inevitable train wreck. Train wreck being a step up from the plane crashes I normally pass on to him.

Do I really want to tell Mars about this plan, though?

No. I do not.

I know my brother. He’ll tell me it’s fine, not to worry, and that he can continue to do what he’s always done, which is basically everything. I write poorly done first drafts. Mars does everything else, or delegates what we can pay someone else to do better. I haven’t logged on to our social media accounts… ever. I have logged on to them never.

The least I could do is give him a more polished draft.

The problem?

We write romance – spicy dark romance, to be exact – and I haven’t the first clue about the subject. Dark I can do. Darkness seeps from my pores, finding its way onto the page with such ease it’s like breathing. It’s the love and goo and kissing that aren’t so easy.

I frown, meeting Mars’ gaze beneath his thick, furrowed brows.

My brother, a specialist of all things romance and intimacy.

Maybe… maybe he can tell me how he does it. I’ve been struggling for weeks trying to figure it out on my own when I have an expert right in front of me.

I’m not stupid. I’m just an idiot.

“Mars…” I hesitate. “Can you teach me how to fall in love?”

Chapter Three

WTF

Jove

“Teach you how to fall in love?” Mars echoes, a singular eyebrow creeping up on his forehead.

I nod. “Yes. Teach me how to fall in love.”

His stare penetrates, clover green, and… judgy. “This isn’t Alabama, babe, and you already know my heart belongs to our cold hard cash.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” I sigh. “It’s just… Okay, I’m writing this book, right?”

“I have perhaps heard tales of this book, yes. It’s the mystery book shrouded in mystery, which you won’t tell me anything about because it is mysterious.” A humored tilt lifts his lips. “Not that I’m curious, or anything. And not that our dear, sweet editor will be curious when I’m supposed to book her for it. Or anything.”

I fall into one of the sturdy wooden chairs surrounding the table and groan. “Sit down.” I gesture to his usual seat. “I’ll tell you about it.”

“Well, will wonders never cease?” He sits, draws out a deck of cards, and begins aimlessly shuffling them, which basically means I have one hundred percent of his attention.

“The book itself isn’t the problem. It’s another holiday romcom, because I figure that we’ve already done one romantic holiday this year, we might as well do the most romantic holiday, too, you know? Ride the wave of whatever success the Valentine book gets. And I thought if I chose something inherently romantic but maybe not so overdone as Valentine’s Day, then it would help me get into some sort of romance-centered flow state wherein I am able to write some of the stuff I normally hoist off on you. The ooey gooey bits. The romance portion of the romance books we’re trying to sell.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “The problem is that it’s just not working. I haven’t got the first clue about how to create chemistry between two people or make them fall in love. He sees her and thinks, ‘I would like to stab her with this flag handle.’ She sees him and ponders how many red flags it would take to create a suitable gag for him. There is no love, only animosity, and I have no idea how to get them past it and into fuzzier feelings. If you hate someone, you hate them. That’s that. You get your revenge and you move on until they do something that necessitates another revenge.”

I lean forward, unashamed in my desperation. “How do I make them fall in love, Mars? How do I take them from enemies into lovers in a way that feels genuine and the readers will enjoy?”

“Generally, in our genre, the sexual tension is what overcomes the whole enemies deal. They hate each other, but each other is just so hot. Hard to hate a hottie. Even when they’ve committed atrocities beyond reasonable belief. Romance, as a genre, isn’t realistic at all. You sneak in an emotional connection one time, and – suddenly – the expectation shifts to love.” His cards fly between his hands. “Heck, our readers root for side characters that make eye contact one time with a desperation that results in hate mail when we don’t write their stories. You just have moments and then make them momentier as you proceed through the book.” Cards stop moving. Mars pauses. His eyes find mine. “Wait. I’m sorry. Did you say we’re going from Valentine’s Day to Flag Day in a manner that suggests a natural, and even exponential, romantic growth between the two?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “I read about it online. Flag Day’s the most romantic holiday there is. All that fabric, waving in the wind. I’m not a girlie, so I can’t explain the intricacies of how it appeals to them, but I trust my sources. And my sources confirm: the girlies love Flag Day.”

Mars does not return to shuffling his cards. “Jovey… what the flag?”

I blink, green eyes wide as they meet his incredulous ones. “What the… flag?” I ask.

His gaze holds mine, then skims upward. Thoughts flit between his eyes, calculations devolving into solutions. Once the moment dissolves, he’s shuffling again. “Okay. Right. Yes. Flag Day. I can see that, especially when I remember I’m also not a girlie. The girlies have spoken, and who am I to challenge them? Unworthy. I can, however, challenge you. Because it seems like you’re trying to plunge me into endless ages of boredom by stealing my job.”

“I’m not trying to steal your job,” I reply, rubbing a hand down my face. “But I make it unduly difficult when I could, with a little effort, make it easier on you. You do so much, Mars. So unbelievably much. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair, and I really, really want it to be right and fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war, babe. You handle the parts that are hard for me. I handle the parts that are hard for you. We could argue about who gives more or less, but in the end it doesn’t matter. We’re giving, because we love each other, and this is how we take care of each other.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then let me take care of you how I feel I need to, if it’s all the same.”

He’s staring at me again. With those scheming eyes. Once they close, he sighs, and smiles, and stands. “If torturing yourself makes you happy, far be it from me to stop you. I’ll just give up something else so it all stays balanced in my brain.”

I frown, not loving the idea of that. “What are you giving up now?”

Flicking the ace of hearts out between his fingers, Mars sets it before me, rustles my hair, and says, “Control.”

…know you don’t like Chrissy, so you’ll be thrilled to hear that after this letter, you’ll no longer have to hear – read? – about her. She’s finally realized, as I’m sure you will eventually, that I actually do quite suck as a person. So. That’s what that is.

Sorry for the wet spots on this letter. They’re on account of my tears, you see, because even knowing that I deserve this, it still hurts. Feelings are pesky like that, you know?

Unrelated, surely… I hope you don’t feel like I’m trapping you in this friendship. I hope you know that you don’t have to keep writing me if you don’t want to. I’d never want to obligate you into doing something you don’t want. I love you far too much for that. I’d much rather you be happy. Even if that happiness is without me. I don’t want to ever make you feel stuck.

I’m sorry for the short letter. I’ll add some extra goodies to make up for it – I found a whole section of comma butterflies at the craft store last time I was there. The owner, Margaret, said she ordered them special for someone, but I convinced her to let me buy them all. Well, bribed her, more like. I paid triple what she was asking. Worth it, though. So worth it, especially if you love them as much as I do.

Love you as big as Lester Halloway’s cat,

Lyra ♥

I’d like to throw Lester Halloway’s enormously fat cat at Chrissy’s stupid, ugly head. Right after I shake some sense into my sweet, adorable, lovely little idiot of a friend.

I forgo my usual letter-making process – a process which involves creating a multi-pocketed flipbook covered in stickers and scrapbook-esque other decorations to hold all of the letters, stickers, papers, and random other bits I’ve collected to send to her – and head straight to my stationery drawer to pull out a pale peach sheet of paper to write my response.

Typically, the letter is the very last thing I do before sealing and sending off my correspondence to Lyra.

Typically, Lyra isn’t implying that I’d be happier without her in my life.

Without prepping the paper – not a sticker or ripped piece of ephemera to be found – I put pen to paper.

My dearest Lyra, the music of my soul, the beating of my heart,

What. The. Flag?

Chapter Four

Small town run-ins! How on trope of me.

Jove

Lyra’s here.

It’s only been a day since I replied to her letter, chastising her for suggesting that friendship with her is anything but glorious and checking in on her mental state after Chrissy The Moron stomped all over her already trampled self-worth. I couldn’t sleep last night, lying in bed wondering if Lyra was okay – if she was sleeping, or if instead she was lying in her own bed, wetting her pillow with the same sort of tears that wet her letter. Wondering if she really believes that I’d ever let go of our friendship, a friendship that means so much to me that I’ve spent years getting tattoos to commemorate my favorite parts of her, inking her into my skin the same way she’s inked herself into my heart through two decades of correspondence.

Our friendship started in third grade as part of a school assignment to write letters semi-anonymously as pen pals to kids in other third grade classes in the county. We were assigned to each other randomly and instructed to introduce ourselves in order to practice writing, reading, social skills, and the art of letter writing, which our teachers assured us would be a life-long needed skill for everyone.

Social media, clearly, was not yet a Thing.

At nine, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of forced friendship. I had Mars. What more could I need? Still, I loved to write, so I wrote the letter, handed it in to my teacher, and hoped my pen pal didn’t bore me to tears through the minimum ten required letters to get a decent enough grade to pass the class.

Lyra did not bore me.

Her first letter arrived packed full of butterfly stickers, character shaped erasers, and the skinniest chocolate bar I’ve ever seen. She wrote about her favorite butterflies – commas – and her favorite plants – ferns – and how she didn’t have a lot of friends, but thought she could make a good one if she really put her mind to it. She told me that she didn’t have any siblings and that she was jealous of me because I had Mars. No one had ever been jealous of me before.

It made me sad for her. I’d never been sad for anyone not directly related to me before either.

I reread her initial letter over and over again the week after I got it, nibbling at my quarter of the chocolate bar as I did. I’d given Mars the bulk of it, and he was in seven-year-old bliss – all thanks to sweet, lonely little Lyra.

I wrote her back, accepting her offer of friendship and sending her the only stickers I could get my hands on: smiley face ones from the Jumbo Mart and a couple of cartoon princess ones Mars had stashed away, which he insisted were a fair trade for the chocolate.

Twenty years later, our snail mail goods have gotten slightly more advanced and our letters a whole lot more familiar. Instead of grocery store freebies, I special order stickers and notepads and the like to XB Crafts, our local craft store. Special orders that she, on more than one occasion, has bribed Margaret, the owner, into selling to her before I can go pick them up. I’ve never been able to tell her that I’m the one ordering them. Not when she finds so much joy in fleecing someone out of their goods. It’s just too cute. She’s too cute.

And she’s my best friend outside of Mars. But, then, he’s my brother, so that’s an entirely different level of friendship. Mars is a part of me, sharing in my blood. Lyra is the music in my soul, a sweet melody of love threading through the cells I share with my brother. No less vital, no less loved, but very much different.

Vital, loved, different, and standing ten feet in front of me, contemplating lengths of rope in Brotherhood Hardware mid-morning on a Saturday, when the store is practically dead except for the two of us. And Oliver, who works the counter on the other side of the store. When I walked in he was sitting down with his feet up next to the cash register chewing on a pen and fiddling with his nicotine patch while he worked his way through a sudoku book. He didn’t even glance up when the bell above the door rang. Attentive worker, he is not. Which might not be such a bad thing…

Except.

Lyra and I have never spoken in real life.

At first, when we were kids, it was a combination of nerves and inaccessibility. She lived across the county from me, and I was terrified she couldn’t live up to her letters in person. I’d come to rely on them as a source of comfort and peace, particularly at times when I missed my mom and needed a spot of brightness in my life. I didn’t want to meet her and find that she was actually like every other girl I knew – loud, annoying, and seriously needing a lesson in manners.

Later, when we graduated from our separate elementaries and assimilated into the same middle school, I quickly learned that Lyra was not like the other girls I knew. Or, more likely, she was exactly like the other girls I knew, but my boy vision made the other girls out to be all things stupid and icky. Presumably, already being friends with Lyra gave her special boy vision immunity.

Not that it mattered, because she avoided me like the plague. All of middle school and through high school, if we even so much as made eye contact, she’d panic, looking away and pretending she hadn’t seen me while a blush stole over her features. It was adorable, in a wow-she-really-doesn’t-want-to-be-seen-with-me kind of way. I don’t hold it against her.

I was, and still am, considered to be somewhat of a miscreant by the townies. Miscreant being the nicest thing I’ve been called, actually. Not to my face, of course, but I’m not deaf, and Harriet at the gas station does not whisper as quietly as she thinks she does.

I know my reputation here, though, and I don’t regret it. If people don’t want to deal with my brand of justice, then they shouldn’t do things that invoke it. It’s the easiest thing in the world. Don’t be an idiot, and your tires won’t get slashed.

Lyra, in comparison, is a good, upstanding citizen who does things like pay her taxes on time and put money in the charity jar at the grocery store checkout every single time even though we all know that the store manager takes that money and uses it for her hair appointments, not to save little cancer children. And still, Lyra donates. Just in case, she says.

Her heart is pure. Goodness. Compassion. So full of love and kindness, it could make the Grinch reconsider his stance on life – pre heart growth scene. She could’ve cut that movie down to about three minutes. Cindy Lou Who could never.

Which is to say, it makes perfect sense that Lyra would want to stay away from me in public. It’s hard to be an angel on Earth when everyone avoids you for hanging out with the devil. I don’t take it personally. I get a side of her that no one else does – the real side of her. I get to read pages-long rambles about comma butterflies and the benefits of different types of potting soil for different plants and the best romanceable characters in Stardew Valley. Everyone else gets a painfully polite, painfully considerate, painfully watered-down version of my dear Lyra-love.

So, no, I’m not sad for me that I don’t get her in public. I get the best of her. To want more would be greedy and selfish.

I tilt my head, contemplating that as she stands before me, a mere twelve feet away, comparing lengths of rope.

She doesn’t want to be seen with me in public.

We are in public.

There is no one else in this particular public right now.

Her last letter to me was dappled in tears.

My head straightens along with my shoulders, decision made. Today, I am greedy and selfish.

Chapter Five

Do not spook the man with the ax.

Lyra

“Lyra.”

I jump. And scream. And, maybe, throw the two cords of rope I was assessing.

In my defense, the deep, rumbly voice of Jove Rogue just came at me from about two feet to my right. Anybody would jump. And scream. And throw rope at his face.

I watch, horrified, as the rope bounces off of his chin to land on the substantial stretch of his shoulder. One dark brow rises to meet a few wayward strands of white falling down on his forehead from the streak of it he’s been bleaching into his hair since senior year of high school – probably with used battery acid, if I had to guess. I can’t see Jove Rogue going to the hair salon for a bleach and tone, sitting in a lifted spinny chair while they apply foils to his head. He’s Jove Rogue.

“Lyra,” Jove! Rogue! rumbles again, and my eyes jump from his hair to the dark green of his irises.

Anxious horror bolts through me, and I squeak.

I’m making eye contact with a man who does not hesitate to enact revenge on anyone who looks at him – or, more often, his brother – the wrong way. What is this, terrorize Lyra week? First Chrissy initiates a friend break up, then I’m approached by possibly the last man that I would ever want to be approached by – except for probably Ted Yeats, the no good scoundrel.

“Are you okay?” Jove asks, passing a giant freaking ax from one hand to the other before flipping it up casually to rest on his shoulders. He runs his now free hand through his hair, mussing up the white streak, and his brows furrow. “You look okay.”

“Um.” What is happening? “Yes?” I ask, shooting a quick look around. This would be a really great time for a knight in shining armor to sweep in and rescue me. I would also accept a somewhat sexist southern man bursting forth in a cloud of sawdust, ready to relive his glory days by saving a damsel in distress, something a lot more likely to come true for me.

Sadly, sexist men remain as useless as they ever were, not bothering to appear the one time I need them. Figures.

“Have you been crying?” he asks, squinting as he leans down down down, putting his face – and that ax! – mere inches from my own.

I lurch back.

“No,” I lie, making a note to check my mascara the next time I leave the house after a bout of self-pity-induced sobbing.

“Your eyes are red,” he accuses, scooting in further as I scoot back.

Ah, so not the mascara then. “My eyes are green,” I inform him. “And I have to go.”

He frowns a frown that I know for a fact has made no less than three grown men wet themselves. I, blessedly, hold my decorum. “You’re not okay,” he states. “You’ve been crying.”

I cannot think of a single reason why Jove Rogue would care whether I’ve been crying or not. I doubly can’t think of a reason he’d feel the need to confront me about it in the middle of the hardware store.

Maybe he’s been body snatched.

I eye him – and his ax – then decide that it’s not my business, and I do not care. Jove can, and often does, do whatever he wants, explaining nothing to anyone no matter how confusing his actions seem from the outside. If Jove Rogue wants to approach a random woman he only peripherally knows through living in the same town and accuse her of crying, then Jove Rogue will approach a random woman he only peripherally knows through living in the same town and accuse her of crying.

Unfortunately for me, I happen to be that woman.

I squat, tucking my knees close to my chest as I reach for the lengths of rope on the floor at Jove’s feet, and make the executive decision to buy both for the Make Your Own Plant Hanger class I’m hosting at the nursery tomorrow. If I have extra I can just use it to fashion a noose. Surely that will come in handy.

I stand and prioritize my next steps. First, get away from body-snatched Jove Rogue. Second, tell Oliver that I’ll pay him next time I come in so that I can avoid being stuck in line with Jove Rogue. Third, take a roundabout route home so that Jove Rogue doesn’t figure out where I live on the off chance that he doesn’t already know. Fourth, stop calling Jove Rogue by his full government name every time I think of him. He’s not a celebrity.

“Well,” I say, taking a cautious step away from the giant man with the ax. “This has been…” Terrifying? Unusual? The worst? “Quirky,” I settle on, using the code word Jupiter and I use when we want the other one to drop a subject. Jove won’t get it, but it makes me feel like, for the smallest moment, my friend is with me, helping me get through this interaction. She’s going to freak when I tell her about it.

I nod and take another step back, muttering, “I’ll see you, uh, later.” And when I do, I will avoid you like the plague.

Brows furrowed and lips downturned, he replies, “Okay, Lyra. If you’re sure.”

I am. I am so sure.

I give him a polite smile to mitigate any lets-slash-her-tires energy this interaction may have left him with, then I turn and book it to the front of the store. “I’ll get you next time!” I call to Oliver, who doesn’t look up from his sudoku even as he waves me off.

Once I’m outside on the sidewalk, I risk a glance back through the display windows of the hardware store. My eyes catch on Jove, who’s already locked on me in a not-so-comfortable way. I shiver, hope he doesn’t see it, then give him another polite smile before grabbing my bike where it leans against a bench on the sidewalk, dropping my rope in the pale pink basket attached to the front. I swing onto it, careful not to let the flowing fabric of my skirt get caught in the bike chain or pedals. Rope and body secured, I put my feet to the pedals and take off in the opposite direction of my house.

I make it home after a three mile loop through the town, which could theoretically take me about twenty-five minutes, but I was passing the tattoo parlor at the same time as Brandi, the owner and sole artist, was leaving for lunch.

I wouldn’t call Brandi and me friends, exactly, but I’m not sure she knows that. The first time we met, she treated me like a long-lost bestie, and she’s been just as comfortable with me every following time we’ve run into each other. At first I thought maybe she thought I was someone else, and I didn’t want to embarrass her by correcting her. This theory held up all through our first meeting, right up until the very end where she bid farewell with a “see you later, Ly!”

So. She knows that I am me, and apparently the me that I am is someone she considered to be a friend before she ever laid eyes on me.

Extroverts, I guess.

Usually I run into her at the grocery store, where she approximately doubles my shopping time. Brandi’s a chatty gal. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I like Brandi. She’s nice and she’s funny and she’s never once made me feel bad about myself. I don’t mind adjusting my Shopping Day Schedule to account for talking to her.

I do, however, mind having to adjust my Running Away From Jove schedule to talk to her. Every minute of Wow, this weather! small talk had me itchy, convinced he was just behind me waiting to pounce. Despite it being unseasonably warm for February, sweat was dripping down the back of my neck while my mind screamed Escape! Escape! Escape!

Blessedly, Brandi’s grumbling stomach cut our gabbing down to half of the usual, and I was able to pedal off to my house without any further delays and – even better – without seeing Jove again.

I park my bike on my porch, then grab the rope and make my way back down the porch steps to follow the mosaic stepping stones through an archway of vines and string lights that lead to my backyard, where I do my work.

Golden Fern is my pride and joy – the business as well as the greenhouse it resides in, which is made up entirely of recycled glass doors and windows. Jupiter, fancy pants rich author that she is – paid for it completely. A gift that was both extremely difficult and exceedingly easy to accept. After funding, it still took me ages to gather all of the building materials, and even longer to convince someone to build it for me, but in the end it was worth it.

I built planters along the perimeter of the structure to plant milkweed, honeysuckle, daisies, azaleas, lilacs, yarrow, and a whole host of other butterfly beloved plants in them. More mosaic garden stones create paths winding around the area, passing by benches and dogwood trees as well as a lone black willow tree. My backyard is a butterfly-filled paradise, accessible only through the vined path. Trees and shrubbery border every inch of the yard, making you feel as if you truly have stepped into another world.

I love it. Even now, sweaty and coming down from a Jove-induced panic, I can’t help but stop and admire the beauty I – and an incredibly reluctant contractor – have made.

Earthy, floral air fills my lungs as a comma butterfly flits past, the vibrant colors of its dorsal wings winking at me in the orange-pink glow of evening.

Right. So.

Maybe I won’t need that noose after all.

Chapter Six

To Do: Get Good… or Not.

Lyra

I may not need a noose, but I do need a plan.

I’ve spent the past week wallowing in self-pity like a total loser. So as I organize the ropes, pots, bags of soil, and little baby plants for tomorrow’s workshop, I brainstorm a plan. You know. If by brainstorming a plan I mean obsessively going over my interaction with Jove in the hardware store and checking over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t going to show up at the nursery to throw bricks through the many, many windows because I’ve upset him somehow.

Nevermind the fact that I’m 97% sure he only exacts revenge on people who do his brother wrong or the fact that I didn’t do anything particularly offensive during our short interaction – unless you count raining ropes on him, but that was really his fault, and he surely knows that. He’s scary, not stupid.

No, he’s not stupid, but I might be, looking over my shoulder every five minutes for a man I’m 97% sure isn’t going to actually do anything to me instead of figuring out how to stop crying all the time, get my life together, and generally be the type of person I’d like to be. That type of person being a better one than I am now or ever have been.

I restack a slightly wobbly pile of small pots and nibble at the inside of my cheek.

I wonder if Jove’s ever worried about being a better person.

The thought makes me let go of the death grip my teeth have on the sensitive inside lining of my mouth so that I can scoff. Jove Rogue has most definitely 100% absolutely never worried about being a better person. That man walks around broad shoulders firmly back, standing tall and confident in his unhinge. He has more hubris in his left pinky than the rest of the town combined – save Mars, probably, but I’m less sure that Mars is full of hubris about his and his brother’s probably-definitely criminal actions so much as pure, unadulterated glee.

How so much confidence infiltrated their bloodline but fully missed mine, I will never know.

I pause, hands hovering over a tray of tiny little succulents. Am I… jealous? Of Jove?

I need to sit down.

Leaving my workbench – and my busywork – I do just that, wandering to the hanging wicker chair in the back corner of the greenhouse. The chain holding the giant, wildly comfortable egg creaks as I drop onto the forest-green cushion and pull my legs up to sit criss-cross-applesauce, flicking the skirt of my dress to hang down out of the chair instead of bunching in my lap. The chain sings another complaint as I lean back, settling against the green, brown, and pink pillows behind me.

As comfortable as I could possibly get in my physical body, I start the onerous task of making myself as mentally uncomfortable as I have ever been.

Jealous.

Of Jove.

For what, Lyra? For what would you be jealous of Jove about? Because he’s confident? Lots of people are confident. Maybe just… not to the extent that he seems to be.

Jove is a rare, elusive type of confident – the quiet kind. Sure, one could say that flipping Chrissy’s grandpa’s truck wasn’t exactly quiet behavior, but Jove did that and then just… went home? He didn’t stick around to make sure Chrissy’s grandpa saw. He didn’t yell at the old man. He went there, did what he went to do, and then left. Justice served, moving on. Justice, of course, being relative. Still.

I bet that if someone were to actually figure out what code it is that he lives by, he’d be an easy enough guy to get along with. The problem is in the mystery of it, not the nature of it. In my opinion, anyway. The rest of the town? Well… I’m sure they would not quite agree with me. Mostly on account of him having delivered justice upon roughly 40% of the town, and the other 60% being related to that 40%. Hard to respect a man who lit your aunt’s barn on fire after she honked at his brother for using his right of way rights on his bicycle at a stoplight. Or something.

While I don’t agree with basically any of his actions, I can respect his commitment to being the town baddie. I’m not sure what he does for work that affords him seemingly endless amounts of time to terrorize – drug trade? Harvesting illegal organs? Black market art broker? – but I really can appreciate his complete and utter dedication to it. He’s big, he’s bad, and he’s not bothered about anybody knowing it.

Hm.

I could… do two of those things. At 5’4”, I’m never going to accomplish big in the way that his shoulders do, but I could be bad. I could be unbothered.

My chair keens what sounds suspiciously like a laugh as it swings gently under my weight. I tilt my head back and glare at the wicker braiding above my head. “I can be bad,” I tell it, ignoring the soft, gauzy weight of my dress skirt as it sways below me. “I can be unbothered,” I hiss, eyes narrowing in a glare.

The chair does not respond.

I tip my head back down, huffing. What does it know anyway? It’s not even sentient.

My legs uncross, slipping out from under me to land on the floor, and the giant egg swings behind me, protesting as I stand. “I’m going to be bad,” I say. “And unbothered.” I spin, pointing a finger at the still-swaying wicker. “You’ll see!”

Satisfied with my plan, I nod, then stomp through the greenhouse. I pause long enough to lock up before following my fairytale path home, where I open a girl’s best friend – the internet.

“Baddie… inspo… outfits…” I mutter, grabbing letter making supplies to match the images showing up on my screen. I have a reply to write to Jupiter, and I know just what the theme will be.

Chapter Seven

Bad boys drink milk with their carrot cake.

Jove

This is flagging garbage.

I highlight a section of my current work-in-progress and smash the delete button. Then I do it again for good measure. I resist the urge to trash the entire document, even though I know that’s where it belongs. In the dumpster. In an incinerator. In the middle of the Atlantic ocean, eaten up by sharks.

I do all of this research, even going so far as to buy an ax to cut down a tree because I saw lumberjacks were trending in romance, and I wanted to see how much damage it would do to Mrs. Beverly’s shed roof so that I’d know how much damage to inflict on my main female character’s home when her dark, broody, possessive love interest plays lumberjack to remind her that no, actually, she cannot let another man sleep in her bed. That’s his and his alone.

Unfortunately, ruining Mrs. Beverly’s shed was driven by a need to right a wrong, not by the fiery passion of a jealous lover protecting his space in his dear love’s bed. So instead of getting passionate romantic fodder to use for my story, I watched dispassionately as the tree fell, a sense of balance settling in my gut as the branches tore through her shingles, much like she tore through Mars’ garden path on her ATV last spring. His carrots were ruined. Just like my career when my deadline hits and I have nothing to give Mars to edit.

Speaking of Mars…

“I’m fine,” I mutter, sliding my laptop back on my desk and spinning toward the door to my office.

Mars is there, leaning against the door frame holding a small dessert plate while an elementary school-style box of milk dangles beneath it from his pinky. His other hand seemingly holds his attention as he flips a playing card over his fingers.

Seemingly.

“Seriously,” I say, louder. “I’m fine. You don’t have to check in on me.”

His eyes flick to me before returning to his card. “You’re sounding pretty defensive for someone who’s fine, Jovey. ‘Fine’ people don’t lock themselves in their offices for days on end, last I checked, which was recent. Excellent fact checker, me.”

I groan. “I’m writing. You know, that thing that authors do? I’m trying out the recluse-lock-yourself-in-a-room author archetype. Much better than my usual slop-things-on-a-page-and-leave-my-brother-to-deal-with-the-mess archetype. Ten out of ten, probably recommend.”

My stomach grumbles, calling me a liar. Not eating for three days in the name of method acting the idea of a successful author – as if I am not already a successful author – has not exactly done me well. I’m a big guy. I need calories.

Like, for instance, the calories in the carrot cake that Mars is approaching my desk with, card now tucked away. I eye the plate, salivating, then whimper as he holds it just out of my reaching hands’ range.

Eyes firm on mine, he says, “Take a break. Eat something. It’s a real problem for me that all the people I love seem averse to basic self-care, you know?”

My lower lip sneaks out, pouting.

“I know. Wild that I want you to stay alive. Here.” Somehow, a deep, blood-red envelope appears between his fingers. “Cake. Card. Alliteration. Authors love that.” I reach for it. Mine, mine, mine, but he moves it away. Mean. Rude. Hates me. “Promise me you’ll take a break? We can’t both be out of commission right now. One of us must maintain minimal levels of mental stability, ’kay?”

I sniff, then regret it as the tempting aroma of carrot goodness finds a home in my lungs. My stomach speaks before I can stop it, ruining my author alter ego attempts. “I promise I’ll take a break.”

Mars smiles, somewhat gently, and deposits my breaktime supplies on the desk in front of me, casually closing my laptop as he does.

“That wasn’t saved,” I grumble, reaching for my plate.

“It might alarm you to learn that closing a laptop doesn’t delete everything on it, but let’s be honest, babe, if it doesn’t save your last actions, you’ll gain words.” He sweeps in to kiss my forehead. “Eat your cake. Drink your milk. Write your letter.” Then he’s gone, off to torture some other poor soul, I can only imagine.

I’m sure they deserve it.

Scrubbing my hand down my face, I sigh, then eye the offerings he left me. I suppose a little morale break isn’t the worst idea…

Three minutes later, I’m washing down half the slice of cake with the milk Mars left me and reaching for Lyra’s letter. I take a moment to appreciate the work she did on the envelope and try to guess the theme she went with.

It’s much darker than what she usually gravitates toward – all reds and blacks instead of the brighter colors she tends to like. It feels off somehow, and I worry that our meeting in the hardware store influenced the harsh tone it’s giving. This letter is dark alleys and rock concerts, not soft meadows and the scent of spring.

I don’t think I like it.

Cautious, I peel away the wax seal – black, with a dull, dried up rose petal pressed into it – to get to the inside. Which is. Just. As. Dark.

Throwing caution away and placing concern firmly in its place, I pull out the thick fold of paper and set the envelope aside.

Black on top of black. Stickers depicting dead flowers and death’s-head moths. Sharp corners. Swaths of red throughout.

I retrieve the envelope again, double checking the return address. “Lyra Gold, 333 Evergreen Drive, Bandera, West Virginia…” I trail off, brows creasing.

Okay. So. This is definitely from Lyra. Except.

It’s not.

Not from my Lyra.

What is going on?

I unfold the flipbook-style letter, skipping over pockets full of stickers, tea, and whatever other gifts Lyra’s sent me. I zero in on a piece of stationery sticking out of a fold in the back, sporting my name in her delicate, swoopy handwriting.

Dear Jupiter,

I’ve figured out the problem.

After a rather harrowing experience at the hardware store, I went home and had a nice long think about things, and I know what the issue is.

I’m too soft. Too sweet. Too focused on being a good girl, and too insecure to accept that I will never actually accomplish that.

Well, my friend, no more! From now on, I, Lyra Gold, am going to be bad and confident! I’d say big too, but my darn shoulders prevent me. Maybe I could wear those pads like football players do? And some heels?

…

Yeah, all right, we’ll workshop it. I’ll focus on bad and confident first. And I know just how to do it! It’s time for… drumroll, please… a baddie makeover! One montage to an AC/DC song, and I’ll be good to go.

As you can probably already tell, I’m rebranding. No more Mister Nice Lyra. Who cares if I have no friends and my life is in shambles? Not me! Because I am bad and carefree.

This is going to be so good for me. I can tell.

I hope you like the bad and unbothered vibe I put into this letter, but if you don’t? Who cares! I am bad! And unbothered! Which is my response to your letter, by the way. Am I okay? Yes! Because bad and unbothered people are always okay!

Insert baddie sign off here,

Lyra ★

P.S. How did your Valentine launch go?

Baddie sign off…

I reread the letter. Then, I reread it again. On my fourth read, I can’t get past the second line, mentioning our run-in at the hardware store. Harrowing, she called it. Harrowing enough that she went home after running away from me at Brotherhood Hardware, clearly had some sort of a breakdown, then decided to overhaul her entire personality.

I broke her.

I disrespected her boundaries, and I broke her.

Can I not do one single thing right?

I clear space on my desk, then grab the nearest bit of stationery I can find – a purple and green sheet of thick letter paper. Snatching a pen out of the cup on my desk, I start writing my apology.

I explain that I didn’t mean to freak her out. I write the word sorry seven times. I tell her about the last three days, how I clearly have no clue how to even talk to women, as evidenced by my struggle with writing romantic scenes and by our hardware store run in. I tell her she’s perfect how she is, and she shouldn’t change herself, but that if she does I’ll be here, loving her through it. I tell her the same thing I do at every book release – I have no idea how it went, but Mars handled the launch and wrote all the good stuff in the book, so it’s probably thriving.

I tell her that I love her.

Then, I fold the paper in half, shove it in an envelope, address it, stamp it, and head to the post office to drop it off. It’s the least adorned letter I’ve sent to her since my first, but I can’t find it in me to care. I barely resist the urge to hand-deliver it. The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that I’ve already upturned her week enough after the harrowing experience at the hardware store. I can’t begin to imagine what might happen if I actually show up at her house. She’d probably move on from baddie to worstie, landing herself in jail. My Lyra does not know how to avoid the law like I do.

So. Best not to spook her any more than I already have. For the sake of her freedom.

Instead, I spook Brianna when I storm into the post office, demanding she gets my letter delivered immediately, and cutting her off when she starts to spout nonsense about The proper procedures! and You can’t just barge in here, making demands!

“Immediately, Brianna. She gets this letter immediately. You understand?”

We glare at each other, then she huffs. “Fine,” she says. “But just this onc– hey!”

But I’m already out the door, stomping to my truck and going home to wait on a reply that does. Not. Flagging. Come.

Chapter Eight

I’m sorry, wut?

Lyra

Being a baddie is harder than you’d think. Shopping to be a baddie? Proven impossible.

I had the best of intentions, really. Er… the baddest of intentions? I even pulled out my rarely used car – a silver 2001 Honda Accord V6 named Rhonda. She lived a wonderful life in Washington state before making her way to me, mostly to sit in my garage collecting dust next to my not-so-dust-covered garage fridge, as I prefer to ride my bike around town whenever I can. I sat my baddie butt down in the driver’s seat, took her through a car wash at the gas station to get rid of the aforementioned dust, then drove myself all the way to the mall in the Big City an hour away from Bandera. I bypassed all my favorite stores and entered the darkest, grungiest place I could find. There was just the littlest, teeniest, tiniest hiccup when the darkest, grungiest place I could find had an entire woodland-themed cottagecore section.

I mean. Really. How was I to resist? They had a peach milkmaid dress with butterflies fluttering all over it. Among other things. I may or may not have spent $500 buying pretty, flowy, hippie forest-girl garb instead of the baddie wardrobe I went in for. My baddie dreams, as well as my wallet, are sobbing.

Dropping my way-too-many bags inside after parking Rhonda back in her crypt, I walk to the mailbox to see if Jupiter’s written me back. It’s going to be embarrassing telling her about my failed baddie shopping trip, and I find myself, for the first time ever, hoping I won’t find a response when I flip open the mailbox door.

A hope that is fulfilled, I see, when I open the door to a thin, sad looking white envelope. Nothing like the chonky, wondrous things Jupiter sends me. I snag it, curious. I’ve never gotten a letter from someone else before. Maybe it’s a bill?

The letter is smooth in my hand, save for a bump where the sender got hasty securing the envelope’s flap down. I flip it to find no return address, then quickly realize I don’t need one. I recognize that handwriting. I know the return address by heart.

Jupiter has sent me… this?

It’s sad. The stamp is crooked, and the numbers on my zip code have been scrawled so quickly it’s a wonder it even made it to me. Brianna, our postal system queen, must have recognized it was meant for me. Bless her.

Frowning down at the reason Brianna had to work extra hard today, I pivot and make my way to my porch. Halfway up the walkway, I carefully rip open the envelope and pull out the singular piece of paper. My stomach falls.

Something’s happened.

Worry for Jupiter, for her brother, and for her family courses through me as I stop, unfolding the paper quickly to get to the bad news. My worry skyrockets when the top line is empty. She’s gone straight into the body of the letter, wasting no time addressing it to me.

I’m so sorry, Ly. So unbelievably sorry. I knew you wouldn’t want me to approach you, but I was so worried about what happened with Chrissy and you were right there and nobody else was around except for Oliver, but he couldn’t see us and I just… I thought it would be okay, you know? I promise, I only wanted to check on you. I didn’t mean to freak you out.

Ly, I’m so sorry. Sorry can’t even cover it. I feel awful that I worried you so much. Clearly, as evidenced by our interaction and foreshadowed by my inability to write a single romantic scene, I have no clue how to have a conversation with a woman.

I am so sorry, my song. SO sorry.

Please don’t feel like you need to change yourself, especially not in any part because of me. You’re perfect. Exactly as you are. So perfect. If you do want to rebrand, though, know that I’ll be here loving you through it, the same way that I always have. You’ll always be my dearest Lyra, my bestie, pen pal 4 evah, no matter what you wear or how you style yourself. You’re exactly the girl I’ve always loved. My best friend.

Flag, I’m sorry for scaring you at the store.

Please, please forgive me,

Jupiter

P.S. I don’t know how the Valentine launch is going. My brother handles the launches, and he writes all of the stuff that requires an author who actually knows how men and women should interact, so I’m sure it’s thriving. He’s never done us wrong before.

As Jupiter – sorry, Jove flagging Rogue – would say: What. The. Flag.

Chapter Nine

Don’t believe British propaganda. Tea does not fix everything.

Lyra

Jupiter is Jove. Rogue. Jove Rogue. Jove Rogue is Jupiter. Jupiter, my lifelong best friend and pen pal, is Jove Rogue, casual criminal and, worse, a boy.

I make it inside to the tune of a continuous no no no no no in my head, beelining to my bedroom, where a box full of letters will surely tell me that Jupiter is Jupiter Rouge, like her pen name. That she has always been Jupiter Rouge – not Rogue – and the letter in my hand is, in fact, a nightmare concoction of the dream I am currently dreaming.

My box of letters in hand, I stand by my desk and pull one out, starting at the very beginning. A child’s handwriting, no last name, only “Jupiter” on the sender line. I toss it aside and move on to the next, which is much the same. On and on until I finally find one from around middle school, when Jupiter was going through her formal writing phase and calling me Ms. Lyra Gold in every letter. This is when she started writing her last name on her letters.

Her last name, which is surely Rouge, considering during that phase I was calling her My Majesty Rouge to not only match, but one-up the formality.

Rouge being, apparently, a misread on my part, because in the first two letters – before I started addressing her by her royal title – there is a clearly printed “Rogue” behind Jupiter on the envelope faces.

Rogue.

Jupiter Rogue.

It changes after those initial letters, transitioning into Rouge in what I can only assume is an acceptance of the title bestowed upon her. Him.

Him.

I need to sit down.

Abandoning the mess of letters I’m leaving behind, I escape to my living room and drop onto my couch, where I find myself clutching the plain, boring, offensive, life-altering letter in my hand. My supple, muted green cushions do nothing to comfort me.

Jupiter is not Jupiter Rouge.

Jupiter is Jupiter Rogue.

Jupiter is a boy.

Jupiter is a man.

Jupiter is a large, slashes-tires-for-reasons man.

Jupiter is Jove Rogue.

I… I’ve written about my period. To Jove Rogue. I’ve told him about my every embarrassing moment. He knows about my relationship with my mom.

I waxed poetic in my letters for years about my crush on Brian Single.

He bought me my bike.

He bought me my greenhouse.

Goosebumps rise on the back of my neck, and I shiver.

I have to flee the country. I have no other choice.

My phone rings, and I jolt, then lurch off my couch to retrieve it from my purse by the door. It takes me a minute to locate it in the depths of the mountain of shopping bags, but I do, clicking answer after I see it’s my favorite cousin, Elodie. “Do you want to buy the nursery?” I ask as a greeting, climbing through the bags to make it back to my couch. I sit, eying my Jupiter letter like it’s a bomb. It might as well be.

“Um,” Elodie says, delayed. “Yes? Sure?”

“Perfect!” I declare. “You can mail the check to-” Where do I want to live? “Antarctica!”

“Antarctica?” she asks.

I nod. “Yes. Antarctica. Where I will be living, effective immediately.”

“Right, yes, of course,” she hums. “Obviously. Is there, you know, any particular reason for this totally chill course of action?”

“You know my pen pal?” I wince.

“No?” she replies.

I groan. “Okay, well, I have this pen pal. Jupiter. And we’ve been pen pals since elementary school? And we’re best friends. I tell Jupiter everything. Everything.”

“Jupiter… Like Jupiter Rogue?” she asks. “You’re best friends with Jupiter Rogue?”

“You know that Jove’s name is Jupiter?” I gasp. “How do you know that?”

“I ran into the guy one time when I was visiting you,” she replies. “He was slashing some dude’s tires next to my car at the gas station. The guy – Ted? I think was his name – came out and started yelling at me. Went on and on about how Jove Rogue gets away with murder in this town! and Things will only change if we make them! It would’ve been inspirational, probably, except he kept getting spittle on me as he was ranting. Totally gross.” She pauses to gag, then. “Also, Jove is a nickname for Jupiter, isn’t it? That’s common sense, I fear, dear cousin.”

“Common sense for you, maybe. I thought Jupiter was a girl!” I groan, ignoring any and all things to do with Ted. Who cares about freaking Ted? “I’ve told him everything, El. Ev-ery-thing.” I shudder. “I just found out that she is actually he and that he is Jove Rogue.” You know, on second thought… “Antarctica might not be far enough.”

Elodie laughs. Out loud. To my face, through the phone. “What’s wrong with being friends with Jove? He was good on the eyes.”

He is definitely good on the eyes. However…

“You know what else he’s good at? Felonies and misdemeanors.”

“I heard he only does that sort of stuff to people who are mean to his brother,” she responds, thoroughly unbothered.

And she’s right, but. “My best friend is a felon!”

She laughs in the face of my misery. Again. Why is she my favorite cousin? “I think they’re only felons if they actually get tried and convicted. As far as I know, Jove’s never been to jail, right?”

“I do not think you are seeing my point,” I accuse.

“I’m totally not. If you want to sell me the nursery, though, I’m on board. That place is a plant lover’s dream come true. It might be a little difficult to transfer to my apartment, though. Do you know any good movers? Maybe the ones you’re using to ship your stuff to the South Pole?”

I have never been so offended in my life.

“You can’t move the greenhouse! Are you insane? The magic of it is tied completely into the location of it. You can’t plop it down just anywhere and call it a fairy wonderland!”

“Pity,” she hums. “I guess you’ll just have to keep it, then. Could you spare a pothos or two, though? I have a bit of space on my bookshelf that I think would be just perfect for a wee plant babe.”

I huff. “Of course. I’ll have it delivered to you next week.”

She chirps her thanks, then, “I wouldn’t worry too much about the Jupiter thing. Sure, he’s not a girl, but he’s a good boy. At heart. Probably.”

Right. And I’m a famous Shrek impersonator.

I bid goodbye, assure her the plants will be delivered as soon as possible, then toss my phone on the couch beside me before turning my eye to the – sad, pathetic, tiny – letter from Ju-ove. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that it’s from Jove, or the fact that it doesn’t contain a single sticker to lift my spirits in the wake of this life-altering news. The sticker thing, probably, if I’m being honest.

I lift my hand, reaching the short distance to poke at the letter.

It’s so… corporeal. Much exist. Very actual.

I flick it with my finger and watch as it slides a scant few inches away instead of into the realm of make-believe-stuff-that-never-happened, as I intended. Sorrows.

I stare at the offensive paper, wondering where I’m going to put it. Surely it can’t go in my Jupiter box, nestled cozily next to the years and years of beauty that she- he has sent me. Not only is it the worst thing I’ve ever received content wise, it’s ugly. Its only redeeming quality on the beauty scale is that he used cute, if simple, stationery to pen his note. It’s point blank not worthy of the Jupiter box, which is actually the Jove box, which means the box might cease to exist, gone to the same plane of existence as my dignity, never to be seen again.

I groan, rolling off the couch and heading to the dark oak sideboard in my kitchen where I store my fancy drink supplies. I choose my favorite butterfly pea flower tea and a glass mug to drink it out of, the better to showcase the gorgeous blue of the liquid within.

Sadly, the tea does not solve my every problem. I wonder if I can sue. Then, I wonder if finding out your best friend is Jove flagging Rogue works the same way as a traumatic brain injury, because only that sort of trauma would change my personality enough to have me seriously considering suing someone. Over anything. Where did I get this hubris? Clearly, from the trauma.

I put my now-empty mug in the dishwasher, then walk as quickly as I can past the letter on the coffee table, not making eye contact. If I can’t see it, I don’t have to deal with it.

More really great life advice from Lyra Gold at ten, folks. That girl really knows what she’s doing.

Chapter Ten

Jove, get back in character.

Jove

I’m dying.

I am in withdrawal-induced hysteria, and I. Am. Dying.

Lyra hates me.

It’s been weeks since I had Brianna deliver my letter to her, and I’ve heard nothing. Received nothing. My PO box is empty of anything but unwanted fan mail every time I check it, and I’ve been checking it an average of three times a day every day for three flagging weeks.

The butterfly hanging from my neck pushes against the skin of my palm, where I’m squeezing it so hard I can feel blood pooling before trickling down my fist.

I can’t eat. I can’t function. All I’ve done is sleep. I’ve barely written 3,000 words in all that time, and every one of them was trash. I am trash.

I couldn’t just leave things alone, could I? I had to approach her, knowing she didn’t want that, and now she doesn’t want me.

I need Lyra. I cannot live without her.

Why did I write her an apology? Everyone knows you’re supposed to apologize in person, face-to-face, so that the other person can see you’re sorry. I’d never apologize to Mars in a letter. I’d consider it cowardly.

So why, when it came to Lyra, did I think it would suffice?

Because she didn’t want to interact with me in public? I have her address. She could have interacted with me in private. I could have apologized properly, and she could have forgiven me, and we could have gone back to our letters. We could have maybe even, once the seal had been broken, hung out in real life, in the privacy of her home or mine, as friends. It could have been a step up in our friendship.

But no. I didn’t do that. I wrote her a letter, stormed through town, intimidated Brianna into delivering it, and then… sat in my anxiety for three weeks.

What am I doing?

Why am I doing?

Since when do I sit around anxious and worried, letting my problems simmer into bigger problems rather than solving them?

Since never.

No more, I decide.

I loosen my hold on my butterfly, lifting her over my head and taking her to the bathroom, where I clean the blood off of her wings. “Sorry, little flutter,” I murmur. “I have been a fool.”

I’ll give my Lyra-love one more week, I think. That will be a month.

“One month,” I tell my newly cleaned charm, hooking her back over my neck. “One month, then this foolishness ends.”

Chapter Eleven

You’re a hard girl to get a hold of.

Jove

Lyra’s time is up.

It’s been exactly four weeks and one day since I sent her my apology, and no reply has been forthcoming. Which is why I’m here, in a place I’ve only ever seen through the window of my truck as I drove past – Lyra’s doorstep. More specifically, the sidewalk in front of Lyra’s doorstep, because at 3:15 on a Monday afternoon, she should be in her nursery working, according to the hours of business listed on her website.

Taking a fortifying breath, I follow the directions on an adorable wooden sign sticking out of her lawn instructing me to follow a stepping stone path through what can only be described as a fantasy forest portal into another realm. Lyra’s descriptions did not do this place justice. Her backyard is straight out of a storybook. There are benches and flowers and greenery and, best of all, butterflies.

They surround the greenhouse, flitting around and even coming close enough to brush my face with their wings as they pass. Serenity spreads as I breathe in sweet air, relaxing my shoulders and letting go of the tenseness in my jaw. It sticks, almost overpowering the niggle of frustration when I don’t see Lyra through the greenhouse windows or anywhere else in the yard.

Where is she? I have a situation to remedy.

Turning, I follow the path back to the front of her house, frowning as I leave the peace of her otherworldly back yard. Porch steps creak under my weight as I climb them, approaching her front door as casually as I can.

I knock.

“One second!” Lyra’s voice calls out from inside.

It takes her eight.

“Sorry! How can I–” Her words end as she catches sight of me, giving way to a horrific gurgling noise, which I ignore.

“Lyra,” I greet. “I think we need to talk.”

Chapter Twelve

Communication King

Lyra

Oh, no, we don’t.

“I disagree,” I respond, wincing at the way my voice squeaks.

Jove’s ferocious frown gets even more ferocious, and I squeak again when his hands reach out, grabbing me gently by the shoulders as he pushes in, all the way until we’re inside my house. One long, jeans-clad leg reaches behind him to shut the door.

“I disagree with your disagree,” he replies, taking quick stock of the room, eyes narrowing on his letter which may or may not still be on my coffee table, where it’s lain for the past several weeks, untouched and ignored. “You did get my letter, then.” It’s a statement, not a question, so I say nothing. His hands are still on my shoulders.

He sighs, tearing his eyes off of the letter to look at me. And look. And look. They travel over my face and hair before moving down, running over the loose fabric of my dress and snagging on my necklace – a comma butterfly that perfectly matches one that he has for himself – but not catching anywhere they shouldn’t despite the deep cut of my collar. I give him points for that.

“You look okay,” he mutters. “Not ill.” His eyes shoot up to mine, intense. “Not crying.” Then, his green eyes squint, dark brows furrowing above them. “So… what the flag, Ly? I know I messed up with the hardware store thing, but I apologized. You read my apology. I should have done it in person, and I’m here now to do that, but…” he trails off, flicking a glance at his letter before coming back to me. “You read it. You know I’m sorry. So sorry, my song.” He gulps. “Do you… you won’t forgive me? That doesn’t seem like you, but then, neither does leaving me to worry for a month.” His head shakes, and he squeezes my shoulders, almost involuntarily. “Communication, Ly. Please. We have to have communication.”

Um…

What?

“You think this is because of you talking to me in the hardware store?” I ask, baffled.

He blinks. “What else would it be about?”

“I- you- well. You’re a boy.”

He blinks again, slower. “What?”

“Jupiter is gender neutral, do you know that?” I respond.

More blinking. More slow. “Lyra.” He pauses, fingers contracting against my skin. “You’re not mad at me for talking to you in public? You’re mad at me for…” Another pause before he chokes out an incredulous, “Being a boy?”

I don’t think I care for his tone.

“A man,” I correct. “A large man.”

His hands slide off of my shoulders to settle on my upper arms, thumbs sweeping against the fabric of my dress. “A man now, yes. But a boy when we became friends. You’re angry with me for this? Something I have no control over?”

Angry is a strong way to put it. Disturbed, more like. “I’ve told you everything,” I remind him. “Things I’ve never told anyone else. Things I’d never in a million years have told you if I knew you were…” My hands fist my dress at my sides as I force myself to maintain eye contact. “You.”

His brows, already furrowed, nearly become one. “I don’t understand.”

He doesn’t… “You’re Jove Rogue,” I inform him, something he’s clearly forgotten.

“Right,” he says. “And that changes… what, exactly? I never lied to you in my letters. I was always completely me. What difference does my gender make? What difference does me being me make? I’m still your friend.”

I sputter. “It makes all the difference!”

“How?” he asks, hands dropping to cover my fists, squeezing. “How does it make a difference?”

“By… well. For instance, I know that you set fire to the courthouse when you were twelve, around the same time you were responding to letters from me discouraging my love for Brian Single. Discouraging my unrequited love? Exactly what my best friend would do. Committing felonies? Not so much.”

His jaw clenches, then loosens to reply, “That was Mars who set the courthouse on fire. And he got 500 hours of community service for it. Flagging ridiculous. The fire barely even caught.”

See, a girl would never have completely missed the point just then.

“Okay, maybe that one was Mars, but what about senior year of high school when you were talking me out of moving to Indiana while simultaneously skipping classes to slash tires in the parking lot? Or, you know, two months ago, when you poured cement into Mr. Fearling’s gas tank after sending me a hand-drawn portrait of a cabbage white butterfly. I’ve literally never actually known you!”

He hums. “I think what you’re talking about is referred to as the duplicity of man. And, still, I don’t see the relevance. Those people deserved those things. You deserve my unfailing love and friendship. You all get what you deserve. What’s the issue?”

I am speechless. Dumfounded. Flabbergasted.

“What’s the issue?” I repeat, wheezy.

He nods, then echoes, “What’s the issue?”

I stare at him for seconds that turn into minutes, going through every avenue of conversation I can think of in my head, trying to find the one that would get through to him. The one that would get through to Jupiter.

He waits, observing me as scenario after scenario flit through my brain, each one less helpful than the last.

This isn’t going to work.

“I think,” I take a breath, then exhale the end of my sentence, “that you should go home.”

He does not let me go, turn around, and exit my house. Because of course he doesn’t.

“You don’t know how to talk to me,” he mumbles, teeth pulling on his lower lip and eyes wandering as he thinks.

I wait, the same as he did with me, doing my very best to resist the urge to physically push him out my door. I can give him the same allowances he’s given me. It’s the polite thing to do. And definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that pushing him would be about the same as pushing a tree.

“Okay,” he says at last, then repeats, “Okay. You don’t have to talk to me then.”

Relief courses through me, sweet and swift, only to be ripped away when he continues.

“You’ll write me. Right now. Where’s your desk?” he asks, head swiveling. “Is it in your room?”

Before I can answer, he lets go of one of my fists and spins me by the other, lifting it over my head as I twist so that when my back is to him, our arms are crossed in front of me. He is, essentially, one-arm hugging me from behind.

“Is it this way?” His front presses into my back as he moves, aiming us toward the hallway that leads to my bedroom and bathroom.

I gurgle what could be a response, probably, if you tilt your head and squint real hard.

He takes my gurgle to be an affirmative and continues pushing us onward until we reach my bedroom door, which I oh-so-conveniently left wide open for any ole home invader to locate first try. How very hospitable of me.

Jove wastes no time finding my desk and setting me up at it before he flops onto my bed, dwarfing the full-size mattress.

“You can write. I’ll hang here until you’re done,” he says, as if he is not lounging on my peachy, princessy four-poster bed beneath my peachy, princessy artwork being lit by my peachy, princessy mood lighting.

My eyes travel from his black and white hair, down the angles of his face, across his white t-shirt, over his ripped jeans, alllllll the way to his dangling boots.

What. Is. Happening.

“You’re on my bed,” I state.

He hums. “Yes, and you’re at your desk, where you’ll be writing a letter to me so that we can get back to good communication.” He wiggles deeper into my mound of pillows, then pulls out a knife from his pocket, absentmindedly flicking it open and shut.

I do not move. “I… asked you to go home, right? Because I’m pretty sure I asked you to go home.”

“You did,” he affirms. “But if I go home, that’ll be the last I ever hear from you. You’re freaked, and you’re not talking it out, which means you’ll get more and more freaked before you decide that your best course of action is to pretend nothing ever happened. That nothing being our entire friendship. I’ve already lived a month without you in my life. I’m not willing to live a lifetime of that misery just because you don’t know how to talk to me.” His knife clicks as he flicks it open again, then shut. “You do know how to write me, though. So until we figure out how to do in-person communication, you’ll do that instead.” Another flick, flick. “I’m not leaving this room until you’ve put a stamp on that envelope, Lyra.”

I blink. I gulp. I… turn around, pull out an envelope, and get to work, the quicker to get Jove Rogue out of my house.

I firmly ignore the sound of metal on wood, because who cares if he cuts up my bed frame? He can afford to replace it. And he will, I think, adding the demand to a sticky note so I don’t forget to put it in my letter.

More sticky notes join the first one, some with notes on what I want to say, some with ideas for how I want it to look. I lose myself in the task, moving on to other supplies and other parts of the process until, eventually, I find myself at the end, a fully formed letter in my hand.

Bless.

Goodbye, Jove.

Chapter Thirteen

Man logic is wildly entertaining.

Jove

Lyra is a miracle worker.

It’s been three days since I’ve seen her, and I’ve written more words in those three days than I did all last month. I’ve never felt this inspired. Ever. She’s a miracle worker and a wonder drug, and I. Need. More.

“Give me my letter,” I demand, stepping up to the counter at the post office.

Brianna’s right eyebrow rises above her glasses, and she puffs a bit of hair out of her face. “Sorry, what was the name?”

“I’m in a good mood, Bri. Don’t ruin it.”

Her other eyebrow moves, meeting its sister. “A good mood?”

“And steadily decreasing,” I reply. “My letter?”

“Where did you find a good mood?” she asks, decidedly not retrieving my mail. “And can it be recreated?”

If she ruins my Lyra high, I’m setting this entire building ablaze.

“Brianna,” I snap. “Get. Me. My. Letter.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask Mars about it instead,” she mutters before wandering into the back room. She returns minutes later with my letter – and a couple hundred other, much less important ones.

“I just want the one from Lyra,” I tell her. “That other stuff can stay here until next time.” Or forever. I’m not picky.

“I’m under strict orders to make you take everything, and you know it,” she retorts.

I scowl. “Mars doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’ll get them next time.”

She snorts. “If I let you get away with leaving them this time, you’ll try to get away with leaving them in the future too. No, sir. No, thank you. I’m not getting stuck with your mail hanging around, and I’m definitely not getting stuck with a cross Mars when he finds out I didn’t listen to his directives. You can have them all or you can have none. What’s it going to be?”

I hate her.

“Mars needs better friends,” I reply.

“Uh huh,” she says. “Because a friend that does what he asks of her is a bad one indeed. Totally.” Her head shakes. “Sign the screen, bozo.”

I do, eye twitching, and the counter trembles as she hefts the box of mail onto it with a thud.

“Thanks for doing business with us!” she chirps. “Have a good day!”

“I was having a good day,” I grumble, snatching the box and exiting the building. Brianna’s giggles follow me out.

I sigh as I settle into my truck in front of the post office, grabbing Lyra’s letter from the top of the stack. I can’t help but smile as I take in the dainty lines that make up my name.

Jupiter Rogue.

Even as she adjusts to me being Jove, it’s good to see that I am still Jupiter to her, if only in our letters.

Not bothering to wait until I get home, I flip the envelope and carefully peel the flap on the back, being extra gentle so as not to rip the otter sticker she put over the seam.

An ocean theme? Or… no, I see. River. River otters, beavers, and frogs decorate the hunk of cardstock inside the envelope, showing themselves proudly as I unveil each inch of letter. One frog has a thought bubble depicting the completely ridiculous statement that Friends don’t hold friends hostage.

What utter nonsense.

My jaw relaxes as I flip open the letter, teeth unclenching and brows unfurrowing. Tension bleeds from me, seeping into the seats of my truck and below, losing itself in the earth, far from me – far from the beauty that is a Lyra letter.

The more I unfold, the more peace invades, until I’m almost as content as I was several nights ago lying in Lyra’s bed carving butterflies into her bed posts while she spent hours making this for me before unceremoniously booting me from her bed, room, and then, finally, house.

Hostage or not, she spared no expense, putting just as much care into her creation for me as she ever has. River rock shaped pockets hold sticker gifts. A series of paper water rings held together by a brad closure twist, constructing an interactive ripple for me to play with.

A catfish holds an intricately folded bit of paper labeled Worms Words for you in its mouth. I chuckle and fish it out, making a mental note of how it unfolds so that I might be able to recreate it to put it back.

Then, I read.

Dear Jupiter,

I can’t believe you’re in my house. I can’t believe you’re a boy. I can’t believe you’re carving who knows what into my bed, as if that is at all sane or legal.

You can’t just show up at someone’s house and demand they write you a letter, you know? That’s not cool behavior.

I mean, okay, one could argue that my behavior hasn’t been exactly cool either. I definitely should have written you back sooner. Communication, like you said. From your end, I can see how this would’ve been concerning. But still.

You’re you, you know? Jove Rogue, town scary and a definite member of the male sex. Not Jupiter, my hilarious, thoughtful, sweet girl best friend.

We’ve been writing to each other for so long that to find out now that you’re a man? It feels like my whole life has been a lie. Everything I’ve ever known is suddenly so different, with different layers and subtext and connotations. So much of what I’ve told you I never ever ever would have if I had known you were you.

You get that, right? Clearly you’ve known who I am, but if you hadn’t? I don’t think you would have taken this kind of reveal well at all. It’s upending. It’s earth shattering. It’s a wowIdon’twanttodealwiththisrightnowsoIwon’t type of reveal.

I know you want communication, but… to be fully honest, I’m not sure what to say to you anymore. It feels different. You feel different.

I don’t know if this is ever going to work again. I can’t promise you that it will, all things considered. If it doesn’t… if this is my last letter to you…

Well, Jupiter really was a good friend to me, and I will always always treasure that.

Seriously, don’t accost women in their houses,

Lyra

P.S. I’ll expect a check for a new bed frame, Mr. Rich.

Hm. I don’t much like the sound of that. Except for that bit about me giving her money. I will gladly give her as much money as she likes. Everything else though? Not at all conducive to my plans for more Lyra high. She appears to be under the delusion that we won’t be speaking again – via letter or otherwise.

What a silly, silly girl.

I need her.

And, frankly, she needs me.

Lyra’s a romantic at heart. Soft and sweet and so willing to see the good in people that it gets her walked on, over and over again. In her bones, she wants to believe that there is beauty in this world and in every inhabitant of it. She isn’t weak for it, though. In many ways it makes her stronger than I could ever imagine being, but it does open her up to certain hurts and disappointments that someone more cynical could avoid.

Not to mention, as beautiful and wonderful as Lyra is, she never seems to understand it – to get that she is deserving of every single good thing the world has to offer. I wouldn’t argue that I’m a good thing, but my friendship? That’s golden. Lyra should have someone who would crime for her. Someone who would kill for her.

That’s me.

And I’ll be flagged if she’s going to get rid of me.

So I guess I’ll just have to find a way to convince her not to.

Setting the letter aside, I lean back and ponder. Convincing Lyra to do something she doesn’t want to do? Normally not a difficult task. Doing it in a way that doesn’t feel manipulative, bulldozing, or just plain mean? Peak difficulty. I want her to feel loved and cared for, not harassed.

So where’s the balance? How do I spend time with her, encourage her, shield her, and receive the goodness that is just being near her without breaking her?

I frown at my windshield, eyes absently following Brianna’s boyfriend, Malor, as he approaches the post office, presumably to pick his girlfriend up for her lunch break. As he disappears inside the building, my head tilts, then it tilts the other way when he reappears with Brianna, arm thrown over her shoulder.

She laughs at something he says, more joyous than she’s ever been in my presence, and he smiles down at her, a man enthralled.

Ah.

I lean forward, observing them as he holds a car door for her, waiting until she’s safely inside the vehicle before shutting it. He whistles as he rounds the car, spinning his keys on his finger. A man thoroughly enthralled.

Aha, aha.

I’m so stupid. It’s glaringly obvious.

The fastest way to get inspired by my adorably romantic bestie while protecting her from every bad thing this world has to offer?

I date her, of course.

Chapter Fourteen

Don’t consume tears. It’s probably illegal.

Lyra

Jove is at my house… again.

Is my home a magnet for Rogue brothers now? A visit from Jove where he strongarms me into writing him back has now turned into three – three! – Rogue visits, including this one. First, it was Jove, carving up my bed posts and demanding communication. Then, a few days later, Mars shows up “to buy flowers”. At my front door. After working hours, despite them being clearly listed on the sign he passed to reach my door.

Unfortunately for me, a sale is a sale, and a scary maniac is a scary maniac. So I led him to the nursery and sold him some flowers through my horrified anxiety over the possibility of him mentioning his brother or my connection to him. Or, even scarier, spying for his brother.

Spying on what, I couldn’t say, especially when all he did was purchase a slew of potted orchids and leave, balancing them in his bike basket with such skill that I nearly forgot he was a scary maniac and asked him to show me how to do it myself.

Still.

Spooky.

Almost as spooky as Jove being on my doorstep for the second time in as many weeks.

“I wrote you your letter!” I protest through the little window on my front door. “You’re supposed to stay away now!”

His lips compress, and wrinkles appear beside his eyes. “I wrote you back,” he says, holding up a huge, irregularly shaped… something.

I squint at it. That’s not an envelope. It’s way too big to be an envelope. It’s…

Oh.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I scramble, stuttering over the lock in my haste to flip it free, then rip the door open to the deep rumble of Jove’s laughter, grabbing for my pretty, shimmery, giant comma butterfly.

He holds it above his head, out of my reach.

“Jupiter!” I whine, stretch stretch stretching in vein as I jump for my letter. “I want!”

In my hopping, his feet end up under mine, knocking me off balance until I’m falling, landing against his chest.

He hums, teasing, and an arm hooks around my waist to pull me tightly against him. “I’ll give it to you inside,” he says.

I have, once again, found myself in a dangerous situation due to my letter-induced tunnel vision excitement. First I’m almost run over by old man Norman, then I’m pressed up against the town Scary on my porch. What’s next? I follow a trail of ephemera straight off a cliff?

My goodness, I’m like a little crow.

“Crows are cute,” Jove says, possibly reading my mind, possibly responding to words I did not mean to say out loud. Who could say?

“This is bribery,” I inform him, pushing backward to get away from his really flagging solid chest. Does criminal behavior usually make a person so fit?

“Yes,” he answers, body following mine until we’re past my door frame and standing firmly in my living room, chest no farther from me than it was outside. “Blatant bribery, in fact. Can’t forget our adjectives.”

“I do love adjectives,” I tell him. “So why don’t you unwrap your sturdy, uninvited arms from around me, hand me that incredible, splendiferous butterfly, then walk your long, well-working legs back to your old, perfectly-running truck before you head to your cozy, safe home?”

“You’re acting uncharacteristically sassy today,” he replies. “Maybe you need your best friend here to put you in a better mood, hm?”

“You’re not my best friend.” I wiggle out of his arm and take a nice big step back, then wince. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he assures me. “Because I know you’re lying.”

I’m really not. Jupiter is my best friend. Jove is… scary. And scary is not my best friend. Surely.

I move to the living room, putting some distance between me and my not-so-welcome guest. “Do you need something? Besides dropping that off?” I ask, deluding myself into thinking I could possibly understand the machinations of Jove Rogue.

“Yes, actually, but we can talk about it after you read my letter,” he replies, dropping his arm now that I’m further away.

Um.

“I was thinking you could leave that with me, then I could write you back, then you could write me back, then we could repeat that several hundred more times.” Or zero times, since I won’t be writing him back. I will be playing crow with my butterfly and never answering my door again.

“Let’s start with you reading the letter, then we can talk about how we’ll handle things going forward. Okay?”

A jolt goes through me, sharp and uncomfortable. I couldn’t talk to him last time. Why does he think I’m going to be able to this time? Nothing has changed.

“Here,” he says, holding the butterfly out to me. “Read. The letter is tucked into the top of the right wing when you open her up.”

He approaches, gently passing her to me before skirting around me to make himself at home on my couch.

I look at him, then I look at my shiny new present, which he appears to have made out of recycled cardboard, painting it to resemble a comma butterfly, except in peach. Lyra’s Lovelies is scrawled across one wing above an intricate bit of lace ribbon, which holds the wings shut.

I run my finger along the lace, then over the classic comma shape on the butterfly’s lower wing that gives the species its name.

I suppose it couldn’t hurt anything to have a look. You know. To be polite. It’s common courtesy, really, and everyone deserves common courtesy, even criminals.

Keeping every civil rule I’ve ever learned in mind, I untie my butterfly to reveal the inside and nearly expire on the spot. I was not ready. It’s gorgeous.

Everything is peach. Butterflies litter the space, 3D wings flashing as they reach off the page. A row of hand-drawn ants march the scallop-edged perimeter of the wing edge, then disappear into a paper pocket labelled Momentos. A soft pink origami heart peeks out, as familiar to me as the freckles on my skin.

I know that heart. I made that heart after many, many trials and errors to send to Jupiter for our first Valentine’s Day as friends. Dried blood stains one of the folds, a leftover from the papercuts I gave myself trying to fold the paper just right, convinced that if I gave the best Valentine, I could prove myself worthy of friendship. Or at least con Jupiter into thinking I was.

More scraps stick up behind the heart, the nostalgia of them tugging at my soul and constricting my throat.

“Top right wing,” Jove repeats softly. “You can look at the rest later. A gift for you.”

I blink.

Right.

Letter. Read. Common Decency.

Ignoring the rest of the butterfly’s insides – including fern fronds made of paper fringe and stars scattered into constellations of caterpillars – I direct my gaze to the top right wing, where I do indeed find a letter. Folded. Into a leaf.

“What’s the theme here?” I ask. “Nature but in peach?”

Jove hums. Always with the humming. Goodness. “The theme is you, Ly. All your favorite things, and all my favorite things about you.”

“Oh,” I wheeze.

Just.

Run me over with an eighteen-wheeler, please.

In the absence of any conveniently timed semis, I gently take off the washi tape holding my leaf-letter shut, then set the giant butterfly on the coffee table so that I can unfold it.

A glance at Jove, a fortifying breath, and then I read.

My song,

I’m sorry. Not for coming to your house or holding you hostage, because without that, we wouldn’t be here, communicating now. You’d be at your house pretending I never existed, and I’d be at mine, gutted and unaware of what I did wrong. My hostage situation is saving us a whole lot of heartbreak, I believe.

I am sorry, though, that you seem to be under the absolutely insane notion that we won’t be continuing our friendship. I did not spend an entire summer learning about the best plants to put into a butterfly garden for nothing. I certainly didn’t spend a month tearing myself apart at the mere thought of losing you just for you to give me a “Welp, that was nice, goodbye forever!”

Sorry, my darling, it’s simply not happening. I’m here and I’m not leaving. I need you. I need your sweetness and your jokes and your kindness. I need your thoughtfulness. I need those little moments where the beauty of your soul shines so bright, I wonder if it could be lightening the darkness within my own.

I want to be here for you. I want to love you and protect you in whatever capacity you let me, just the way I’ve always been. Well… maybe not exactly the way I’ve always been, because if you haven’t been avoiding me for the reasons I thought, then I can love and protect you even better now – not from afar, but up close, where I can see more, say more, do more. I love you just as dearly as I ever have. Me, Jove. Your friend.

Because, lovely, as much as you’d like to separate the Jupiter of your letters from the Jove in your living room, the reality is that I am and always have been both. I’ve never lied to you. I’ve never purposefully misled you or manipulated you. I’ve given you the inner parts of me that no one else, outside of my brother, has ever seen, the same as you’ve given me those parts of yourself.

I’ve told you about my mom. About how much I loved her. About how much I miss her. I’ve told you about my dad and how lost he is without her. I’ve told you about dumber things too, like when I had that weird mole that I was convinced and terrified was cancer. You were with me every step of the way to finding out it wasn’t, and you were with me again when I had kidney stones and thought I was dying.

For every embarrassing moment you’ve had, I’ve matched you. For every secret you’ve told, I’ve told one too. For every bit of yourself you’ve gifted me, I’ve torn off chunks of myself to gift back, praying to the heavens that it would only be enough for you to keep loving me.

You’re my Lyra.

I’m your Jupiter.

And we always, always will be.

To the soaring skies and back,

Jupiter

P.S. I’ll write you as many checks as you like. You know this.

An eighteen-wheeler is too good for me. I deserve a much slower death.

Wet spots smatter the pale green paper when I finish, and a new one emerges as a tear falls from my nose to land on Jupiter’s name at the bottom of the page.

This is… wow. Okay. Wow.

If I didn’t already know I’m a terrible person, I certainly would now.

I’m here rejecting Jove to his face on the basis of… what? The stuff he’s done to other people? It’s never bothered me much before, but now it does? Why? I’ve let people do much worse things to me than he’s ever done to anyone else, and he’s not done anything at all to me, except for exactly what he’s written here – love me, support me, and protect me.

Meanwhile, I’ve been throwing a fit and acting like a judgemental baby because my beloved pen pal wasn’t what I expected them to be in real life.

“I’m horrible,” I mumble, daring to peek at Jove.

His feet rest on the coffee table as he lounges on the couch, head tilted back and eyes aimed at the ceiling. At my words he jolts, feet hitting the floor with a clunk as he stands.

“Honey, no,” he soothes, stepping over the coffee table to get to me and wrap me in his arms. “You’re wonderful. And beautiful. And the best friend I’ve ever had.”

I hiccup, and the leaf-letter floats to the floor as my hands move to fist his shirt. “No, you’re right. You’ve been nothing but good to me for the entire time I’ve known you, then one thing doesn’t go the way I think it should, and I throw a tantrum?” I shake my head. “That’s awful. Even if you are big and scary to everyone else, I’ve only ever seen you be big and scary in defense of your brother, and you’ve never once been big and scary at me. Except for that time with the ax, but I don’t think you meant to be that time. I don’t think you realize that axes are scary. You’ve always been a little bit oblivious.” A breath staggers into my lungs, and he seizes the opportunity to interrupt.

“I’m not scary,” he says. “Unless you’re someone who deserves it. You don’t deserve it, and you never will, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

I nod. “I know. I know. Which is why it’s so stupid how I’ve been acting. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

His chin rests on the top of my head as he shushes me. “You’re fine,” he murmurs. “Forgiven. Always. All I want is a life with you. I don’t care if I have to work for it sometimes, so long as this is where we end up. Together.”

Gut me, why don’t you.

“Together,” I repeat. “If you’re sure.”

He scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m sure. You think I strong arm my way into just anybody’s house?”

Um… “Yes?”

He chuckles, pulling back to find my face. “Well, I don’t,” he says, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. His eyes lock, considering, on the wetness dusting his thumb before he puts it in his mouth, sucking the salty liquid off his skin.

My jaw drops.

“Are we good?” he asks, as if he did not just drink my tears.

“Uh,” I answer, intelligent as ever.

His brows furrow. “We’re not good? You wrote me a letter. I replied.” He points at the butterfly on the table. “Communication. Apology. Forgiveness.” He gestures between us. “Hugging.” He frowns. “What’s not good?”

Oh, I don’t know, the way you just drank my flagging tears???

I don’t say that though. Looking at his face, the genuine concern on it – the intense way he is so determined for us to be good – I can only say one thing.

“We’re good, Jupiter.”

Chapter Fifteen

Spicy chicken nuggets make everything better.

Lyra

“Ordering delivery when everything in this town is, at most, a twenty minute bike ride away is a total waste of money,” I remark as Jove shoves a one-hundred dollar bill at the terrified teenager on my porch, snatching the Wendy’s bag from the poor kid’s hand.

“Good,” Mr. Rich responds, flicking my door shut.

Right. Of course. My bad.

Jove rejoins me at the couch, where I’ve been sitting squished up in the corner, legs tucked neatly against my chest as we converse. Or. While he converses, mostly, and I wonder how I ended up in my living room with arguably the most avoided man in town. Arguable only because his brother also lives here.

As he settles back into his corner – way on the other side of the couch, bless all – my question is answered in the best of ways.

“I got a couple of twenty piece spicy nuggets for us to share and a cheesy cheddar burger for you, fries, and all of the sauces so you can do your thing,” he says, nose wrinkling as he digs through the bag, setting each item on the coffee table carefully before snagging two little plastic pots of honey mustard for himself. The rest of the sauces he leaves for me so that I may have the joy of dipping my nuggets in every single one of them to create the Ultimate Sauce, a joy Jupiter mistakenly believes is horrendous.

He knows me so well, all the way down to my not-quite-on-the-menu burger order and my frankensauce love. Knows and remembers, ordering food without any input from me when I had escaped to the bathroom twenty minutes ago to have a minor what the flag moment alone. And he got it all correct, despite the fact that we’ve never once eaten together.

“I wanted to discuss something with you,” he says as he divvies up the nuggets, ten for me and thirty for him. “A bit of a scheme, really, that I think would be mutually beneficial.”

“A mutually beneficial scheme?” I ask, sliding my legs into a criss-cross position as I take my nuggets, opening a line of sauces on the coffee table beside me, which Jove slides closer to us for easy reach. “I literally just got accustomed to you being you. Sort of. Do you think we’ve graduated to schemes already?” We haven’t even graduated to the same side of the couch.

Jove hums. “Well, we are lifelong best friends. I heard lifelong best friends scheme together all the time. It was in the training modules.”

I shove a multi-dipped spicy nugget in my mouth and chew slowly to buy some time.

He’s not wrong, exactly. But. I do not want to end up in jail. Or an FBI watch list. Or that tv show where they deep dive into the seedy underbelly of small town America.

My nugget time runs out.

“What sort of scheme?” I ask, throwing up orange cones and caution signs in my head.

“The sort of scheme where you help me research for books, and I help you by being big and scary to anyone who would hurt or take advantage of you.”

My nerve endings light, excitement making me bounce.

Jove and his brother are the duo behind the pen name Rouge – like the last name I thought they had – a wildly successful, award-winning dark romance author who happens to write my very favorite books in the entire world. Not because I’m biased or anything. And definitely not because they’ve named several main characters after me, parsing my name into bits and pieces until the options ran out. Nope. It is, in fact, because the writing is superb, the characters are hilarious, and the romance is swoon. Red flags everywhere, just like we want in our fictional men. Emphasis on fictional.

A bookshelf dedicated to my collection of Rouge books, all signed special editions courtesy of the authors themselves, lives in my bedroom. Framed character art breaks up the different series, as well as themed bookmarks and candles and plushies and literally any other merch you could possibly conceive. No corner of the internet remains safe from my credit card when it comes to Rouge-inspired merch. I will find it, and I will buy it.

The opportunity to help Jove with research now is like… It’s like my last name. Gold. I’d give my left foot for any involvement in the production of one of Rouge’s books.

“Yes,” I blurt. “I’ll help.”

Jove’s mouth twitches at my enthusiasm before he shoves a handful of fries in it. Plain. Not a single, tiny bit of sauce on them.

Wild.

“You’ll help?” he asks. “You don’t even know what sort of research I need done.” His eyes track the movement of my shoulders as I wiggle, buzzing.

“Whatever you need,” I assure him, then gasp. “Does this mean I’ll get early information about what you’re working on?” Usually he’s a steel trap when it comes to his current projects. Something about spoilers being bad for the environment? Total nonsense. I think he just likes to torture me.

The only information I have on what he’s working on right now is that he’s suddenly started saying “flag” in replacement of his favorite cuss because the book is, for some reason, about Flag Day.

His whole body shifts, twisting toward me on the couch, and then he leans.

Wide-eyed, I freeze as his face nears mine.

“Whatever I need, huh?” he asks. “You’re being pretty loose with your promises.”

Ah. Ha. Haha. Am I? “I’d really like to help,” I reply. “Because you’re my friend, of course, but also because your books are amazing and magical and the perfect escape and the chance to be even a small part of making that perfect escape come to life is so… wow. You know? My reader heart is soaring. I’m not Lyra, your friend, right now. I am Lyra, your total fangirl, and fangirl Lyra is losing her mind.”

Jove is close enough that his eyes have to flick back and forth to look at mine, determining the veracity of my words.

My hands twist in my lap, and I do my very best to look like the world’s best researcher, willing him not to change his mind about wanting my help.

“Would you like to know what I need?” he murmurs, head tilting.

I nod maybe a touch too vigorously, judging by the light of amusement that sparks in his eyes.

“What I need, sweet Lyra, is a girlfriend,” he says.

“I’ll do i-” Wait. Did he just say… “What?” I wheeze. “What did you say?”

Chapter Sixteen

Girlfriends are fishy.

Jove

“A girlfriend,” I repeat.

Lyra’s mouth opens. Shuts. Opens. Shuts. She looks like a cute little fish.

“So you’ll help?” I ask, reaching up to squish her cheeks. Blub, blub. Fishy, fishy.

She makes a noise somewhat reminiscent of a balloon deflating.

I squish her once more before dropping my hand.

“Not for real, of course,” I say, letting her off the hook, fun as it was to dangle her. “Dating for fake to help me research for my Flag Day book. I’m trying to take on some of the more romantic bits to take pressure off of Mars and to contribute equally for probably the first time ever, but I’m truly abysmal at human relationships. The only decent ones I have are with you and Mars, and he told me in no uncertain terms that he would not be helping me with this. Partially because he doesn’t think I need to pull more weight and partially because fake dating your brother is frowned upon.”

“Frowned upon, huh?” she mutters, still somewhat blubby.

“Mm,” I confirm. “Frowned upon. And so, as you can see, you’re my only hope.”

Blub, blub. Then, “Could you… hope a little further?”

I frown. “You don’t want to date me?”

“Fake,” she adds weakly. “Fake date you.”

“You don’t want to fake date me?”

“Is there- Can you- I mean to say… can’t you just watch a couple of romcoms or something? What do you need me for?”

“Ah,” I sigh, plucking her cardboard sleeve of chicken nuggets out of her lap and setting it on the table. My body twists until my back is to the couch and my head is hovering over the space the nuggets previously occupied. No hesitation, I plop my head in her lap. “The thing is,” I start, looking up her nose. “I tried that, and it didn’t work. The only time I’ve had any sort of a decent writing day recently is after the last time we hung out. You’re inspiration, Ly. I’ve never met anyone more romantic than you. It permeates everything around you – your home, your air, your presence. A few hours in your bedroom, surrounded by your world, and I had enough fuel to get me through several thousand words. And we weren’t even trying! Imagine how many words I could get down after a date? I’ll have the book finished in a month.”

Her nose hairs leave my sight somewhere around me calling her an inspiration, replaced by incredulous grass-green eyes, which grow ever wider the longer I speak.

“Date?” she squeaks, blinking rapidly.

My brows furrow. “You’re right. Just one probably isn’t enough for proper research. Multiple would be much better, and probably reduce my estimated timeline by weeks.”

Blub. Blub. Blink.

“Jove, people don’t go on research dates in real life,” she tells me, as if I give one flag about what people do. She hesitates then, like she wants to say more, but doesn’t.

Hm. I don’t like that. “And what else?”

Her eyes dart away from mine, then return, and she gulps. Visibly, she bolsters. “And I’m unsure I want to end up in prison, which is where I’m pretty sure a date with you would land me. Do you have any legal pastimes? Outside of letters?”

Well. She might have a point there.

“What if I promise not to have you do anything questionable as far as the law is concerned?”

“And not to do anything questionable yourself, thus making me an accessory to whatever crimes you commit?”

I scowl. “What if they really deserve it?”

“Who would ‘deserve it’ enough that you’d need to exact revenge in the middle of a date? How is that supposed to help with research?”

Uh… “I write dark romance,” I remind her. “As far as I’m aware, the crime and revenge are half of what the girlies love.”

“Crime and revenge aren’t what you’re struggling to write, though, are they? It’s the…” She coughs. “Romance?”

Another fair point.

It takes some effort, but I manage to rearrange my face in such a way that I’m no longer scowling. I am, instead, pouting. “Fine,” I grunt. “No crimes on our dates. Strictly romance.”

She freezes, eyes darting again. “Are you sure there isn’t some other girl you could, I don’t know, real date?”

Ew. Gross. Vehemently no.

I say as much, and her shoulders sag.

“Dearheart,” I murmur, “I must reiterate. I care only for my brother and for you. If you can’t help me, I’ll be back to what I was doing before – butchering romance dialogue and slogging through every character interaction attempting and failing to give them chemistry instead of a horrible, dry awkwardness between them. I can do it, and Mars can fix it, and everything will probably be fine, but… I’ll hate it. Every moment of it.” I remove myself from Lyra’s lap, but don’t decrease our proximity. My hands land on her shoulder as I sit close enough for one of my legs to dig under hers, half positioning her in my own lap. “I don’t like feeling like a burden, whether Mars thinks I am or not. It’s enough that I think I am. That I know exactly how much work he puts into fixing my mistakes and making up for my pitfalls. I hear him in his room when he edits, muttering curses and complaints and a thousand why, Joveys. I make things hard for him.” I inhale through my nose, deep, before letting it out through my mouth, ignoring the sting in my eyes as I go on. “I don’t want to make things hard for him. My Mars deserves the world, Ly. I can’t give it to him, try as I might, but I can give him this. I can get good so that he doesn’t have to experience so much frustration and annoyance. I just…” My hands squeeze, compulsive, on her shoulders. “I need help. If you’re willing. If you can.” Green on green, our eyes grapple. “Please,” I whisper.

She blinks hard, sniffing, then her hands slide over my skin, thumbs wiping wayward wetness off my cheeks. “Okay, Jupiter,” she says softly. So softly. “I’ll help you.”

Relief floods me. “Thank you, my song. You won’t regret it.”

Her bottom lip pulls in, snagged by anxious teeth. “I’m not sure about that,” she says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

I smile, grateful, and pull her in for a hug, squeezing until she puffs, reminding me she needs to breathe.

“Okay,” I say, letting her go. “Extreme friendship schemes laid. Now we can focus on what matters most.” I snag her nuggets, giving them back to her. “Food.”

She huffs a not-quite-laugh and grabs her remote off the coffee table. “Do you want to watch something while we eat?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for my answer, queuing up The Iron Giant – my all time favorite movie – with a few quick button mashes.

I practically purr. “Absolutely I do,” I answer, knocking my shoulder into hers as I relax into the couch, her legs still half on mine. My hand falls to rest on her thigh as the other transports a deliciously spicy nugget from her carton to my mouth.

She eyes my hand, and her nugget, but says nothing, lips smooshing together until they turn a pale, pinkish white.

Man, real life Lyra is nowhere near as mouthy as pen pal Lyra.

Stealing another nugget, I consider how fun it will be to pull the mouthy out of her.

And then I grin.

“One more thing,” I say, gathering our food trash into the empty Wendy’s bag as the movie credits roll.

Lyra’s eyes dart to me, and she freezes, breath halting mid-inhale.

I sigh. “Relax, my song. Would I ever hurt you?”

Golden hair swishes as she shakes her head, making a point to finish her breath. “Sorry,” she says. “You’re just so…” She gestures at me, and I nod.

“That I am. However, all of that just so happens to be in your corner. You know that.”

She winces, and an endearingly pink blush steals over her face. “I do. I’m sorry. I think it’ll just take some time before I can fully reconcile you being Jupiter and you being Jove. I’ll try harder to make that happen quick, though. I don’t mean to make you feel bad.”

I frown. “You’re not making me feel bad. The issue is that you feel uncomfortable when you don’t need to, and I don’t like you feeling any negative thing. I want you happy. Comfortable. Content. The opposite of on edge. Sassy like in your letters. Sweet like in your blood. Every good thing. You know?”

She blubs, adorable, then blurts, “Maybe don’t give we need to talk energy if you don’t want me to be uncomfortable?”

Ah, mouthy Lyra. Bless all.

My heart rate kicks up, adrenaline rushing through my blood. “Time for play,” I mumble. Then, louder, “I said ‘one more thing’. In what world does that give we need to talk energy?”

My breath stalls in my lungs as she hesitates, and I bite my cheek. Come on, Lyra love. Play with me.

“Every world?” she replies finally, and a pleased smile stretches across my face.

“Name three,” I order, all things obnoxious.

“Name three worlds?” she huffs. “Are you serious?”

“Dead,” I confirm. “Go ahead, name them.”

“Earth, Vulcan, and Andoria,” she counters.

I snort. “Are those Star Trek worlds?”

“Maybe,” she hedges. “Does that make a difference?”

“No,” I laugh. “It’s just adorable.”

Another blush washes over her cheeks. “What was your one more thing?” she asks.

Ah. “Right,” I say. “One more thing.” My brows furrow as I frown. “The letter.”

Her fingers twist together, and she glances at her butterfly, lower lip caught between her teeth. “The letter? You’re not taking it back, are you?”

What am I, a monster? “Of course I’m not taking it back. That’s yours to keep forever. I’m talking about the letter you’re going to write to me.”

She blinks, oh so innocent. “What about the letter I’m going to write you?”

“Mainly that I want it to actually happen, and I don’t trust that you’ll write it if I leave.”

Her mouth forms a cute little o, convincing exactly no one of her intention to write me back.

“You’re not fooling me,” I tell her. “You’re more likely to close the door on me and immediately start freaking out about me, our friendship, our movie night, our schemes, and our nugget sharing than you are to sit down and create a reply. Or, if you do sit down to reply to me, you’ll work yourself up about trying to match energies. As if I need a huge papier-mâché insect to be happy when I am, and always have been, content with your scraps.”

Blub, then, “You’re rather verbose.”

I snort. “Did you think the man who wrote you page-long letters and weaves words together for a living wouldn’t be verbose?”

Her eyes wander to the side, considering, then meander back. “That does make sense. I haven’t ever seen you talk much in person, I guess. At school? Or around town. You usually let your actions speak for you.”

“Show don’t tell,” I respond. “The first rule you learn when you start writing.” My hand lifts, fingers trailing a loose strand of soft blonde hair before tucking it behind her ear. “Some people, though, deserve the thoughts behind the action.” I smile, tapping her nose. “Now, about you replying to my letter?”

She sighs. “I’m going to reply to your letter, Jupe. I promise.”

“Excellent. Could I get that in writing? While I watch, perhaps?”

“Jove, seriously, I promise,” she says.

“Lyra, seriously, I heard you,” I counter.

“Fine,” she capitulates after a long, long pause. “But I’m doing it at the table. You’ve brought down the value of my bedframe by about 500%. I’m not letting you do any more damage.”

“No worries,” I say, rising from the couch with the trash. I head toward her kitchen to throw it away, glancing at the table as I pass it. “Your table’s looking a little bare. I’m thinking a planet or two might liven it up.”

“That’s antique, you know,” she calls from behind me.

I hum. “You got it for five bucks at an estate sale. If you don’t want it when I’m done, I’ll get you a better one that hasn’t been sullied by the ghost of Granny Past.”

She doesn’t reply as I settle into one of the dark oak, spindly chairs at her haunted table, only eying me as she hovers on the edge of the living room.

“I’ll be right back,” she says eventually, squinting at the flash of my pocketknife in my hand. “I have to get my stuff.”

I nod, and the knife spins its approval. “I’ll be here.”

As long as she’ll let me.

And, possibly, even if she won’t.

Always and forever, I’ll be here for my Lyra.

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter titles are hard, and I don’t want to.

Jove

“And here you can see that these ones have a more ovular end, right? Compared to the classic flag, it’s much more homey, much less sharp. The people who have this flag aren’t rule followers. They’re loose. They’re fun. They’re carefree!”

I nod, captivated – for possibly the first time ever – by a Brianna mail rant.

She does this occasionally. Some new stamp gets released or mailbox height standards in rural areas change and she has opinions. Opinions that I am forced to listen to if I want to get my mail, which, of course, I do. She once locked one of Lyra’s letters in the cash register until I listened to her full monologue on the overabundance of floral stamps.

Usually, I’m uninterested.

Usually, she’s not talking about flags – red flags to be exact.

This though… this is research.

“What would you say people typically gravitate toward?” I ask, eyes roving the catalog laid out on the mail counter. “And which shade of red?”

A wild townie appears with five hundred questions about how to ship a package, and I have to wait before Brianna can answer. My thumb taps the counter.

How difficult is shipping a package, really? You slap a shipping label on it and give it to Brianna. Brianna waves her magic mail wand, and it gets where it needs to go. Problem solved. Easy. Why would anyone need to know whether or not their box is going to be “scanned by those freaky red lasers” in the process?

“They’re going to scan it,” I interrupt Brianna’s fourth reiteration of the importance of proper mail tracking to Bill Rugby, the local tire guy. “Ship it or scram. We’ve got more important things to do.” Like pinpoint which shade of red the public likes best so I can forward the information to Mars to give to Frank, our beloved cover artist.

Bill clears his throat, which does nothing to rid his voice of squeak when he replies, asking Brianna to do whatever she has to.

She assures him she will, bids him a good day, then takes approximately five hundred business days in the backroom waving her magic wand before getting back to me.

“The preferred flag color, actually, is fluorescent orange,” she informs me.

I scowl. Absolutely not. “What’s the preferred shade of red, I asked.”

“Well, it really depends on the color of the mailbox,” she does not answer me.

I revisit my plan to sabotage her mail truck.

“Brianna,” I grit. “Answer the question.”

She hems. She haws. She flirts with swift, unrepentant tire slashing.

A growl rips out of me, threatening to take the entire post office down with her.

“Oh, chill out,” she says, eyes rolling. “Bright red. Usually. But, seriously, it depends on the mai–”

“I’m leaving,” I tell her, snapping the catalog closed. “Give me my mail.”

She sniffs. “I don’t care for your tone.”

I grunt. “I don’t care for your… you.”

“Is there a reason that Mars doesn’t come to get the mail?” she asks. “He’s a lot more pleasant to be around.”

“Because Mars rides a bike,” I reply, the duh loud and clear. “What, he’s going to lug around twenty pounds of mail in his basket? Don’t be stupid.”

Brianna, unfortunately, does not know how not to be stupid. “How about you not be bossy and rude when you’re in here? It says a lot about a person how they treat service workers, you know.”

My brows slam together. “You’re not a service worker,” I refute. “You’re Brianna.”

She stares at me.

I stare back.

This goes on until the bell above the door rings, heralding more townies with more tedious questions for her to answer.

“I have service work to do,” she tells me, saccharine, before snatching my box of fan mail – and Lyra’s letter – and plonking it on the counter. “Sign the machine, sir, then you can have a wonderful day.”

Ignoring her tone, I sign, then grab the box. My middle finger may or may not be prominent from her point of view. “Until next time,” I say, all congeniality.

At home, I drop off our fan mail in Mars’ room before wandering to the kitchen with Lyra’s letter – an adorably purple thing that was nearly impossible not to sneak peeks at while she was making it. Her table has way more than a couple of planets adorning it now, all thanks to my dedication to maintaining the sanctity of the letter-making process. I’m sure the frown Lyra bid me farewell with was a frown of gratefulness for my extreme self-control as well as my contributions to her household decorating. I am, as ever, at her service.

In the kitchen, a freshly iced carrot cake calls my name. I cut a perfectly proportional piece, pour myself a glass of milk, and settle in at the table to read Lyra’s letter.

Dear Jupiter,

I’m sure you noticed, but I’m going to say it anyway. I love the butterfly. Love love love it. I know I asked if you planned to take it back, but you have to know that I would have fought you to the death if you had said yes.

It is, by far, the most beautiful, most thoughtful, most soul-moving gift I have ever gotten. I’m going to treasure it forever. I’m already running through ways I can display her and still have access to the goodness inside. I think mayb-

…

Jupiter. I’ve just glanced up, and you appear to be carving the entire milky way into my table. And is that the Starship Enterprise? I make one Star Trek reference and it’s immortalized into my table forever?

You know what. No. Nevermind. You do you. I’m not going to sass a man with a knife. Especially when he can afford to replace the table, and it’ll feel about the same to him as buying a pack of gum does to me.

You know, somehow, even with the blatant destruction of property, I’m glad you came over tonight. You feel both foreign and familiar at the same time, which is a little petrifying, but it’s nice, too. I’ve spent so much time focusing on you being Jove, I’ve forgotten to marinate on the fact that you’re also Jupiter. My Jupiter, from the letters, finally here in person. I could touch you! You exist!

I really hope I can get past my change-is-bad-and-I-hate-it scaredness to fall into the comfortable friendship you’re offering me. Quickly, preferably. I just don’t really know how? I hate asking you to be patient with me when you already have been so… well, not exactly patient. Understanding is a better word. Steadfast. Stubbornly set on keeping this friendship no matter the work it takes to make it happen. I mean, goodness, I’ve never felt so sure that someone is going to stick around – whether I’m inviting them to or not.

I know it might not seem like it, what with the fact that you terrify me and all, but I’m grateful you keep showing up. You were right in your letter – you are still my friend, the same one you’ve always been. The one who knows me better than anyone else, including my faults and embarrassing moments, and still chooses to love me enough to fight for this friendship when I’m being… well, me.

Thank you, Jupiter, for fighting for us. I’m sorry that I haven’t been doing the same.

I want to make it up to you. This dating thing is even more scary than the you being a man thing, but I promise you I will do everything that I can to make it work for you. I’m all in. Helping. Being a good friend. Proving to you that I am not totally sucky and all your efforts are worth it.

Ah, you’ve moved from the table to the chair with your carvings. I believe that means it’s time to wrap this up.

Please stop ruining my furniture,

Lyra ♥

I finish the letter frowning.

That’s an improvement, I suppose, but I’d love to get us to the point where I am no longer terrifying to her. Top priority, that. Then, we’ll work on how much she apologizes. Sweet, perfect Lyra uttering sorrys, as if she has ever been anything but perfect?

I shake my head as I shove a bite of cake into my mouth.

We’ll work on it. Maybe even while we’re researching. It can be a two birds, one stone kind of situation.

I can get knowledge and inspiration for my book, and Lyra can experience the kind of obsession one of my male leads has – an all-encompassing, intense, burn-down-the-world-for-you sort. As a result, she will see that she is worthy of all love and devotion because she is the best this world has to offer. Birds, meet stone.

Humming my satisfaction at a plan well laid, I deposit my empty plate and cup in the dishwasher, replenish Ginger the hamster’s water, and make my way to my room.

At my desk, words flow like water, flooding the pages of my manuscript with the sort of magic only Lyra can provide. I get lost in them, squeezing every last drop of inspiration out of my evening with Ly until I’m left depleted, empty, dehydrated in the desert.

I check my word count.

Five thousand added. Five thousand in… four hours.

Wild. Absolutely wild.

My arms lift above my head in a stretch, shoulders rolling, and my neck cracks. I should probably take a break from my desk. Get up. Move my body.

My eyes snag on Lyra’s letter, and I know I will not be doing any such thing. Instead, I push my laptop aside, trading it for an assortment of stickers, pens, highlighters, tapes, and papers.

“My darling Lyra,” I murmur, copying the words onto a piece of sage green stationery. “You’re welcome for the one of a kind, exclusive wood carvings…”

Chapter Eighteen

Elodie! We love Elodie!

Lyra

It’s been six days – nearly a full week – since I last saw Jove, and I am… confused. So. Flagging. Confused.

I thought we were doing the fake dating trope? So why does it feel like I’m in a miscommunication trope instead?

Except… he did communicate. Clearly. He showed up to my house, gave me the best letter I have ever received, told me he wants me in his life forever and ever, and asked me to be his fake girlfriend. At no point was he anything but straightforward.

“Do you think he changed his mind?” Elodie asks through the phone, dishes clinking in the background as water runs.

“Maybe?” I reply, speaking loudly for the speakerphone to pick up my voice as I clink my own dishes. “But he seemed so sure, you know?”

She does know, of course, because I have explained it to her. At length. Repeatedly.

“Maybe he’s trying to give you space, then? Or he’s in his writing cave doing writing cave things. Big grumpy men kind of just do whatever they want to, I’m learning. It’s like the height and the shoulders have replaced their brains.”

“Uh.” My clinking stops. “Jove isn’t really all that grumpy, honestly. Just… big. And not very worried about the law.”

“What is it about giant men that think they are above the rest of society’s rules?” she asks as her clinking escalates to more of a clunking.

Um. “El, is there something you’d like to talk about?” I ask, wondering why my happy-go-lucky, carefree cousin is suddenly sounding not so happy-go-lucky or carefree, and doubly wondering why it seems like this shift is because of a man.

Elodie is not a man-hater. Elodie is, in fact, often so loose with her affections as to cause me concern. Not for her, of course, but for the trail of broken hearts she leaves behind her, totally oblivious to the yearning she inspires. With a single look, she can have a boy so wrapped around her finger he won’t know which way is up without her telling him, but she has no clue. She’s sweet, kind, funny, and so bright it’s nearly blinding. A welcome light in a world full of darkness.

So why is she sounding more grump than sunshine right now?

On the other end of the phone, Elodie takes a huge breath in, then blows it out. “No, sorry. We’re talking about you right now.”

My brows furrow. “But-”

“It’s fine, Ly,” she interrupts. “I’m just being my usual drama. You know me.”

My mouth opens, ready to refute whatever nonsense that was, but she keeps going.

“He probably wrote you back, right? Maybe the issue isn’t Jove. Maybe the issue is the postal system?”

Huh. “The postal system,” I repeat, mulling it over. “Usually Brianna is pretty quick with it, but… I could see that.”

“There we have it, then!” she declares. “Problem solved! Your best friend doesn’t hate you, isn’t ghosting you, and definitely still wants you in his life. All of your problems are because of what usually causes all our problems. The government.”

I snort. “You’re so right.”

She laughs too, her pretty fairy laugh, and I remember all over again why Elodie has always been my favorite.

“Don’t think I forgot about your man troubles,” I tell her as our laughter dwindles down. “I want a run down on that.”

She huffs. “Yeah, yeah. When I know something, you’ll know something.”

“Oh?” I ask. “So there is something to know?”

“No,” she says. “There is absolutely not one single thing to know.”

My reply is cut short by a distant, distinctly masculine, “Sweet? You home?” coming from my phone. Possibly I choke on my shock.

“Oop,” Elodie squeaks. “Gotta go! Tell Jove I said hi! Love you, bye!”

A beep, and she’s gone.

“Sweet?” I ask the suds in my sink. “He calls her sweet?” I’m not swooning, you are.

The rest of my chore time is spent daydreaming my dear cousin’s whirlwind romance to a man who calls her sweet. These pleasant musings see me through my evening and late into the night, where they lull me to sleep, replacing worries about Jove’s lack of contact, which is sure to end soon.

Right?

Chapter Nineteen

Butterfly! Blessed!

Lyra

“Lyra.”

I scream, throwing potting soil and succulents everywhere as I spin to present my gardening trowel as a weapon. Seeing Jove’s shadow in the open doorway to the nursery deflates me, and I drop the trowel to my side.

“You scared me,” I huff as my racing heart calms.

He moves out of the doorway then, his towering form quickly making the greenhouse feel five sizes too small, and doesn’t reply.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he weaves through shelves of plants, soil, and gardening tools on his way to where I stand at my work bench in the very back of the nursery.

“It’s Friday,” he answers, as if that is supposed to mean something to me. His brows draw together as he gets closer, stepping into the light while he inspects my dirt-dusted frame. “You’re not ready.”

Soil and compost cover the skirt of my dress, marring the green butterfly pattern where I’ve rubbed my hands against it after forgetting to don my apron. A twig is tucked behind my ear, holding a blooming bluebell in place against my hair. A glance at my reflection in the greenhouse walls shows my skin freckled with dirt and sweat, a streak of mud gracing my cheek.

I am most definitely not ready. For what, though, I do not know.

“Am I supposed to be ready?” I ask, returning his inspection.

He’s dressed… well, how he normally does, but cleaner. Sharper. Crisper. Not that he’s usually dirty, exactly, but his jeans are free of holes, his shirt is one of his less worn-in ones, and his boots look like they’ve been cleaned sometime this century. I think he might even have gel in his hair, slicking back the white streak in a way that is…

Well, let’s just not think about that.

“You look nice,” I tell him, wincing. “Am I supposed to look nice?”

“You always look nice,” he replies, no hesitation. “You are supposed to be dirt-free, though. I think. I’ve never been on a date before, so possibly I’m wrong.”

“Date?” I squeak. “Right now?”

“Yes?” he asks. “It’s Friday, right?”

“Today is Friday,” I confirm. “But I don’t remember us making plans. Did you mention it in a letter? Because I haven’t gotten your letter yet.”

He shakes his head. “You agreed to help me research,” he says.

I nod. “Correct.”

“And dates are research.”

Mmhm. “Correct again.”

“And Fridays are date nights.”

Ah. “We didn’t discuss Fridays as date nights,” I tell him.

“We had to discuss it?” he asks.

I blink. “Yes, Jove, generally two people discuss when date night will be when they’re dating, fake or not.”

“But… Fridays are date nights,” he repeats, somehow managing to look adorably confused despite the height and breadth of him.

“I know we agreed to research,” I say. “But I’m not researching the miscommunication trope with you. I fear we’ve done enough of that. We’re all researched up.”

“We’re not doing the miscommunication trope,” he says. “Because everyone knows that Fridays are date nights. It’s in all of the movies and books and various other media sources. Your lack of basic knowledge does not a miscommunication trope make. Besides, we’re doing the fake dating trope with very clear communication.” He reaches behind him and pulls a thick wad of paper out of his back pocket, then holds it out to me. “Here,” he offers. “See? Communication. Clear.”

I wipe my dirty hands on my dress before taking the packet of paper from him, unfolding it to reveal Lyra and Jove’s Ultimate Dating Research Contract in bold, italicized font on the front page. Written by Jove and Mars Rogue sits below the title.

“What is this?” I ask, flipping to the first page. “‘Rules and expectations’?”

“It’s our contract,” he says. “It’s common in the trope. Mars thought it would be a good idea for us to have our own. He was pretty insistent on starting it off with the no falling in love rule. He was laughing a little maniacally as he did, saying how if we’re going to do the trope, we better do it right.” He shrugs. “Feel free to fall in love with me if you like, though. I’m tall, rich, and handsome. You could do much worse.” He scowls. “Like Brian Single.”

“Brian Single is a magnificent being of beauty and wonder,” I counter automatically, the veracity of Brian’s goodness pouring forth in the face of such horrific slander. “And this is…” Insane. “A lot.”

“Brian is an idiot,” Jove grunts. “And that’s only ten pages.”

Ten? “How long are we researching for?” I wheeze.

“I think that’s on page two,” he replies. “Under Expectations.”

He comes beside me, shoulder bumping mine as I flip to page two, which does indeed hold the expectations for this agreement.

“Do we need all this?” I ask, skimming the page-long list. “Can’t we just… talk to each other?”

Jove’s shoulder lifts against mine, then falls back down. “Yes, but having it in writing is better for us both. We’ll know exactly what to expect.” He bumps my shoulder again. “We can go over it during our date.”

Right. Because nothing screams romance like contractual obligations.

“Speaking of date…” he trails off.

My eyes flick from a concerning Jove will not be riding a bicycle to or from any of these dates. to the man himself. He looks so… sincere. We can go over the rules and expectations on our date, he says, as if it really is that simple, and to him, it is.

I need a game plan here. Jove, apparently, thinks that some combination of clear rules and winging it is appropriate. He’s a mad lad.

“Right,” I say, flipping the contract close and rolling it up into a telescope. “I’m going to go change.” And make myself a plan for surviving the evening with my nerves intact. “You can hang out in here while you wait, or you can hang out in the house. Which would you prefer?”

One of his eyebrows rises, meeting a loose strand of white hair on his forehead. “Do I want to wait in your cozy, comfortable house, or do I want to wait in a mystical fairytale land of butterflies, twinkle lights, and nature? An admittedly wonderful couch, or a bench beneath a shedding willow tree as commas and monarchs flutter by?” He tsks. “Lyra, I know you’re smarter than this.”

Something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle finds its way out of my mouth, shocking us both and causing my cheeks to flame poppy red.

“Wow,” he whispers, a small smile blooming across his face. “The song of my heart indeed.”

“I’ll just be inside!” I squeak, then clear my throat. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

He nods, lips tipped and eyes soft. “I’ll be under the willow tree.”

I nod, too, then we each head off in… the same direction. Because the willow tree is along the path I have to take to get inside my house. Which is totally not at all awkward. Obviously.

Jove walks next to me, limbs loose with the unbothered confidence he always has. Next to him, I resemble something of a nervous little mouse, dirty from a day of pilfering through people’s walls, fingers twisting painfully together with every step we take.

Thank all, the willow tree approaches, and Jove bids me a temporary farewell before finding a space on the cushioned bench beneath it. I scurry, shuffling down the mosaic pathway until I find myself at my front door, deep breathing as I unlock it.

“He’s Jupiter,” I remind myself. “Jupiter, your best friend. It’s going to be fine.”

I repeat that mantra through washing my face and arms. Through exchanging my dirty, butterfly-printed dress for a clean, lemon-yellow sundress, ignoring my mother’s voice in my head saying how attention hungry I must be to wear something so bright. Through hiding my not-so-neat hair with a bandana covered in lemons and vines, also to the tune of my mother’s internalized disapproval, which I fight fight fight for the sake of looking good when Jove has taken care to look so nice himself. Through putting mascara on and choosing to wear my cute green heels, even if this isn’t a real date. And through the trek back to where Jove sits, head tilted back as a cabbage white butterfly rests on his nose.

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, pulling my phone out of my pocket – the dress has pockets! – to get a picture. The shutter sound clicks, and Jove’s jewel-green eyes leave his friend to land on me, crinkling at the edges.

“A dream come true,” he replies, startling the butterfly into flight.

“Oh my gosh!” I repeat, louder, darting forward to show Jove the picture. “Look!”

He stands, catching me as I tumble on a loose stepping stone, then turns me in his arms so that we can both look at my phone screen.

“Magic!” I exclaim, lifting the phone so he can get a better look.

On screen, he’s relaxed into the bench, arms resting casually on his stomach. His legs stretch out in front of him, crossing at the ankle, one boot over the other on the garden path, just out of frame. On his nose sits the cabbage white, blessing him with her presence.

And blessed he looks, eyes half-lidded as he observes her.

Behind them, flowers tumble down from the willow tree, cascading into a backdrop fit for a dream come to life.

My hand lands on Jove’s arm, which remains wrapped around me. “It’s magic, Jupie. Magic!”

He squishes me into him, then snatches my phone. “You always give me magic,” he says. “I’m sending this to myself.”

My head pitches back to watch as he types his number into the device, zipping the picture off into wherever pictures go as they travel from phone to phone. “Butterfly blessed!” I buzz.

His head turns, green eyes hitting my own. “Blessed,” he confirms. Then he bends, scoops me up into his arms, and marches toward the front of my house. “Time for our date,” he declares, ignoring my assurances that I do, in fact, know how to walk, opting instead to carry me the entire way to his truck, and only setting me down once he can set me firmly in its embrace.

He buckles me, kisses my forehead, then slams the door shut before rounding to his side.

Okay. Well.

I guess the research has begun.

Chapter Twenty

Illegal is illegal… unless it’s Ted.

Jove

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do anything questionable in the eyes of the law when we’re on our dates,” Lyra comments, standing above me as I stab my pocketknife into stupid Ted’s tire.

“This isn’t questionable,” I inform her, rising to move to the next tire, where I resume my squat. “They know exactly how they feel about this. Illegal, through and through.”

The hiss of air leaving Ted’s tire sparks much joy in my heart. “Do you want to do the next one?” I ask. “This is Ted’s new car.”

Lyra’s frown transforms into pure disgust. “Ted? This is Ted’s?”

“Mmhm. His last one mysteriously disappeared. Wild, that.”

“So wild,” she murmurs, walking around to the other side of the small sedan. “Can I have that knife?”

I grin.

After taking care of Ted’s other tires – and his spare… and his spare’s spare – Lyra and I make our way across the street to the actual reason we’re parked in Bandera’s town square.

Mini-golf.

“I’ve planned a series of flag themed dates,” I tell the adorable lemon drop beside me. “To compound the research. The girlies love Flag Day, and I cannot let them down. Mostly because letting them down means letting Mars down, which is unacceptable.”

“Which girlies love Flag Day again?” she asks, brows furrowed.

“All of them,” I assure her. “All.”

“Right… and mini-golf has… what? To do with Flag Day?”

“Golf holes have flags,” I educate. “Red ones, even. It’s perfectly on brand!”

She trips stepping up on the curb and grabs my arm to steady herself. “Um. Jove–”

“You’re kind of clumsy,” I remark, settling her on the sidewalk. “Have you always been clumsy?”

She blinks. “Yes. Listen, before we go in there, I want to prepare you.”

“No worries,” I wave away her concern. “I know I’ve never been on a date before, but I did a little bit of research for the research. You’ll see once we get into the contract. It’s going to be all good.”

She bites her lip, shoulders hunched, then visibly lets it go. A deep breath. A relaxed posture. “Okay, Jupiter,” she says. “It’s going to be fine.”

“Good,” I correct. “It’s going to be good.”

She takes my hand, but doesn’t reply.

“What do you mean there are no flags here?” I growl through the plexiglass ticket window inside the mini-golf’s office building. “We’ve been out there for thirty minutes and I haven’t seen a single one. Not even as decoration! What sort of golf course is this?”

“A mini one?” the teenager behind the window replies.

Lyra groans. “Jove, you’re taking it up with the wrong person. This kid is not in charge of the flag content here. He’s just trying to make enough money to take his girlfriend to the movies this weekend. You’ll have to talk to the owner if you want flags.”

Hmph. “Who’s the owner?” I ask the kid.

He points to a full-to-bursting business card holder, and I snatch one, fully intending to have talks with whoever is in charge of this sham.

“Did you need anything else, sir?”

I glare. “No.”

“Okay. Have a tee-utiful day!”

Lyra grabs my hand, pulling me out of the office before I can tell him where I’d like to shove his tee-utiful day.

“Jove,” she grumbles when we reach the sidewalk outside. “You can’t talk to service workers like that.”

I scowl. “Why?”

“Because it’s rude?” she suggests.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I ask.

Sigh. Big, big sigh. “It’s got to do with human decency,” she says. “With being kind to people who are just trying to do their jobs. With having the self-control to not take out our anger on the undeserving.”

“I never take out my anger on the undeserving,” I counter. “That kid sucks.”

“Because he didn’t produce flags from some magical back room for our mini-golf?” Incredulity laces her voice.

“No, because six months ago he and his group of friends keyed Mars’ bike at the grocery store. Mars was devastated. We needed to get it repainted and they couldn’t color match in town so we had to special order the paint online, then Mars had to clean, sand, and repaint it himself. It took ages for the paint to come in, then ages for him to go through the whole process. Meanwhile, he couldn’t ride his bike. He was angry and sad, and it could’ve all been avoided if that little twerp hadn’t acted like a little twerp.”

She blinks, so adorable, then replies, “I think he drives that black pickup truck parked out back.”

“I’m not messing with a minor’s car,” I reply, heart warming at her quick defense of my brother. “I will, however, be as rude as I like to his stupid, idiot face.”

“As you should,” she declares, glaring through the office’s glass door.

A flick of my eyes shows the boy sitting at the desk on his phone, popping a gum bubble, not a care in the world. “He turns 18 in July,” I tell Lyra. “Four months. We can figure out our revenge then.”

“Oh,” she peeps. “If the revenge is anything more than keying his car back, count me out.”

I sniff. “An equal reaction does not a lesson teach,” I say. “In my experience.”

“Is that why you totalled Chrissy’s grandpa’s truck? He did something small, so you did something bigger?”

Chrissy’s grandfather did not do something small. Chrissy’s grandfather believed his moron of a granddaughter when she said it was Lyra’s fault that he never got any visits from his beloved descendant, so he went to the town’s social page online and called Lyra a slew of nasty, horrific curse words not even one of the mafia men in my books would repeat. Lyra isn’t online outside of her business pages, so she didn’t see it before it got taken down, but I did.

Chrissy’s grandfather is not done receiving revenge.

Neither is Chrissy, for that matter.

“Something like that,” I hedge, not wanting to upset Lyra with further proof that her ex-best friend is The Worst Person on Earth.

She frowns, bottom lip sticking out just enough to make it tip more toward cutesy than the disapproving she’s going for.

“I think mini-golf is a bust,” I say, absolutely not blatantly changing the subject or anything. “Dinner?”

She squints, letting me know she does not find me slick. “Dinner,” she agrees after a moment.

Not slick, but excused. I’ll take it.

We walk two storefronts over to Sweet & Salty, a tiny offshoot of a café duo in the city in Indiana where Brian Single lives. He blew into town one summer talking about “the best café in America!” By the end of the season he’d somehow finagled a tiny version of the place into existence in Bandera. The townies loved it so much it stuck.

Much as I hate to admit anything positive about Brian, he was right about this place. It’s the best café I’ve ever been to, and when it was on the verge of shutting down because the building owner developed cancer and couldn’t afford the building upkeep on top of his medical bills, I funneled my own funds into the efforts to keep it going – the café and Mr. Harrold, the owner. A quarter of a million dollars, anonymously given.

I earned it back within a few book launches, unfortunately.

The bell rings above our heads as we enter, and we’re immediately blasted with the warm, homey scent of apple tarts and blueberry scones.

“Hey, Ly!” Vivian Rosinheld, a willowy red-head who was two years ahead of us in school, greets from behind the counter as we approach, smiling huge at my date. “Hello-” she chokes as her eyes hit me, looming behind Lyra. “Jove!” she squeaks.

“Hi, Vivi,” Lyra greets, then stops, turning abruptly toward me, hand slamming over my mouth as it opens to return my own greeting. “Before you talk,” she whispers, putting her body directly between mine and Vivian’s. “Has she ever done anything that negatively impacted Mars?”

My head shakes under her hand in a negative, and she removes it.

“Just checking,” she mutters. “Carry on.”

I do, bidding hello to a shell-shocked Vivian and starting our order. I have to repeat it twice before Vivian pulls herself together enough to input it into the system, twisting her pad around for me to choose a tip option.

Five hundred seems appropriate.

“I must have mentioned this place more than I thought,” Lyra comments while Vivian gets to work prepping our tarts and teas. “For you to know exactly what I want like that.”

“Once or twice.” Or every single letter for an entire year after the grand opening, but who’s counting. “I also have Brian’s order memorized.”

She blushes, looking away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Uh huh. I’m so sure.

“You did fail to mention where you like to sit,” I say, looking around at the sparse options. “By the window or by the toilet?” A guess I could surely not make.

She rolls her eyes, and we sit by the window.

Which is great. Until she realizes everyone outside can see us.

“Oh, goodness,” she mumbles, head ducking after Old Man Norman nearly crashes his car trying to stick his head out the window for a double take. Lester Halloway runs into a street light while walking her cat in an attempt to act casual as she breaks her neck for a look. George Lore, who works at the community theater, desperately needs to work on his acting if the way he’s been tying his shoe while sneaking peeks for the last five minutes is anything to go by. His shoe isn’t even untied.

“Your tarts!” Vivian chirps, setting our plates in front of us. “And tea!”

“Thanks,” Lyra whispers, hunching into herself.

“Thanks,” I echo, glaring out the window. George pales, then shoots up, scuttling away. Lester jolts, following him.

Idiots.

“It’s fine,” Lyra says, about as convincing as a death row inmate declaring their innocence. “It’s not because I’m with you. I mean. That’s why they’re looking, of course, but that’s not why I’m… It’s just the attention, you know? It makes me nervous. I feel like I’m standing on a stage when all I’m actually doing is getting dinner with my friend. Well, boyfriend, I guess. To-may-to to-mah-to at this point.” Her hand waves as my heart rate increases.

Boyfriend.

She called me her boyfriend.

That’s… that’s book fodder for sure.

“My point is,” she continues. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not used to being so noticed, you know?”

I nod, even though I distinctly do not know. I’m a tall guy. My shoulders span an ocean, practically. I’ve never not been noticed.

Lyra, though, has spent her entire life learning how not to be noticed. Her mother had a baby she didn’t want, then treated that baby like a burden until she believed she was one, then she spent every moment after that point reinforcing it, digging terrible thoughts into the soil of Lyra’s mind, which grew more weeds that other people, like Chrissy, watered.

My jaw clenches, and I move us to other subjects, lest I stand, exit the building, and commit a great many crimes against my date’s – my girlfriend’s – mother.

Murder comes to mind.

“Would you like a distraction?” I ask. “Perhaps an expertly crafted contract we could read, discuss, and dissect at length?”

Her shoulders relax, and she straightens in her seat. “Right,” she says. “Sorry. I forgot we’re here for a reason.” She reaches into her dress pocket, pulling out her phone, house keys, chapstick, some sort of makeup stick, a tiny pack of tissues, and, finally, the contract.

“Do you have a void bag in there?” I ask. Not even my pockets are that deep.

She laughs, sprinkling my soul with sparks of her joy, then answers, “No, I had most of my dresses tailored to have bigger pockets. I wanted to be able to fit my gardening gloves in them whenever I forgot my apron.”

My brows rise. “You have an apron?” I haven’t seen her in it either of the times I’ve caught her in her work attire.

“Somewhere,” she admits, grinning sheepishly. “Hence the pockets.”

I snort. “Right.”

“The contract?” she redirects, disappearing the rest of her objects back into her pocket.

I nod. “The contract.”

Then, over apple tarts and herbal teas, we discuss the terms of our relationship.

And we ignore half the town gathering outside to watch.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sorry, I can just… what? How do I do that?

Lyra

“This seems fine to me,” I mutter, flipping to the last page of the contract. “Was there anything specific you wanted to discuss? Most of it is common sense and being decent to each other. I can do that.” I will do that. I will be a good, decent friend if it kills me.

Jove shrugs. “Not really, no. Mars came up with most of that, and if you approve, then I’m good. I trust you two.”

Oh. Ah. No pressure there or anything.

“Perfect!” I squeak, taking a sip of my now cold tea. “We’ll just… get on with it, then?”

He nods, chill as could be. As if we are not doing anything out of the ordinary. As if everyone fake dates their best friend for research purposes. A casual Tuesday.

“We’re already on with it, I believe,” he says, cool cool cool. “All that’s left to do is continue.” And then he shoves his third apple tart into his mouth, eating the entire thing in one bite.

Jupiter Unbothered Rogue, everybody.

“What’s your middle name?” I ask, not convinced I’m wrong.

“Caelum,” he replies, possibly lying. “Why?”

“No reason!” I chirp, lifting my tea cup to my mouth and finishing off the tepid liquid.

“Yours is Eranthe, yes?”

I blink.

Yes, my middle name is Eranthe. However. I am positive I only mentioned that one singular time, somewhere around the sixth grade when I was going through my call-me-by-my-middle name phase – a phase that only lasted a week, hence me mentioning it the one time and never again.

“Lyra Eranthe Gold,” he mutters. “You know, if we made this into a marriage of convenience trope, you could be Lyra Eranthe Rogue.”

Is my face on fire? My face feels on fire.

“We’re not doing that,” I squawk.

He snorts. “But you could get half my assets in the divorce!”

Ew. Gross. No. “I do not want half your assets,” I tell him. “I can’t be trusted with that much money. I’d probably blow it all on stickers.”

“There aren’t enough stickers in the world,” he grumbles, lower lip sneaking out in a much-too-adorable-for-Jove-Rogue pout.

I have a feeling someone tried to blow it all on stickers.

“I’ve already gotten more than my fair share of spoiling from you with my bike and my greenhouse.” I pause. “And my incoming new bedframe and dining table.”

“Considering your ‘fair share’ of me spoiling you is actually me giving you everything I own and more, I have to disagree.”

“What if instead of me, you give half your assets to the truly needy: men who think they might have the flu. You could raise some real awareness.”

He hums, head tilting back in thought. “I could start a non-profit.”

Yes, please focus on fictionally helping over-privileged men get more privilege and less on Lyra Eranthe Rogue.

“You could fund an entire facility. Like a hospital but it’s just full of couches for them to lay on while they moan. You could staff it with legitimately sick women so that the men don’t miss out on the full experience.”

“Definitely,” his head drops, eyes meeting mine. “I’ll pay them minimum wage, too, to really immerse them.”

Dark green irises sparkle at me, and the hint of a smile teases his lips.

An answering smile teases mine.

“Do you guys want anything else?” Vivi asks, popping into existence beside our table.

I start, my mouth abandoning its budding smile to form an o.

“Where did you come from?” Jove’s voice echoes my surprise, adding a displeasured edge.

“Um. Over there?” Vivi asks, pointing toward the counter.

Jove scowls at her, vengeful schemes in his eyes.

“Hasn’t done anything to Mars,” I remind him.

His scowl transfers to me, turning into a pout. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m not happy.”

Oh boy. “Have you tried not being not happy?” I ask.

His pout twitches. “No.”

“Consider it,” I suggest.

His mouth opens, but Vivi speaks, drawing our attention back to her. “So, um,” she hesitates. “Anything else?”

“No,” Jove grits. “We do not want anything from you.”

“Okay!” she squeaks. “Then, um. I’m so sorry, but we’re closing? If that’s okay?”

I think Jove’s eye twitches. I can’t be sure, though, because my eyes are locked on Vivi, who once did beauty pageants as a kid, put herself in every talent show the town has ever hosted, and insists on leading the summer parade every year. She has confidence in spades.

And she’s asking Jove if she can close down the café at the appointed closing time.

I know people are wary of him, but this is just silly.

“Of course you can close up,” I tell her, scooting my chair out so that I can stand. “Sorry, Vivi. We didn’t mean to keep you. Right, Jove?”

He doesn’t answer, but does rise pretty immediate-like, which I take to be an affirmation.

“That’s okay!” Vivi exclaims, stumbling back as Jove stands. “It’s really no problem at all!”

“Problem or not, we’re going now,” Jove tells her, opening his wallet to throw another tip onto the table.

Vivi gawks.

Jove shoves his wallet in his back pocket, grabs my hand, and heads for the door.

“Have a good night!” I call behind us, looking back in time to see Vivi poking at the multiple bills left on our table.

Outside, Jove steers us to his truck, face thoughtful as his thumb taps against the skin of my hand where he holds it.

Is he upset? Thoughtful isn’t upset, right?

I mean, he didn’t seem thrilled to be leaving Sweet & Salty, and our time at mini-golf was cut short, too, and we haven’t really done anything research-worthy on this research date. As the designated romantic, I haven’t exactly curated any romantic moments for him. I’m supposed to be helping, not just hanging out, going along on the ride.

My goodness, I haven’t initiated a single couple-like moment this entire time.

Jove picked me up. Jove paid for everything. Jove put his arm around me as we walked from hole to hole at mini-golf. Jove has been leading this thing from the beginning. All I’ve been doing is letting him.

Even right now, we’re holding hands because Jove grabbed my hand, not because of me.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask, then wince. What a stupid question. Of course he’s mad at you, idiot. You aren’t doing your job.

Jove’s eyes shoot to me, and his brows slam together. “Mad at you?” he asks. “Why would I be mad at you?”

I hate that question. There are too many answers, and I don’t want to tell him the ones he’s not already thinking of.

At my hesitation, he stops, shifting us until I’m stood in front of him, his arms around me.

My lip, unbidden, finds its way between my teeth.

“Of course I’m not mad at you, Ly,” he says softly, one of his hands traveling up my back to my neck and around, tilting my head up by my chin. “Why would you think such a silly thing?”

Avoiding eye contact this close is difficult, but not impossible. I lock onto the white strip of hair hanging over his forehead, conveniently located for my focusing purposes. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “Reasons.”

He groans, and I lose my focus point when his forehead taps mine. “No miscommunication,” he reminds me. “Only fake dating. One trope at a time, remember?”

With nowhere else to aim them, my eyes hit his, green on green.

His are the kind of green that’s green through and through. Not like mine, which are more of a speckled amalgamation of greens and yellows. His are green like the forest at night, like the grass after the sun sets. Deep and wild and fresh, like you could breathe them in forever and never get enough.

Dark lashes lower, hiding some of the forest from my view. “Lyra-love,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”

As if that isn’t the scariest thing in the world.

I gulp, squeeze my own eyes shut, and blurt, “I haven’t done anything to help you with your research at all, and you’ve been holding my hand and complimenting me and doing all the date things, and all I’ve done is exist in your vicinity, and you’re never going to be able to write your book this way, and then you’ll lose your job and all your money, and you’ll live in the streets and it’ll be all my fault.”

A long, long pause follows. Then, “Breathe, my song.”

I do – a big, gasping thing that drags against my throat and burns through my capillaries, painful.

“Again,” he orders.

I obey.

“Again.”

Over and over until my breaths come easy. Until I realize that he’s moved, straightening so that he could shove my face into his neck and my breaths are all the woodsy scent of him. I dig in further, feeling the scrape of evening stubble against my skin.

His arms, already holding me tightly to him, squeeze.

“All I need from you is your existence, Ly. Your very presence is inspiration enough for a thousand novels. You don’t have to do anything special because you are special. All that is you – your beauty, your humor, your wit, your care and consideration for others. The way your eyes get big when you think I’m going to insult someone. The way you defend others with a vehemence I wish you’d defend yourself with as well. The way that defense shatters when given a reason to shatter it, like defending my brother, which you didn’t hesitate to do. Do you think just anyone cares enough about people to care about Mars? I love him. I love him more than anything in this world, but I’m not blind. I know that he isn’t easy for others to love, too. He’s intensity and chaos, and not everyone can handle that. But you? You can handle it. You can handle anything, my brave, sweet Lyra.”

He sighs, nose nuzzling my hair. “My brave, sweet, silly Lyra. Thinking you aren’t helping me when simply breathing the same air as you is all I need for inspiration to strike.”

No, those are not tears running down my cheeks. What a ridiculous thing to ask.

“I don’t know what to say,” I sniffle.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he returns. “That’s the thing. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to strain yourself trying to fit into some mold you think I want you in. You can just be.”

I can just be.

As if it’s ever been that easy.

“I don’t know how to do that,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t think I’m capable of that.”

“With me, Ly,” he says. “You can do it with me.”

Right. With him.

Easy peasy, that.

“Okay, Jupiter,” I say, taking a shaky breath in. “I’ll try. With you.”

He hums his approval, the vibration of it reverberating through my chest against his.

“With me,” he echoes. Then he takes me home, where I discover a letter from him waiting for me in my mailbox.

I hold it in my hands, running a finger over my name written in Jove’s sharp handwriting, hearing his words in my head. You can just be.

Something settles within me, filtering through my body until I can, just a little bit, believe him. Until I can, just a little bit, just be.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Congratulations to the happy couple.

Jove

Dear Jupiter,

You know I value our friendship above all else. I do not, however, value your wood carvings quite so much.

You’re ruining my furniture, Jove. I spilled milk on my table this morning, and it took me ages to get it out of all the cracks. I had to use cotton swabs and go through every line individually. I felt like one of those art restoration people I see online sometimes, except I wasn’t getting paid the kajillion dollars an hour I assume they get paid.

What I’m saying is, table takes priority over bed frame when you go shopping. I like oak.

I know I told you I was going to bed when you dropped me off after our date, but I have to admit, I’m doing this instead. Your letter was just too tempting to resist. You put glitter on it again!

It’s like you don’t even want me to get any sleep, actually. This is, surely, your fault.

I can’t say I regret it, though. Your letter was gorgeous, per usual. Not as good as my butterfly, but then what ever will be? She’s framed on my wall now. I ordered a shadowbox online that has a hinged window so I can get in and out of it easy peasy, the better to enjoy my butterfly whenever I please.

In case I haven’t told you, I really, really love her. She’s so thoughtful. So proof that when you say I can just be, you mean it sincerely. You see me, all of me, and you welcome it.

Truly, I have never once deserved a friend so caring.

Truly, I am forever grateful to have you in my life, even if you aren’t exactly what I thought you would be.

I hope that I’m giving back like you say I am. I hope you’re at home right now writing five hundred million words. I hope hope hope I’m not failing you.

I hope I learn how to communicate my thoughts and feelings better in person.

I hope so much. Too much, maybe. Too much for 2:00 AM, definitely.

Until Friday,

Lyra ♥

Lyra will be so happy to hear that I am, in fact, writing five hundred million words. Basically. If six thousand a day since our date equals five hundred million. I was never very good at math.

Speaking of math…

“Babe!” I holler from my desk. “Meeting in five!”

He yells back an affirmative, and I spend my five minutes selecting stickers and paper scraps I want to include in my reply to Lyra. I find a roll of washi tape with squishy little cat faces on it and immediately decide to theme the letter around it. Squishy cutie kitty cats. She’ll love it.

Before I can get too lost in my supply drawer, Mars appears at my door. “Meeting time, Jovey. The carrot cake’s ready.”

I nod, tell my ephemera I’ll be back for it, and head for the kitchen table, where my darling brother has laid out two glasses of milk – one crisp white and one creamy brown – next to matching plates of perfect carrot cake triangles topped with frosting carrots. A meeting well prepped.

“All right, all right,” Mars starts, sliding into his chair. He lifts a pale blue notebook, the silver moon on its cover reflecting the overhead light. “Let’s see what’s on the menu today…” He flips to a page somewhere in the middle of the notebook, marked by a star-shaped paperclip.

I lean forward, reading upside down. Number one says ‘book progress update’.

“First up, your date!” Mars declares, snapping the book shut.

I sit back, snorting. “That was number four on that list,” I inform him, head shaking as I tsk. “You’re supposed to be the numbers guy.”

“I am known for being unpredictable,” he tells me. “Now, tell me everything.”

I laugh, then do as he asks. Who am I to deny him of anything he might want?

“Did you know that mini-golf doesn’t have flags?” I ask. “I had to special order some and… donate them. After the fact.” Donate. Break in and leave them with a mildly threatening note should they remove them. Same thing. “We showed up and there were just… holes? Everywhere. Who cares about stupid holes? I’m there for the flags, and they present me with that nonsense. It was ridiculous.” I stab at my cake, bringing a bite to my mouth with perhaps more force than the fluffy confection requires. “That little twerp was there. The one who messed up your bike?” I speak around the cake in my mouth, then swallow. “Lyra told me I couldn’t yell at him. Then, once I explained why actually I could yell at him, she suggested we key his car.” I sigh, eyes wrinkling. “You should’ve seen her, Mars. Sticking up for you. It was glorious.”

Mars’ cheeks lift as he shifts in his seat, and I nod.

“I know. She’s incredible. Then we went to Sweet & Salty to go over the contract. Clearly she recognizes your genius, because she didn’t ask to change anything or take anything out. My Lyra, so smart.”

“Naturally. I’d expect nothing less from my bike buddy,” he agrees, taking a sip of his chocolate milk. “Has she broken rule one yet?”

“No, but I told her she could if she wants to. I’m a catch.”

His head bobs. “Absolutely true. How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Have you broken rule one yet?”

Uh. “Have I what now?”

Mars sighs, setting his cup down and licking chocolate milk off his lip. “Jovey, Jovey, Jovey,” he says, snatching up his fork to point at me. “Rule one is there to be broken. That’s a staple of the trope,” he educates. “Ideally, you break it first, since he falls first gets better traffic than she falls first, but he falls harder.” He leans back in his seat and stuffs a bite of carrot cake in his mouth. The hints of humor in his green eyes strike me as…unsettling? Yes. Unsettling. “Please keep search frequency in mind while you’re studying. It makes no sense to practice stuff I can’t market. I might be a miracle worker, but I’m still only human.”

“I don’t know that-”

His brow arches as he takes another bite of cake. “You don’t know that I’m only human? I’m flattered, but it’s true. Now, let me cook a moment…”

I silence. He can cook all he wants. I have no intention of falling in love with Lyra.

Should she fall in love with me, I will gladly take her for my wife, the better to spoil her for the rest of our lives. Should she not, I’ll continue to spoil her as my friend. Neither of those scenarios require me to get anywhere near in love with her. I wouldn’t even know how to.

I can’t write the romance portion of romance books, and my silly little brother thinks I can do one in real life? I went the fake dating route for a reason.

And, honestly, even if I could? I don’t think I’d want to. I’ve loved a woman before, quite dearly, and she left me in a traumatizing smoke of disease and death. If I were to fall in love with Lyra and she left me? Or, worse, she died? The grief I feel at the loss of my mother is already more than I can handle most days. Inviting a chance of experiencing a grief just as intensely again is not something I’m all that willing to do.

“Hm. Sorry,” Mars finally murmurs around a bite of carroty goodness. “I’ve run through my memory of popular searches right now, and it’s completely unavoidable. People just aren’t looking for she falls first. For the sake of the plot, I need you to trip.”

He flops our meeting book back open. “Next order of business.”

“I don’t think we finished that one to my satisfaction,” I tell him. “Could we revisit?”

He produces a red pen from… somewhere… and marks a definitive line through agenda item number four. “No.”

Ah. Alrighty then.

That’s fine, really. It’s not like he can force me to fall in love with someone.

I mean, it’s not even on the agenda.

“Book progress. How are things going?” he asks.

Ah, he’ll love this.

His eyes narrow on my shoulders as they straighten and I declare proudly, “One third done. Possibly closer to two fifths.”

He tears his eyes off my shoulders to beam at me. “Two fifths? That’s larger than a standard carrot cake size. Sara will be thrilled to hear it. She’s been… dying for some Rouge content lately. ” He twirls his pen. “Messaging me every day about it. Poor girl.”

I nod. It sure is. Sara, our editor – the woman who swoops in after Mars to do the final edits – shall soon be fed. “Lyra is magical.”

The pen stops spinning. “Done by the end of the month, I assume?”

“Definitely.” Probably before then, really, but… well, I have a month’s worth of dates planned with Lyra. So if it needs a month, it’ll get a month. You can’t rush good research.

“Perfect, perfect,” he says, crossing the point off our list. Mirth leaves him, and his nose scrunches before he reads the next point: “Ted.”

Possibly, I gag.

“Tires slashed and window screens mysteriously disappeared,” I assure. “That guy is having a bad time.”

“As he should,” Mars says.

“As he should,” I repeat. “He knows what he did.”

Another red slash. “He certainly does.” His pen taps against the notebook. “Book, date, Ted… marketing. Marketing is going great, per usual, we’re making an amount that is larger than three pennies a day, so we’ll not be on the streets yet. And that’s good news, Jovey. It is. Very good news. Speaking of good news and staying housed-” His smile rises, pinning me. “-why did you tip someone five hundred dollars last week?”

“I’m just so bad with money, babe. Can’t help it. Never did learn how to count. It’s why the chapters are never numbered when I give them to you.” And not because fixing chapter numbers post-edit is much easier than sloshing them around during. “Moving on! I would like a Mars update, if you please.”

Nervous laughter leaves him, but he seems to set the whole money thing aside, bless all. I cannot be expected to be held accountable for my own poor accounting. I am allergic to the green stuff in my wallet. That is not my problem.

Closing the book, my much-better-with-money brother replies, “A Mars update, huh?”

“Clock’s ticking, dearest.”

He stuffs carrot cake in his mouth. “Well, I’m planning a festival. For Bandera. It’s going to be great. It’s all about Flag Day. It’s for the girlies.”

I perk up in my seat. “A Flag Day festival?”

Mars nods, affirmative. “Yes, for the girlies. You should take Lyra to it.”

I hum, mind moving. Lyra’s a girlie. Lyra would love a Flag Day festival… “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I think I will. Is it going to be on a Friday?”

“Of course. Fridays are date nights.”

Mmhm. “And Flag Day is on a Friday this year. I checked. That’s kismet, surely.”

“Can’t help but agree.” He clears his throat. “In… other news…”

“More news? On top of planning a town festival?” I knew Mars could do anything, of course, but seeing it in action is an entirely different thing. Pride flows through me, swiftly filling my chest. “You’re amazing,” I tell him.

“It’s not that amazing. It’s just… you know Ceres?”

Uh. “Who?”

Mars laughs, sets his fork down on his empty plate and runs his fingers through his dark hair. “Right. That’s what I figured. Ceres. Our neighbor. Next-door neighbor.”

“Is she the one you do home security for?” I ask. Mars, in his benevolence, moonlights as something of a neighborhood watch. For our neighborhood… of two houses…

I swear, he could not be more good at heart.

“What about her?”

His hand falls from his hair to tangle with his other atop our kitchen table. “We’re engaged.”

I blink.

I blink again.

I blink a third time.

There is, in fact, so much blinking that Mars loses his ability to sit through it.

He shifts in his seat. “I should clarify. I’ve asked her to marry me. Several times. She’s said no several times. But they aren’t hard nos, so we aren’t exactly not together presently. She’s helping me plan the Flag Day festival. Maybe I’ll hire someone to marry us during it.” He shrugs. “Seems entirely possible.”

Ah. I see. “You’ve fallen in love over Flag Day. This makes sense. Will I get to meet her before Flag Day?” I ask

“No.” His attention catches on my shoulders, then lifts to my eyes. He smiles; it’s blinding. “Sorry. I’m just not sure it’s proper for her to meet another man before our wedding.”

“I understand.” I don’t, but I’m not the expert on love here, so I’ll defer to his judgement. “I’m so happy for you, Mars,” I smile, resisting the urge to pull my touch-averse brother into my touch-starved arms. “Do you need anything from me? I’m pretty tied up with Lyra and the book, but I can make time for you.” I can always make time for him.

His smile warms. “Thanks, babe. I appreciate that, but you focus on your girlie. I’ll handle mine.”

Focus on my girlie. Not on my only brother’s impending nuptials.

Right.

I can do that.

For Mars.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Another date, another chance for some yummy red flags.

Jove

Friday comes, bringing with it the culmination of a week’s worth of anticipation.

“Come in!” Lyra yells, voice muffled by the door. “It’s unlocked!”

“This is a massive safety concern!” I yell through the house as I enter, locking the door behind me. “I could be a big, bad, scary man!”

“You are a big, bad, scary man,” she counters, walking into the living room. “How much worse could it get?”

“Worse?” I ask, hand to my chest. “You wound me. I’m a good boy.”

She stops dead, blinking at me. “Right,” she says. “A good boy.”

I’d probably take offense to that if I weren’t so busy being absolutely flagging mesmerized by the golden star-shaped freckles dusting her cheeks. She’s got matching shimmer on her eyelids, bringing out the golden hues of her otherwise grass-green eyes, and more stars grace her collarbones on either side of the dangling butterfly charm at the base of her neck, peeking out above a soft pink… something. Surely that is not a dress. Dresses are of this earth, tainted by the dirt of this world. What she has on… it’s ethereal. Angelic. Flowing in wind that does not exist and laying so sweetly over curves that have me yearning. For what, I’m not sure. But I know that I want it.

“You could bring a man to his knees,” I mutter, eyes caught on the waistband of her not-dress, where a teensy little 3D butterfly sits, about to take flight. “Where did you get that?”

She might blush. I can’t tear my eyes away to check.

“I special ordered it a few years ago,” she says. “From a woman a few towns over.”

“Oh?” I ask, eyes roving to her sleeves, which appear to be made from the delicate glass wings of fairies.

“I’ve never really had anywhere to wear it before, so I thought…” she trails off, and her fairy sleeve shifts as her arms wrap around her middle. “Well, I thought a date would be a good chance.”

Finally, my eyes make their way back to her face. Blushing, yes, an endearing pink nearly identical to the color of her clothing. Her eyes meet mine, then flick away, and the pink intensifies.

“You thought right,” I mutter. “I am blessed. Grateful beyond measure. Humbled.” I approach her, holding out my hand, and she takes it, bless all. “I love your stars and your butterflies. You look gorgeous, Lyra-love. The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her smile is slight, but pleased.

“I’m not entirely sure how practical your outfit is for my plans, though. Do you have shorts underneath?”

Her eyes widen. “Are you asking about my underthings?”

“O-of course not!” I stutter. “I just wanted to know if you’d be covered for our activity!”

Her face, previously cooling down, beats red now. “I’m covered!” she squeaks.

“Great!” I respond, the opposite of squeaky. “We can go then?”

She nods and her feet click as she heads to the door. “We can go!”

My head drops to look at her shoes, and I almost do drop to my knees. So much string. So many teensy butterflies. So many peachy-pink toenails.

Flag, she’s adorable.

Somehow, I manage the walk to my truck without prostrating myself at her feet, begging her to let me worship. I even, miraculously, remember to open her door for her, sweeping cascading yards of fabric into my truck before closing the door, careful to make sure not an inch of fabric gets caught.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Lyra asks as I settle in behind the steering wheel and put the truck in drive.

“Go-karts!” I exclaim. “I called ahead this time to check. Definitely flags involved in go-karts. Specifically red ones. And checkered, but who cares about that?” Not the girlies, so not me.

“You called ahead?” she asks. “Did you also ask if any delinquent teens work there?”

“Delinquent teens aren’t an issue,” I answer. “I was a delinquent teen. The issue is stupid ones.”

“Is them doing something to Mars the only thing that qualifies them as stupid?”

“No,” I reply. “Doing something to you will also earn them the moniker.”

Her reply gets lost as we enter the parking lot for Trip’s Fun Emporium, where the go-kart course is located. Also located here are about five hundred speakers pointed into the parking lot blasting kid-safe pop music at full volume.

“What?” I yell over the music as I find a spot.

“I said,” Lyra yells back. “That it’s a good thing I don’t have any ongoing issues with any youths!”

I shrug. That’s what she thinks.

Inside, the volume decreases significantly, so I only have to half-yell to order our tickets.

“No bumping into each other. Don’t leave the kart on the track. Follow the flags,” the woman behind the counter rattles off, glancing at Lyra’s adorable toes. “And, miss, you can’t wear those shoes. Closed-toe only.”

“She’s wearing those shoes,” I reply, tucking our tickets in my back pocket.

“Oh, that’s o–”

“Sorry, sir. Policy,” counter woman says, interrupting Lyra. Rude.

I scowl. “She’s wearing those shoes,” I repeat.

“We have shoes you can rent over there.” She points to the far wall, next to an area taken up mostly by a bowling alley.

“She’s wearing–”

“Thanks!” Lyra cuts me off, shoving me toward the shoe counter. “We appreciate you!”

“I don’t,” I disagree. “She won’t let you wear your shoes. They’re cute shoes. They trail butterflies up your calves, and they match your outfit. You shouldn’t have to wear their ugly shoes to push a pedal in a kart.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “It’s probably better, actually, because I won’t scuff them or get them dirty.”

I see her logic, and I hate it. “But they trail butterflies up your calves.”

“And they’ll trail butterflies up my calves later, too,” she says, gutting me. “It’ll be okay.”

“It won’t,” I insist. “I will be a starved man, deprived of all goodness, with naught but a patch of bare, smooth skin to get me by. How will I survive? Nary a butterfly in sight!”

She snorts. “I have a butterfly on my belt and a butterfly on my necklace.”

“So few!” I complain.

“Oh?” she asks. “They aren’t enough? I should just take them off too?”

I halt. “If you take off that necklace, I will forcibly put it back on.”

Her brows rise. “Forcibly?”

“Correct. Forcibly. It belongs right there.” I point to the dip between her collarbones, where her comma lies. “Forever. Always.”

“Are you wearing yours?” she asks, apparently on a mission to offend.

I reach behind me, following the chain at my neck to the front and lifting until a matching comma to her own surfaces from my collar. “I’m always wearing mine. Like you should always be wearing yours.”

“I recall you saying something about it being up to me if I wore it or not,” she says. “When you gave it to me.”

“I was young. Stupid. Didn’t have any brain cells rattling around in my skull. I’m older now. Much wiser. Would never suggest something so moronic as free will when it comes to our friendship.”

“You’re really dedicated to this red flag thing, huh?”

“I am, but this has nothing to do with that. This is just good old fashioned character growth.”

“Character growth turned you into a controlling lunatic?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Character growth taught me control. As it should.”

Her head shakes, and she grabs my hand to drag me the rest of the way to the shoe counter. “Come on, Mr. Control. Let’s get me some appropriate footwear. For my safety. Did your character growth teach you anything about that?”

“My top priority is safety,” I respond. “The safety of my sanity, mainly, which requires a dozen itty butterflies on each of your legs. Please.”

“You’ll have your sanity, Jupe, just as soon as we’re done playing with flags. You like the flags, yes? Pretty, pretty flags. So red. So shiny.”

Hmph. “Butterflies are better,” I pout.

“Of course they are.” She pats my arm, then lets her hand rest there as she tells the shoe man her size. The warmth of her fingers pressing through my shirt does much to comfort me, despite the loss of the butterflies.

Several minutes later we climb into our karts butterfly-free.

“Okay, folks!” a man in a white and black striped shirt and black slacks speaks into a microphone beside the lanes where Lyra and I sit in a line of go-karts filled with teenagers and children with stuffed shoes. “My pit crew worker, Laura, will be by to check your seatbelts and ensure everyone’s safety before we start the race.”

A surly looking brunette in an identical uniform stops by my kart, takes a cursory glance at my seatbelt, then moves on.

“If you see a yellow flag while you’re out there, go ahead and slow down for me, yeah? Red flags mean full stop and wait for instruction.”

I frown. I don’t like the sound of that. That feels like in case of emergency wording, not routinely we show you the red flags wording.

“White means last lap, and a Fun Emporium favorite – the checkered flag – means your race is over! When you see that checkered flag, go ahead and park your kart, then wait for this light right here-” He points to a stoplight above his head. “-to stop blinking red before you exit the vehicle. Hands and feet stay inside at all times.” He smiles the smile of a man who makes minimum wage to corral children all day. “Happy racing!”

The light above his head turns green, and we take off.

I spend the first lap in shock, doing all that I can to keep up with Lyra, who must have been a NASCAR level racecar driver in a previous life. She zips. She zooms. She laughs.

The second lap, my shock leaves me, and I’m able to fully appreciate Lyra in this setting – wild, free, and high on kart fumes and life.

The third lap, I ram into the barrier on every turn, unable to keep my eyes off of her wide smile, the wind in her hair like a halo around her.

I commit these moments to memory. The beauty of joy on her face, the way it transforms her in that not-dress. The beating of my heart – too fast – and the goosebumps on my flesh. I memorize it all.

This moment.

This feeling.

This woman.

They never do wave the red flag, but I don’t notice. My vision is taken up by gold.

Chapter Twenty-Four

We love these tropes.

Lyra

“I’m sick,” I answer the door a week after the best date I have or ever will have had. Leaning against the frame, I squint at the hazy visage of who I hope is Jove. “I would’ve called, but I didn’t save your number, and a letter wouldn’t have gotten to you fast enough, and I don’t have your address either to drop one off on your porch without risking giving you my germs.” I pull a tissue from the pocket of the robe hanging off my shoulders over my favorite pair of fuzzy pink pajamas, blow my nose, then continue. “I’m so sorry, Jupie. I can’t go on our date tonight.”

“Lyra, what the flag?” Jove asks, catching me when I wobble. He hisses as my skin hits his. “You’re burning up!”

I shrug, leaning into the cool comfort of his embrace. “You’re ice,” I mumble. “What blessing.”

Jove curses, then bends, scooping me up. Ah. Yes, much better, for here is his neck, frigid and wonderful. I shove my face into it.

“If you could just drop me off in my fridge, that would be great,” I mutter. “We’ll have to do date night next week.”

His jaw works above me, grinding against my head and making the pounding in it even poundier.

Ow.

“Okay. Okay. This is fine,” he booms, no care for my poor head. “We’ll just pivot. What are the trope options here… hm… He takes care of her when she’s sick, obviously. I can’t leave you like this. You’re pathetic.”

I groan in protest. I’m not pathetic. I’m adorably in need. A damsel in distress. My knight? The deep freezer sitting in my garage, which will surely fight this vicious heat. Oh, how I love him.

“Kidnapping,” he declares. “We’ll do the kidnapping trope.”

Um. No, I do not think we will.

“No kidnapping,” I insist, nuzzling until I find a colder spot to put my nose – his collarbone is particularly wintry this evening, bless all.

“Yes kidnapping,” he retorts, spinning us around in what I can only assume is an attempt to make me vomit. I, miraculously, resist. Gold stars for Lyra Gold. “The girlies love a good kidnapping.”

“The girlies? Again? Who are these ‘girlies’ who love all these tropes?” My hands inch up to his collar, stretching it as they reach inside, desperate for some of the chill my face is enjoying.

He stills, then clears his throat.

“You. You are ‘the girlies’.”

I most assuredly am not. “Don’t think so,” I reply. “Don’t think so at all.”

“You’ve loved it in every Rouge novel it’s ever been featured in,” he reminds me. Rude of him. “And you’re about to love it now. Do you need me to grab anything before we go? Your phone? Purse? Emotional support Diet Coke?”

I gasp. “Those are secret.”

Can’t a girl have a confidential garage stash of Diet Coke without her best friend announcing it to the world all willy nilly? What is this?

“Oh, sorry, do you want me to grab a kombucha instead?” He gags, and I nearly do too.

No, I really do not want him to grab a kombucha instead. Health drinks are only to be forced down when I am healthy. Sickness is for sodas, which scratch the throat just right and coat them in syrup or sugar or some other soda magic that makes them not hurt quite so much.

“If you get me a kombucha, I’m cancelling my subscription to our friendship,” I inform him, except actually it comes out more like, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.” But. You know. Same thing, really.

“Diet Coke it is,” he says. “I’ll have Mars pick some up though. No use depleting your stash when I should be stocking it for you anyway.”

Mars? Mars Rogue, going to the store and buying contraband for me? “He can’t do that,” I say, nosing Jove’s shirt further aside in search of new coolness. “That’s illegal.”

He snorts, jostling me as he sets me in his truck. Teleportation is a cool skill to have. I do not know why he didn’t teleport us straight to my deep freezer, though, considering that is where I would truly like to be.

“Kidnapping is illegal too,” I tell him, opening my eyes enough to squint at him through the stinging afternoon light. I regret this immediately and throw my head back with a groan, covering my eyes with my hands. “You’ve brought me here to suffer. Kidnapping and torture. Double illegal.”

“The law is a suggestion,” he replies as his hand slides against my stomach to buckle me in. “The torture will be over soon. I don’t live far.”

I would care about that information if I weren’t so busy dying. And complaining. Lots and lots of complaining.

“It hurts, Jupie. My head and my throat and my whole body. I want to be in my freezer. I want to be taken out back and put out of my misery. I want to be anywhere but in this truck hurtling down the road at top speed and hitting every pothole in the state of West Virginia. You don’t love me anymore, is that it? That’s why you’ve chosen to do this to me? Is because of hate?”

Jove, for his part, blasts the air conditioner and pats my knee, assuring me that he does, in fact, still love me, and that he is taking me to his house because “it’ll be easier.” Whatever “it” is. My death, I hope.

After one millennium of nausea-inducing bumps, turns, and hills, Jove stops the truck.

“Are we at my end?” I whimper. “Please, let us be at my end.”

“We’re at my house,” he says. “Where you will have an evening of healing.”

Right. Healing. Great.

“You could end this so quickly,” I tell him when he scoops me into his arms again. “You said so yourself that the law is merely a suggestion.”

“Not the one about preserving human life,” he replies, walking us into a much-too-warm house. I peek an eye open, bracing for the blinding light I experienced outside. Instead, I’m met with a soft, cozy glow. Opening my other eye, I use what energy I have to look around.

The house is smaller than I would have expected, considering Jove and his brother’s millionaire status. It’s homey. Warm.

The living room is almost entirely taken up by their couch, where a green blanket has been haphazardly thrown over the armrest, and an enclosure that likely holds Mars’ hamster, Ginger, who I’ve read much about over the years.

An oval coffee table sits in front of the couch holding two remotes and a candle.

Men own candles? All on their own?

“Mars likes fire,” Jove mutters, turning so that I can see the rest of the common area, namely the kitchen, which is better than half the kitchens I’ve seen on TV.

It’s gleaming, modern appliances sparkle so bright it’s no wonder they don’t use the big lights. The reflection would probably blind them with big light power behind it.

In comparison, their worn table looks out of place, surrounded by equally worn seats. A leftover from before they zapped the kitchen into the future, probably.

On a counter running between the kitchen and living room rests a tiny carrot cake, displayed pristinely beneath a glass dome. My mouth waters for the first time in days, the prospect of getting a slice of that cake awakening my stomach more than any soup or cracker has since illness overtook me.

I turn my head slowly, mindful of the toll keeping my eyes open for so long is having on me, but don’t get far. I blink, certain the apparition before me is a trick of my mind. Shocking me, the image does not disappear, not even as I wipe my eyes, convinced it cannot be real.

“Your beverage, dear damsel,” Mars speaks, confirming his actuality. “Chilled to near freezing, as requested.”

I reach out to wrap my hand around the frosty can of Diet Coke he’s offering to me. The minute my fingers are on his, he grins, greeting me with more enthusiasm than I’m able to return.

“Hello, bike buddy.”

I croak what might be a greeting back at him and bring my soda to my cheek, closing my eyes at the relief it gives.

“Wow,” Mars says. “She really is sick.”

“I told you she was,” Jove replies. “I’ll keep her tucked away safe and sound in my room so you aren’t at risk of catching it.”

I miss Mars’ reply, lost in the glory of sweet, cold beauty on my skin. “This is so nice,” I mutter as I’m lowered onto plush blankets.

Jove’s hands slip out from under me, and I move my can to my other cheek. Goodness, so nice.

“I’ll get you some ice,” he says, smoothing my hair away from my face.

I muster the energy to open my mouth, if not my eyes. “There was carrot cake?” I ask, full of hope.

He chuckles. “There’s always carrot cake. You want some, Lyra-love?”

I nod, rolling the can to my forehead. “More than anything.” Well… “Except a freezer. Does your fancy kitchen have a freezer big enough to drop me in?”

“It does,” he answers. “But I will not be dropping you in it.”

“On account of all the hate you harbor for me in your soul?” I wonder.

“On account of my immense love for you. Cryogenic Lyra would just not be the same.”

Right. I’m so sure.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, then his lips are on my forehead, pushing the can out of the way for his kiss. “Don’t throw any parties while I’m gone.”

Yeah, well. Joke’s on him.

I’m a total party animal.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Not in love, huh?

Jove

I’ve never seen someone look so adorable while sick, and Mars was a seriously adorable little kid. Lyra though? She’s just so…

“Two thousand words,” I mutter. “And all she had to do was snore in my vicinity.”

It’s actual magic. Actual, literal, magic.

“I don’t snore,” Lyra groans from my bed. “I’m a lady.”

I straighten, abandoning my author’s hunch so that I can slide my chair over to where she lays, pretty as any lady ever was in a tangle of my blankets, the dark green of them making her clammy skin seem pale, despite the fever.

“You were,” I tell her. “And you are. How are you feeling?”

My hand hits her forehead, and I frown. She feels no cooler than she was an hour and a half ago when I came back with ice and a plate of carrot cake to her snoozing, mouth open and the world’s cutest little sickly honk-shoos pouring forth.

“Like you should shoot me,” she croaks. “In the head, please, so there’s no risk of me surviving.”

“No one is shooting you. Can you sit up?”

She groans, but manages to scoot herself up on my pillows, blinking weakly at me.

“Good job,” I praise. “Now you can have your carrot cake.”

A sparkle, small but true, lights in her eyes. “Carrot cake?”

I grab her plate from my nightstand, offering it to her. “I’ll have to go get your drink. It was getting warm in here.”

She doesn’t appear to hear me, eyes locked on her cake. “Delicious,” she whispers, cutting into it with a vigor. “You’re going to be delicious.”

My eyes crinkle. She’s not wrong.

I leave her to her deliciousness, fetching her cold soda and a cup of ice before reaching above our fridge and pulling down the basket where we keep medicines and first aid supplies. I grab a bottle of neon orange liquid for her, hoping she doesn’t mind that we don’t have pills. I never could stomach swallowing them whole. Talk about uncomfortable.

“Breaking rule one yet?” Mars walks into the kitchen, approaching the sink with a plate of crumbs as I set the medicine next to Lyra’s drink on the counter.

“Rule one?” I ask.

“Not falling in love,” he reminds me. “You’ve had two dates now. I read a book where it happened in one, and they weren’t even lifelong friends.”

My brows furrow. “They managed to not fall in love in one date?”

“No, they did fall in love. Breaking rule one is the entire point.”

I wince. “I am not qualified to write our genre at all.”

“You’re qualified to write whatever you want, Jovey. Your stories are beautiful. Funny. They make you feel something, even before I throw in the romance.”

“The romance being the cornerstone of our marketing,” I reply. “And thus the most important part.”

He arches a brow as he pops his dish in the dishwasher. “The most important part is making a product. You do that, then I refine the product to fit the tastes of the people who will buy it. That doesn’t make your work any less amazing. It is, in a very real sense, just business.”

Just the business of me sucking, he means.

“Self-esteem issues aside, how’s rule one holding up? Poorly, I hope. If we’re having a sick day episode, she might fall first if you aren’t careful. And then where will we be? With several hundred fewer Amazon searches a month, that’s where. Think of the visibility you’re squandering.”

Did he just sweep aside my self-loathing and professional doubts as unimportant in the face of the possibility of true love? How very romance-author of him.

I shall follow suit.

“I’m not in love,” I say. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” And I am, really. Lyra would be an excellent woman to fall in love with. I’m sure some day she’ll find a man capable of romantic thought to woo her into a whirlwind love story. And when that day comes, I will absolutely not kill the undeserving mere mortal pretending to be good enough for my angel Lyra. “You said rule one is always broken?” I ask.

Mars fetches a cube of dishwasher soap from beneath the sink. “Yep.”

Hm. “She’ll probably fall for me then,” I mutter, soothing the sour in my gut at the thought of her with someone who does not know the fullness of her wonder. “Then I can take care of her and not have to worry about some moron trying to love her and doing it wrong. She can have someone who knows her inside and out. Someone who prioritizes her above anything else. Someone who can afford anything she’d ever want and is willing to get it for her. Someone like me.”

Mars regards me, dryly, as he presses the start button and clicks the machine closed. “I wonder if the readers will know the difference if I market things as he falls first anyway. Since you’re absolutely acting in love.”

I frown. “Not in love, but the love I have for her is definitely better than what some random schmuck could give her. All she has to do is follow trope conventions.” I straighten. “And why wouldn’t she? Like I told her, I’m tall, rich, and handsome. And I give great gifts. She loved the butterfly I made her.” I grab Mars’ shoulders, ignoring the way he flinches at the contact. “You’d fall in love with me, wouldn’t you? I’m a catch, right?”

Tension twists in the muscles beneath my grip, and when he can’t seem to stand it anymore, he removes my hands from his person. “Definitely a catch. Definitely not my type.” He frees a breath and smooths out his leather jacket. “On account of this not being Alabama and all.”

My heart falls.

“However, since Lyra isn’t your brother, and this is the sick day episode, I’d say the odds are pretty good that she’ll fall for you, which is devastating for me.” Reaching, he pats my head. “Try to fall in love even a fraction of a second before she does. For our poor book’s visibility.”

“I think I’m more of a she-falls-first, he-falls-never kind of guy,” I reply, poking him on the nose. “How’s that doing visibility wise?”

“Abysmal,” he answers, unamused as he scrubs his nose. “Do you hate me or something?”

Accused of hatred, again and again, when I have only love in my heart. How mean of my loved ones.

“About as much as you hate me.”

Mars smiles. “Glad to hear it. Now, please get back to your wife before she dies of dehydration.”

My heart lurches, a bolt of lightning firing through my veins.

My wife.

What glorious book fodder.

Chapter Twenty-Six

We call this character growth.

Lyra

In my feverish state last week, I made the mistake of giving Jove my cell phone number, which he – in proof of our best friend compatibility – had also not saved.

“In case I have to cancel again,” I had said, as if the kidnapping lunatic had shown any sign at all that he would let me cancel. Even near death, he dragged me to his house to languish in his bed. So what if it was restorative? And comfortable. And actually incredibly nice. It was all of those things under a big, flying banner of red.

Jupiter: Have you written me back yet?

Lyra: You can’t rush perfection.

Jupiter: So you haven’t even started, then?

Lyra: <.< Mind your business.

Jupiter: Don’t you know by now? You are my business.

Why did I give him my number? And why do I keep responding to his text messages?

Because you’re a chronic people pleaser, Lyra, that’s why.

What an idiot.

Jupiter: If you don’t have it done tonight, you can write it during our date. I’ll bring my laptop and get some words in. Work date!

Work date… does he think that’s a thing?

Lyra: Work date is an oxymoron.

Jupiter: Not in an office romance.

Lyra: Are you writing an office romance?

Jupiter: …

Jupiter: Mind your business.

Ah. Right.

I snort.

Lyra: We can have the work date so long as you leave your knife at home.

Jupiter: D: But what if some poor woman’s furniture needs an artisan touch? I’m supposed to leave her in her deprivation?

Lyra: Yes. No knife or no date. You choose.

Jupiter: You’re a cruel, cruel girlfriend.

Jupiter: I’ll leave the knife under Mars’ care.

Bless. My furniture is safe for another night.

I confirm the time of our date with Jove, then spend the next hour repotting plants for customers. Just me, the butterflies, and the soil. It’s not my favorite service I offer, but it’s not my least favorite either. Half the hour is spent tackling a monstera with extensive root rot, which ends up looking more like a twig than a houseplant by the time I’m done with it. I wince and hope the owner understands. She just needed some… trimming. She’ll come back bigger and better for it.

In a few months.

And you know customers. Real good at seeing the big picture and being super patient waiting to see the results. So good at it. Always.

I scratch my nose, then remember that my hands are covered in fertilizer and dirt. Yikes.

Wiping my nose with the hem of my dress instead – because I’ve once again forgotten to put on my apron, I decide that now is as good a time as any to call it a day.

I give my workbench a quick organization, then jump as I’m snuck up on in my greenhouse for the second time in as many weeks.

“I’m here for my stuff,” a familiar, not entirely welcome voice snips from the doorway.

I turn, squinting against the afternoon light to see Chrissy standing there, arms crossed tight against her chest. “Chrissy?”

“My stuff, Lyra. I want my stuff. I can’t believe I’ve even had to come all the way out here to get it. The least you could do is not play a bumbling idiot when I show up.”

I blink, appalled. Then I wonder why I’m so surprised. This is how Chrissy talks to me. This is always how Chrissy’s talked to me. Why should I expect any different?

“The least you could do,” Jove’s voice rumbles behind her, “is not show up at someone’s house making demands and hurling insults when you’re asking for a favor.”

Chrissy spins, arms falling as she comes face to face with Jove.

I move through the rows of plants scattered amidst my greenhouse until I’m feet away from them and Jove’s looming figure is clear.

“I’m not asking for a favor,” Chrissy blusters. “She has my stuff and I want it back. She’s lucky I’m not asking for more. She owes me after the way she’s treated me. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Seems my business when someone is speaking that way to and about my girlfriend, who’s never been anything but kind and respectful to you despite your constant attitude and horrific behavior.”

Chrissy scoffs. “Like you’re one to talk about ‘horrific behavior’. You ruined my grandpa’s truck.”

“He deserved it,” Jove replies, nose scrunching as he takes Chrissy in.

Her hands hit her hips, and I instinctively take a step back.

Jove’s head whips toward me, eyes narrowing. “Love?” he asks, holding his arm out for me.

No hesitation, I scurry over to him, squeezing as far from Chrissy as I can get in the doorway, barely clearing an outstretched elbow.

Jove’s arm lands on my shoulders when I reach him, pulling me into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mimicking his casual, I wrap my own arms around his waist and lean my head against his chest.

“Is she paying you or something?” Chrissy asks, drawing Jove’s eyes away from me. “Is that what this is?” She sneers. “Or is it charity work?”

Oof.

“What stuff does Lyra have of yours?” Jove asks, ignoring her questions.

She sniffs. “My favorite lip gloss is here, and she has one of my sweaters.”

Silence meets her.

She’s acting like this over… lip gloss?

“It’s discontinued,” she defends. “And I want it back.”

Right. “Okay,” I mutter, ducking out of Jove’s hold. “Give me a minute.”

“I’ll come with you,” she clucks. “I don’t trust you not to ruin it before you bring it out here.”

“You’ll go to the sidewalk out front, and you’ll wait there,” Jove rumbles. “You’re not stepping foot in Lyra’s house, and once you hit sidewalk, you’re not stepping foot on her property ever again either.”

“I know you think you’re big and bad and can do whatever you want,” she hisses. “But you’re not in charge here. It’s my stuff. I’ll make sure it’s retrieved without issue.”

Jove’s eyes darken, and he steps forward. “You’ll stay on the sidewalk, or the least of your concerns will be a missing lipgloss.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes,” he answers. “And you’d do well to heed it.”

Chrissy does not like that. Not. One. Bit.

“You don’t scare me, Jove Rogue,” she spits, leaning forward with murder in her eyes.

I lean back as far as Jove’s arm allows, avoiding spit and malice.

Jove does not like that. Not. One. Bit.

Hostilities rise, and I squeak. “I’ll be right back with her stuff!”

I book it down the mosaic path that leads to my front door, grateful when I hear Jove’s heavy footfalls behind me, squishing on wet leaves and separating me from a huffing Chrissy following in the rear.

At the front of the house, Jove blocks her way as I ascend the porch, standing wide legged in front of my steps with a simple, “No.”

Chrissy tries to step past him.

Jove’s arm whips out, hooks around her waist, lifts her, and deposits her back in front of him.

She tries again, glaring.

Effortlessly, he moves her back to her spot on the sidewalk.

“This is abuse!” she screams. “You can’t touch me like that!”

I blink.

She did not just say that, in that tone, implying that Jove is in the wrong here – that he’s doing harm to her by oh-so-gently keeping her back from my property, a place where she is not invited or welcome? When he, by all accounts, has been handling her as respectfully as possible while also keeping me safe?

Absolutely no, she did not.

She did not.

Except. She did.

“Chrissy,” I call over the porch railing.

She transfers her venom to me. “Call your freaking dog off, Lyra. Or I’ll have him put in a cage.”

“If you don’t do what he says, and be polite to him while doing it,” I respond. “I’ll have you put in a cage. I know how you got that lipgloss, Chrissy, and I know it wasn’t legal. I also know how you got those shoes you’re wearing. And the dress you wore to graduation. And your purse, and your jeans, and about half of the things you own. And I saved every message I’ve ever gotten from you. I have you admitting to all of that borrowing you did, with time stamps. I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations isn’t up on, oh, half of the things you’ve stolen?”

Her jaw clenches and her hands fist at her sides, but she doesn’t say anything – to me or to Jove.

I wait a beat to make sure we are fully on the same page, then head inside, beelining for my bedroom. Under my bed is a small cardboard box filled with random items of Chrissy’s I found around my house in the immediate aftermath of her dropping our friendship, when I was crying more than I was breathing and my chest still ached when I saw reminders of her.

Now, looking at this box, all I can wonder is… why?

Why did I give her so much of my care, time, and energy when she’s so… Chrissy.

Am I really that much of a doormat?

Do you even have to ask?

Even now, I would have let her treat me like that – mean, dismissive, ugly. I would’ve let her walk all over me, invade my home, get her stuff, and taken whatever verbal beating she wanted to give me all the while.

If it weren’t for Jove.

He protected me, physically and emotionally getting between me and the threat to my well-being. He bolstered me, my love for him driving me to stick up for him and forcing me to, in a way, stick up for myself too. To show Chrissy that actually, you can’t treat him or me like that. I won’t allow it.

I won’t allow myself to be trod on. Not when it means allowing my friend – a true, genuine friend – to be trod on with me.

I will be brave. I will have courage.

I am brave. I have courage.

A weight that has been forever tethered to my chest lifts, butterfly light, and takes off. The burden of being me twists in the back of my mind, light shining through the tangle of my thoughts until it looks more like a blessing through the vines.

I am a garden, thriving and beautiful.

And Chrissy is a weed I’ve just stomped out.

I smile, snatching the box and walking outside with more confidence than I’ve ever been able to pretend I have.

“Here’s your stuff,” I say, dropping it on the sidewalk behind Jove and pushing it toward her with my foot. I ignore the way her nose wrinkles and the nasty look on her face as she reaches down for her things. “Now, if you don’t mind, we have a date to get to.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Puppy dog eyes should be illegal.

Lyra

“Sticking up to a terrible person is kind of invigorating,” I declare, dragging Jove into my house. “Did you see me? I did so good! Tell me I did so good.”

“You did so good,” he says. “I’m going to cover her lawn in bleach the first chance I get anyway, though. Just in case she doesn’t quite get how good you did.”

I jerk to a stop, spin, and stare at him. “But…” I blink. “I blackmailed her?”

He smiles, soft and fleeting, then digs a hand into my hair and drags it through. “You did, and quite beautifully. Still. Lawn, meet bleach.”

Um. “Do you think that has more to do with your own personal satisfaction than with her getting what she deserves? If she leaves us alone, then I think her crummy, horrible life with her crummy, horrible attitude is pretty much punishment enough.”

“Disagree,” he replies, hand coming up again to make another journey through my hair. “Hard disagree, actually. She’s getting bleached.”

I tip my head to ask the ceiling, “Do my efforts count for nothing?”

Jove uses his hand in my hair to tilt my head back toward him. “Your efforts mean everything,” he says. “I’m so proud of you, I could burst. You should have seen her while you were gone, pouting on the sidewalk like a little kid who’s been told no for the first time ever. It was glorious, the way you shut her down. But, Lyra-love, people like that? They go home to their little coward caves, and they recover. A hit like that is nothing compared to what they usually dole out. You cow them, and they’re embarrassed for a little while, but then? They get angry. They remember how crappy of a person they are, and they come back, swinging their hardest.” He pauses, the calluses of his hand pressing into my cheek as it rests there. “Unless, of course, you destroy all their worldly possessions and remind them, often and harsh, that you’re the bigger baddie. That starts with ruining her pristine grass. Then continues as I do a little more research and find out just what will hit her the hardest. Car troubles? House troubles? Job troubles?” He shrugs. “I’ll figure it out and I’ll make it happen, and the result will be that she never messes with you again. That she never even so much as looks at you again.”

His forehead hits mine.

“You protected me out there, Ly. I saw it, and I’m grateful. Won’t even protect yourself but me? Big, scary me? You jumped right in. No hesitation. No thought.” His breath shudders in, then out, hitting my face in a mix of peppermint and gratefulness. “I treasure that, Lyra. Forever I treasure you loving me enough to stick up to one of your living nightmares for me. It means the world to me. So now I’m going to love you right back by making sure you never have to be in that situation again.”

Ah. Right.

Right.

I sniffle. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips tipping up. “Oh.”

Clearing my throat, I step away, out of his embrace and into the cold, empty space behind me. I wipe the wetness from my eyes and decide that he can bleach Chrissy’s lawn if he wants to. I guess. Who am I to argue? Maybe he can do my mom’s lawn while he’s at it.

He chuckles when I tell him so, drawing my attention away from my dress sleeves and back to him.

I wince.

I’d forgotten I had a days’ worth of dirt on me, some of which is now smudged on Jove’s forehead. And hands. And arms. And shirt.

He’s a very tactile man, I’ve learned, and it shows right now more than ever.

“Um,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry, but I seem to have gotten you dirty.”

He glances down, then shrugs. “It’ll wash.” His eyes dart to me. “Then you will, too. I’ll take the bathroom first, then you can shower.”

I nod. An excellent plan.

That is, until Jove gets out of the bathroom, and I find out that part of the plan involved him losing his shirt.

“You’re naked!” I squawk, looking away before the flash of exposed skin and ink can imprint itself on my mind. “What are you doing?”

“My shirt is wet,” he says. “I got the dirt out before it could stain, but the shirt is soaking now. I hung it up over your shower rod. I’d throw it in the dryer, but I don’t want to dry in any spots I might have missed and set the stains.”

I gulp, flicking my eyes in his direction, then away. “That makes sense,” I squeak.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks. “I don’t have another shirt with me, or I’d throw one on, and I don’t think even the oversized ones you’ve said you like to sleep in would fit me?”

No, they most certainly would not. I buy oversized, not gargantuan sized.

“It’s okay!” I lie. “You’re a guy. Guys sometimes don’t wear shirts. Totally normal in our culture – even in public! Which this isn’t. So definitely very, very fine.”

“Ly-”

“I’m going to shower now! Make yourself at home!”

As if he hasn’t already.

I scurry past him, eyes averted, and lock myself in the bathroom.

A look in the mirror has me flinching. Note to self: blushing does not look cute under several layers of potting soil and dirt.

I hurry through a shower, poking Jove’s shirt out of the spray of water before scrubbing myself raw. When I get out, my skin is comparative to a freshly cooked lobster’s, and I feel cleaner than I ever have in my life. That is, until I realize that in my hurry to escape the shirtless man in my house, I forgot to grab clothes for after my escape.

Ha.

Cool.

Um…

“Jove!” I yell, twisting the knob to open the door the itsy bitsy-est amount possible.

“Need something?” he asks, footsteps heading toward me quick on my hardwood floors.

“No!” I yelp. “Just. Um. I forgot to grab clothes? So I’m going to need you to not look this direction while I make a run for it to my room.”

A pause, followed by a choked, “You don’t have clothes?”

“Please, Jove. Go to the kitchen? And don’t come out until I tell you it’s all clear?”

“Is this payback?” he asks. “I take my shirt off, and you flounce around the house naked?”

My jaw drops. “I’m not flouncing anywhere! And I have a towel on! And I’m telling you to go away while I quickly zip to my room to get clothes on! More than you are doing, by the way, mister doesn’t-have-an-extra-shirt.”

“I’m going to the kitchen,” he groans. “Please do not take your streaking in there.”

Streaking! As if this is fun for me?

“Once I’m dressed, I’m going to strangle you,” I promise. “You obnoxious boy.”

He makes an unintelligible noise and backs away from the bathroom door. “You keep your hands to yourself, temptress.”

Several moments later he rumbles through the house the news that he is safely tucked away in the kitchen. “Maintaining my dignity!”

I roll my eyes and make a run for it down the hall, slamming my bedroom door behind me, then locking it.

“Safe!” I holler, then book it to my closet. I dress quickly, throwing on the first dress I find and hoping it isn’t the sort to become see-through with my hair dripping water on it.

Thankfully, when I take the time to look at it, I find myself wearing a forest-green cotton midi dress. It matches Jove’s eyes almost perfectly, and is blessedly opaque, even under the torrential downpour coming from my head.

I find a t-shirt to wrap my hair in, solving the water down my neck issue, take a deep breath, and exit my room.

I find Jove still in the kitchen, hands over his eyes which are pointed firmly up.

“I’m completely decent,” I sniff, pointedly not looking at his chest. Or stomach. Or strong, tattooed arms. “Which is more than we can say for you.”

His head falls as his fingers spread, allowing him to take a cautious peek at me.

He groans. “I thought you said you were decent!”

I panic, wondering if the dark green of my dress wasn’t a match for my wet hair after all, but I find nothing scandalous when I look down. I mean, okay, my dress could probably stand to be a little higher cut, but I don’t think it’s that bad. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” I ask, twisting to check the back. “It seems fine to me.”

“You look utterly radiant! Incandescent! Not fit for human eyes to see!”

I blink.

“Were you always this dramatic? I could’ve sworn you used to be scary.”

“I was never scary,” he comments, ink-covered arms dropping. “Not for you.”

I’d respond, but…

Well, a girl can only last so long, you know?

My gaze drops, snags on his chest – where a copy of my own necklace rests above his beating heart, thumping the metal ever-so-slightly in time with its rhythm – then roves over to an arm. Here, what would be sharp lines of muscle are softened by the flow of ink, a cascade of colors starkly contrasted by the black-and-gray on his other arm.

I squint, head tilting at a cluster of colors that look familiar. I step closer to see, then my jaw drops. “That’s the butterfly I drew for you in sixth grade,” I say, as if he does not know. “I spent hours trying to get the wings perfectly symmetrical. I used rulers and everything, but it still turned out wonky. You got that tattooed?”

He hums an affirmative and the butterfly twitches as his muscles contract, then relax. “I got more than that. Look.” He lifts his arm in offering.

So I do. I take the permission to run my eyes along his artwork, which, upon inspection, is actually my artwork. Doodles I’ve sent him. Words I’ve written. My signature, heart nestled beside it, over and over, filling in the space between depictions of stickers I’ve gifted and drawings I’ve made. I’m everywhere, covering every space between his wrist and shoulder, then bleeding out onto his chest and, when I walk around to check, his back.

My inhale stumbles its way into my lungs, burning.

“Jupie, this is…” Wow. “When did you get all these?”

He peeks at me over his shoulder, gaze soft. “Whenever I wanted,” he answers.

Blood rushes loud in my ears. “You must have wanted pretty often,” I whisper, tracing a shooting star with my finger. “Some of these are from before it was legal for you to get tattooed.”

“I got my first two at fifteen,” he says. “One for you.” He turns, pointing to a fern frond sketch I don’t remember drawing, mostly because I used to draw them on everything. “And one for Mars.” He points to a Joker card on his other arm, surrounded by just as many if not more seemingly random things as the arm he’s dedicated to me.

“Are those all for Mars?” I ask, poking at a slice of carrot cake on his forearm. “How come these are in black and gray?”

“Because I have always gotten to experience Mars’ colors in person, vibrant and explosive. To bleed some into my skin felt redundant when I see it every day.”

I glance at the arm reserved for me, a riot of rainbow hues.

“Yours could only ever be in color,” he murmurs. “To dull you is to harm you, and I would never do that.”

I blink back a surge of wetness in my eyes. “Only brothers get dulled, huh?” I ask, an attempt at levity in a moment that feels heavy. Beautiful, soul-wrenching, heart-moving – but heavy.

“Do you think Mars would let something so small as ink dull him?” He shakes his head. “When I had this conversation with him, he said, and I quote, ‘Whatever you say, brother mine, but a couple of black lines aren’t going to dull my shine.’”

I snort, and Jove chuckles.

“Do you like them?” he asks, twisting his colorful arm at me. “I think Brandi did them justice quite well.”

My eyes widen. “Brandi did these?”

He nods. “Of course. Who else would I go to?”

A million moments race through my head of Brandi – friendly Brandi, with her ready smiles and not-so-quick chats. The way she’s never once treated me as a stranger, even when I was one.

Except, apparently, I wasn’t quite.

“She’s very talented,” I say. “It can’t be easy purposefully tattooing the wobbly lines of a pre-teen artist.”

He shrugs. “Seemed easy enough for her.”

So. Talented.

“Enough of this, though,” he says. “We have important business to get to.”

Ah. Right. “We can’t go out in public with you shirtless,” I tell him. “I don’t care how little you care for laws. Public indecency is not an act I will help you commit.”

“That’s fine,” he replies. “What I had in mind doesn’t require leaving the house.”

“Oh?”

He grins, and my nerves spark. That can’t be good.

“You’re going to write me a love letter tonight, Lyra-love.”

Um.

What?

“I can’t write you a love letter,” I squeak. “Are you crazy?”

The question is rhetorical. He is, of course, crazy. I know that.

“No,” he lies, the lying liar. “It’s for research, Ly. I was writing last night, getting a trillion words thanks to you, but then I came up on a love note I need to write and I just. Couldn’t?” He winces. “I’ve written thousands of letters, maybe even hundreds of thousands, but this one has me… Well, I spent four hours attempting it and I have two lines. And those two lines are trash.”

“Have you tried searching them up online?” I ask, feeling for his plight but also really quite desperate to not write this man a love letter. One does not write their best friend a love letter. It’s in the code or something.

“The ones online are stupid,” he says. “And stinky. I need an expert’s touch.” He gestures at me. “As a professional letter writer and life-long romantic, who could be more expert than you?” His eyes widen, and thick, dark lashes flutter over them. “Please, Ly? Won’t you help me?”

He clasps his hands, bringing them up with his plea.

“Are you doing puppy dog eyes?” I groan. “That can’t be a legal maneuver. Where’d you even learn those?”

“From Mars,” he says. “He has a one hundred percent success rate with them.”

Yeah, I bet he does.

His brother is about to, also.

I sigh, and Jove smiles, pulling me in for a hug that nearly breaks my ribs. “Thank you, Ly-Ly. You’re a hero.”

Somehow, I doubt it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Love letters are hard.

Lyra

What am I doing?

Well, Lyra, you’re writing a love letter. Obviously. With the recipient right beside you, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye every twenty seconds even though he said he’d keep his eyes on the movie.

“Jove, I can’t do this with you watching me,” I tell him. For the fourth time.

“I’m not watching you,” he replies, also for the fourth time.

Seriously, since when is he such a liar?

“If you keep sneaking, I’m going to go do this in my room,” I warn.

He wrinkles his nose and aims his eyes at the TV. “Fine,” he pouts. “I’ll be good.”

Mmhm. I believe that.

Side eying Pinnochio, I pick up a pen. To write my love letter. To send to Jove.

I’ve spent the last two and a half hours procrastinating this moment. First, I made a flipbook. Then, I gave that flipbook about a thousand pockets, taking my dear, sweet time finding the perfect stickers and ephemera to fill them with. After that, I decorated it all in a maximalist’s dream style, throwing more and more on until I couldn’t see the paper beneath.

Once I’d used up as much time on the flipbook as I could, I moved on to the stationery I’d write on, adding doodles and stickers along the borders and creating cute spots to write the greeting and the salutation.

Unfortunately for me, after all that, I had nothing left to do. Except. You know. The letter itself.

A final glance at Jove to make sure he’s truly behaving, a deep breath, and a “you can do it, Lyra.” muttered under my breath, then it’s time.

Dear Jupiter,

Wait. No. That’s not right…

Dear Jupiter,

My dearest Jupiter,

Yes. Good. Perfect, even. Totally lovey.

Um. What next?

Sly and subtle, I grab my phone off the coffee table and open the internet, then type How to write a love letter into the search bar. I click on the first result I find, ignore their blatant use of the word “passion”, and find myself at the start of a perfectly followable list.

What blessings.

Step One: Tell them why you’re writing this letter.

Okay. Easy enough.

I’m writing you this letter under duress, because a big, scary man came into my house, took his clothes off, and threatened me with puppy tears should I not. It was most distressing, as you can imagine. Or, you know, remember.

Step Two: Tell them one or two qualities you admire about them.

Despite your complete lack of modesty, the secrets it’s revealed about you are quite touching. I’ve always been jealous of your love for your brother, wishing I had someone who would love me with such a fullness, and today you’ve shown me the proof on your person that I already have someone who loves me that much – and I always have, really. The depths at which you unashamedly care for the people you love, no matter what the outside world might think of them or of you, is beautiful, Jupie. It’s special.

You are special. The way you pay attention to people – to figure out the best revenge for an adversary or the best gift for a loved one, whichever – is incredible. You’re intelligent and considerate. Unbelievably kind when you feel it’s deserved. You are not a man who does things by half-measures, and I really appreciate that about you. One way or another, you’re all in.

This love letter writing stuff is not at all as hard as I thought it would be. All I have to do is compliment him? I do that anyway. He’s got loads of letters full of me gushing over him.

I frown.

So then what makes this any different from that? What constitutes a love letter versus a letter full of love?

I find out quickly upon consulting my list.

Step Three: Compliment their physical qualities.

I cough. Blush. Perhaps, die.

I don’t have to do this, right?

I mean, surely not.

Surely.

Jove knows what he looks like. He knows he’s… seriously flagging hot.

Right?

I turn my head, eyes ghosting over his broad shoulders on their way to his face.

“I’m not looking,” he grumbles.

“No, no, I know!” squeak, then laugh, an awful, awkward sound. “I have a question.”

His eyebrows raise as he faces me, pointedly not looking at the letter. “Yes?”

Ah. Well. Now that he’s ready for it.

I clear my throat. Stare at his nose. Wonder how, exactly, I’m going to get the courage to ask him this.

“Lyra?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Do you know how you look?” I blurt, eyes darting to the wide expanse of his chest, then back up.

He blinks. “Do I know how I look?” he asks.

I nod, pressing my lips together. “Yes.”

His head tilts. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I worry my lip, afraid of what might happen should I have to expand on the question. Then, in a stroke of genius, I wave a hand at him. “That.”

Eloquence is my middle name.

His brows furrow, and he shoots a cursory glance down at his own body.

My eyes follow his, getting further than they previously have, coasting over his belly and reaching the point where his jeans rest against strong hips before I jerk them away, my cheeks on fire.

“Ah,” Jove deadpans. “That. Very clarifying, the word that.”

I inspect his face, looking for any signs of false humility.

Sadly for me, Jove does not appear to have a single clue what I mean.

I muster up the courage to be a little more specific in the hopes of sparing me the task of immortalizing the words of his attractiveness on paper forever – then sending it to him, a true nightmare. “That you’re hot,” I manage to say before my already burning face scorches. My phone digs into my hand as I grip, ready to call the fire department should the situation worsen.

Jove’s face blanks. Fully, one percent blanks. “No,” he says. “Could you expand on that?”

I squawk. “No!” Not out loud, anyway. It’s bad enough I’ll have to write it. “Sorry! Go back to your movie!”

“I really don’t think I want to,” he says.

“Too bad!” I yelp, twisting back to my letter. “Very busy! Movie time!”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turns to the movie.

Slowly, reluctantly, I start writing.

It has come to my attention that you are somehow unaware of the appealing nature of your outer shell. According to a list I very expertly sourced, I must now inform you of your own looks. Because apparently a mirror has failed to do the job these past 29 years.

Ahem.

You are, to be frank, the hottest man on earth.

All the women in town talk about it. At length. Often. Some of the men, too. And they haven’t even seen you without your shirt on. They’d probably drop dead, honestly. You somehow manage to be the exact right blend of strong and cuddle-able that women want. Truly, the only thing fending them off is your complete disregard for the law and your absolute disinterest in anyone who has ever braved approaching you with an offer for, if not love, then a foray into lust with them.

Beyond your height, breadth, and strength, you have that face. The jaw and the nose and those green, green eyes.

My goodness, Jupie, your face.

It’s like… it’s like a statue and a painting and a movie star got smashed together and you popped out. Then you went and put that streak in your hair, adding a totally cool factor when you already looked totally freaking cool, and it’s just… honestly, I’m unsure how you’re allowed to walk around unsupervised. It can’t be safe for anyone.

And here I am without the safeguard of not knowing about your care or your thoughtfulness. I look at your face, see its beauty – see the beauty beneath – and I’m helpless, really.

I see you being humble, asking for my help without an ounce of pride getting in your way, and I see you doing your best to make up for your perceived shortcomings when it comes to your work so that you can make life easier on your brother, and I see your flagging perfect face and I’m just –

Helpless.

I pause, pen hovering above the page, hesitant to put it to paper again. My heart beats fast in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

Terror hits, and I wonder why.

Why would I be scared to tell Jove, my bestest friend in the entire world, how very much I cannot help but love him?

It’s not like I’m in –

My pen drops.

Oh.

Oh no.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Remember, folks. He’s “not in love”.

Jove

The scent of ammonia fills my lungs and my nose scrunches, but I don’t stop spraying the consistent mist of barely watered down bleach across Chrissy’s lawn, finding my way through the grass by the light of a single flickering street lamp.

As I spray, I run through Lyra’s letter in my mind, over and over again, a disc on repeat.

Helpless, she said.

-helpless.

You’re a man any woman would be lucky to love, and even luckier to be loved by.

I don’t know if this letter is serving you the way you need, but I hope it’s helping, even if only a little. I want nothing more than every good thing for you, Jupiter. All of the goodness, just for you.

Yours forever and ever,

Lyra-love ♥

I spray another line of bleach as I savor the knowledge that I have her forever – that she is mine. Because she’s helpless to resist.

My heart beats, and I know the rhythm must be hers.

I spray some more.

That people like Chrissy would take Lyra – my Lyra – and crush her under their feet is an injustice I cannot stand. Even as my soul settles at having Lyra forever my friend, going nowhere, my blood boils at the pain she’s been through. Taught by her mother, then her “friends” that she deserves less than anyone’s best, that actually she is so lucky to get even their worst, it’s a miracle she’s survived this long.

My miracle.

My Lyra.

Mine. Forever and Ever.

Helpless.

That’s okay, though, because I am here to protect her in any way she may need. To care for her for all of that ever.

Her days of being helpless to anyone but me are over.

Chapter Thirty

Soooooo not in love with her. Clearly.

Lyra

Sweet Lyra, My Lyra,

I do not believe anyone has ever written a love letter like yours. I particularly liked the part where you called me the hottest man on earth. I liked it second best, only behind the part where you said you are mine forever. No, sorry, third. I liked it third best, because there was also that bit about you being helpless. I quite like the thought of you helpless for me.

I figure fair is fair, so even though you haven’t shown up at my house and stripped (though I know how much you like to flounce around sans clothing), I’ll try my hand at my own love letter. Practice makes perfect, after all. Plus, I have a feeling it will be like all things are with you – easy, beautiful, and highly enjoyable. Let’s find out, shall we?

Following your lead, we’ll start with the things I love about you. I experience some sorrows, as I do not believe the earth possesses enough paper to write a comprehensive list, but I will work with what I have.

Your kindness. To me, to my brother, to everyone we went to school with and to passersby on the street. You treat everyone with dignity, whether they deserve it or not. You smile at them, you greet them, you remember them. You ask people about their families and their pets, and you don’t do it shallowly. You care about them to such a degree it baffles me in equal measure to how it awes me.

Your creativity. Some of the letters you’ve sent me… It’s incredible what you’re able to make out of nothing, and you have seemingly endless ideas. You’ve never once repeated a theme, not even when we had no jobs and supplies were limited. It amazes me to such a degree I can’t help but have it etched into my skin, every doodle that took me by surprise each time I thought I knew the measure of your imagination and abilities until, eventually, I learned to stop limiting you with my expectations. Now Brandi scribes me with the parts of your letters that feel so you, I can’t bear to let them go.

Your humor… intentional or not. No one makes me laugh like you do. No one has fun with me like you do. No one, not even Mars, brings my soul levity like you do. You’re silly and dramatic and, sorry love, but a whole lot ridiculous. The joy my heart knows at being around you is immeasurable.

You’re a million other things, all of them better than the last, but I won’t list them all here. I’ll end this portion of the letter with my favorite one, which is that you’re mine. Helplessly, forever mine.

What blessings have I, to deserve such a thing?

Ah, and what came after the compliments on my personality? Do you recall, sweet Lyra?

I bet you’re blushing now. Rosy pink flowing from your cheeks to your neck and down, under your butterfly and into the collar of the dress you’re wearing. I love it when you blush. There’s something about it that makes me want to kiss your cheeks – to feel the warmth of it against my lips.

You wear a blush so gorgeously.

I love how small you are. When we hug, I can wrap you so fully that I know nothing else can get to you. I can hold you protected in my arms for as long as you allow, and when I have to let go, I can stand before you, big enough to block the bad. I have never been so grateful for my build as when I could use it to separate you and the things that hurt you. I promise you, my song, that I will always be there, standing in the way. You’ll never have to take those things on by yourself again.

You mentioned my face in a way that makes me think perhaps you do not know what yours looks like. Eyes the color of Easter grass and lips a shade of pink not in nature, because how could even nature mimic such silk perfection? Your skin, so often painted rose, is the softest I’ve ever felt. I could spend hours running my fingers along, searching for a rough spot that doesn’t exist. I think I’d like to, if you’d let me.

You are beauty, grace, kindness, thoughtfulness, peace, joy, and soul-deep contentment all in one. If you are helpless, Lyra, then you must know that I am powerless. To do anything less than love you is outside of me, an unreachable goal, should I even want it. Which, to be clear, I do not.

Forever yours as you are forever mine, your friend until the moon is dust and the stars all fade. I love you so dearly, my song.

Yours,

Jupiter

I read Jove’s letter. Then, I read it again, my eyes snagging on “your friend”.

This dummy doesn’t know he’s in love with me.

I mean, okay, sure, I didn’t know I was in love with him, either. But at least I figured it out before the end of my love letter. This man ended his love letter proclaiming us the best of friends forever. My goodness, he said he wanted to run his hands over my body for hours – yes, I was indeed blushing as I read it – and then basically said “wow, what a buddy!”

I pick up my phone and dial Elodie.

She answers on the fourth ring. “My favorite cousin!”

“Elodie, he’s clueless!”

She laughs. “Of course he is. He’s a he. Are we talking about Jove?”

I grunt. “We’re doing our fake dating thing, right? And it’s going fine. Then, suddenly, he’s all write me a love letter, Lyra, and giving me puppy dog eyes, and doing that flagging pout that, honestly El, if you could see it, you’d give him anything he wanted too.”

I stand from my desk, and pace back and forth between it and my bed.

“So I write the letter, obviously, except the list says I have to tell him everything I love about him and also how hot he is because, get this, he didn’t know? It’s insanity. So I’m writing and writing and going on and on about how I’m helpless until suddenly, it hits me.” I throw my free arm up, then wince as it hits painfully on a carved bedpost before continuing, “I’m in love with him. A total disaster! But I think, you know, he’s Jupiter, right? And I’ve just outlined for myself why I should be in love with him basically, and I’d be stupid to look at that and be all ooo, but our friendship because I hate when book characters do that. Screw your friendship! Kiss! So I finish the letter and I mail it to him and I sit around for days and days waiting on a reply, which came today. And you know what he did?” I’m near shouting now, and give no pause for El to answer. “He wrote me a love letter back! And it was better than mine! Which, of course it was, considering writing is his job, but still! It was better! Until I get to the end, anyway, where he says, essentially, lol cool being besties with you always!”

I pant, wearing a rut into the hardwood floors as I cradle my smarting hand. “Clueless!”

Elodie, for her part, waits at least twenty seconds before bursting into fairy-tinkling laughter.

I groan. “It’s not funny! How do you tell a man he’s in love with you? How do you make him realize without being all pick me, choose me, love me?”

“It’s definitely funny,” she replies. “Remember when you didn’t even want to be fake dating him? And now look at you! Real dating! Except he doesn’t know it. It’s a romcom come to life, emphasis on the com. Hilarious. Subscribe, yes, give me more.”

“You can’t subscribe to my life,” I huff. “And you’re not being helpful.”

“What is cousin-hood if not a free life-long subscription to your life?” she asks. “Also, I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to remind the readers that they love me so that when the author gets to my book, they’ll want to read it.”

“No one’s giving you a book if you don’t do some heavy side character action, and quick,” I reply. “You think people want to read about a woman who laughs at her family’s suffering?”

“Yep,” she says, popping the p. “I sure do. I’m totally set up for the grumpy/sunshine trope!”

I remember the voice in the background of our last phone call and her comments about grumpy men. Hm. Maybe she is a little bit set up. Still.

“The point, dear cousin, is that my life is in shambles and I don’t know how to fix it, because the man I love read my declaration of love, returned it, then still friend-zoned me.”

Elodie coughs to stifle a giggle. “Have you considered just telling him? ‘Hey, Jove, congratulations. You’re in love with me. Don’t worry, I’m in love with you, too. Let’s get married and have a hoard of crime-loving babies.’”

“Our babies will be upstanding citizens,” I retort. Then, I remember the teenager at mini-golf. And Ted. “Unless there are extenuating circumstances.”

Fairy bells tinkle, and I sigh, falling into my desk chair. I pick up Jove’s letter. “Seriously, I don’t know what to do, El. It’s clear as day he’s in love with me. I know it just as certain as I know that I’m in love with him, but he has no clue.”

Elodie pushes, gentle but firm. “Tell him, Ly. In a way that makes him listen.”

I gulp. Right. “Any ideas on how to do that?”

“He’s a man?” she asks.

“Uh… yes?” I confirm.

“Then nope.”

We laugh, but it really isn’t funny.

Not at all.

Chapter Thirty-One

Ew, emotions.

Lyra

Friday evening, Jove shows up at my house as the sun is just starting to set, the same as he has for the past several weeks. Punctual. Exactly what I love in a boyfriend.

The difference this week, however, is that I’m actually ready for him. I am not covered in dirt. I am not being confronted with my ex-best friend. I am not ill.

Instead, I’m in my living room, sitting on the edge of my couch in the dress I wore to go-karts – the one Jove liked – anxiously tapping my fingers against my knees as I wait for him.

When he does not knock, but walks right into my house, I jump, skirt billowing as I spin toward his frowning frame.

“Jove!” I exclaim, fisting my skirt in my hands. “You’re here!”

He nudges the door shut, then drops a peachy-pink duffel bag on the floor next to it. “Your door was unlocked again,” he grumps, flipping the lock himself. “I can’t protect you if I’m not here, which means when I’m not around you have to take precautions, Lyra-love. You’ve got to lock your doors.”

I nod, quick jerks of my head that sway my hair against my neck. “I have been,” I promise. “But I knew you were coming.”

He runs a hand through his hair, then approaches me. “Even still,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “I can wait outside for you to unlock it.”

Right. Sure. Lock my door. Impede the love of my life in his mission to get to me. I’ll get right on that.

“I think I’m overdressed,” I mutter into the soft cotton of his sage-green t-shirt. I slide my hands from his back to his sides then down until they hit the bulky waistband of black sweatpants. “Are we not going out?”

His sigh ruffles my hair before he steps back to take me in. Like the last time he saw me in this dress, his eyes darken, lids lowering over deep green irises as he takes his time perusing me, particularly my hips and waist, where 3D butterflies dance along the fabric. “You’re dressed perfectly,” he says. “You should never wear anything else, actually.”

He tears his eyes from my hips when I blush, and his pupils dilate as they zero in on my warming cheeks.

Besties forever, huh?

Yeah, right.

“Are we staying in?” I ask, surveying his outfit. I pause when I get to his feet, rubbing my eyes. This does nothing to erase the hallucination in front of me. “You have carrots on your feet.” Carrot shaped slippers, to be exact.

“Yes,” he says. “We’re testing a new trope today.”

“They make carrot slippers in size gargantuan?”

“I had them special ordered. Do you want to hear the trope?”

“Rich people special order carrot slippers?”

“I special order carrot slippers for Mars and me,” he answers. “They’re comfortable. I’ll get you a pair. Now, please, honey, focus. Trope testing.”

“Sure,” I mutter, eyes locked on his carrots. “Trope testing.”

Wait.

No.

I have a mission.

My head jerks up, almost colliding with his chin. “Not trope testing!” I exclaim. “I need to talk to you first.”

His brows pull together as he frowns, body tense. “Are you fake breaking up with me?”

“No,” I say, and he relaxes. “Because we aren’t fake dating.”

He tenses again. “That sounds like fake breaking up,” he accuses.

“Jove,” I start. “Do you remember what I said in my love letter?”

He nods slowly, lips getting poutier by the minute. “Yes.”

“And you know that I would never lie to you?”

“Yes.”

“Which means everything I said in that letter is true.”

He nods. “Of course.”

Okay… Deep breath. Courage, Lyra, courage. You’ve already told him once. You just have to tell him again. Easy peasy.

I drag air into my lungs, then release it as Jove watches. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Including when I said I love you,” I proclaim, making a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact.

“Of course,” he says. “I love you, too.”

My head jerks side to side. “No, Jupie. I love you.”

“Yes,” he replies, firm. “And I love you.”

I step forward, grabbing his face in my hands, grateful when he lets me drag him down to my level. “No, Jupie,” I repeat. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

He freezes. Blinks.

Grins.

“You are?” he asks. “Really?”

“I am. Really.”

His hands cover mine on his face, and he squishes them. “That’s great news!”

Uh… “It is?” I ask.

I mean, I know it is. But why does he think it is?

“Of course,” he says. “I told you you should fall in love with me. I’m tall, rich, and handsome. A total catch, and we know I’ll never mistreat you or take you for granted. This is the best outcome we could’ve hoped for. Mars will be so happy. It’s right on trope!” He gasps, hands sliding to my wrists and shaking. “We won’t have to worry about you locking your doors, because you’ll live with me. And I always lock my doors.”

As if anyone would try breaking into Jove Rogue’s house.

“Jupiter,” I cut into his excitement, “That’s not all I wanted to say.”

His hands drop, and he sweeps me into a hug, laughing. “Okay. Talk away, Lyra-love.”

I breathe in the scent of him – autumn leaves and rainwater – bolstering myself for the harder part of this conversation. “The thing is,” I hedge, then rip the bandaid off. “You’re in love with me too.”

His laughter stops, and he leans away from me, keeping me in the circle of his arms, but no longer pressed tight. His eyes are kind as he looks at me, his mouth soft. “Lyra, I’m so sorry, but I’m not.”

I thought he might say that.

I twist out of his arms so that I can go to the coffee table and snatch the peach envelope on top of it, then turn to present it to him. Exhibit A. “Am I wrong in thinking that everything in this letter is true?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “It’s all true. You know it is. I do love you, my song. I’m just not in love with you.” His tone flows gentle and exceedingly oblivious.

“You are beauty, grace, kindness, thoughtfulness, peace, joy, and soul-deep contentment all in one. If you are helpless, Lyra, then you must know that I am powerless. To do anything less than love you is outside of me, an unreachable goal, should I even want it. Which, to be clear, I do not.” I quote. “These are not the words of a man who simply loves his friend. These, along with every other word in this letter, are the words of a man in love.”

I approach him much in the way one might approach a scared, cornered animal, even though Jove does not look scared. His arms are loose at his sides, fingers relaxed. The line of his shoulders tenses for barely a second before settling back down, and his brows, though furrowed, do not lean toward anxiety. Not for him, anyway. He looks plenty concerned for me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, reaching for me when I get close. He drags me in, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other goes up to stroke my hair.

“But it makes sense that the love letter would read as in love when the whole point of our scheme was to get me better at writing romantically. As you can see, it’s working. A little too well, maybe.”

“Jove, even the way you’re holding me right now is romantic, and that has nothing at all to do with writing.”

“I’m a tactile man,” he replies. “I like physical touch. This isn’t any different than how I’ve ever interacted with you over the past couple of months.”

“You are tactile,” I concede. “However, a couple of months ago you could go without touching me for more than a few minutes. Since you’ve been in my house, the only time you haven’t been holding me is when I pulled away. And last week, when I was working on your letter, you had our legs tangled together the entire time and pouted at me any time I lessened the contact in any way. You hold my hand when we walk. You sit close when you can. You hold me at every opportunity. These aren’t just tactile touches for a touch-starved man. I doubt you’d interact with Mars in the same way.”

“Mars is touch averse,” he says. “Which is why I’m so touch starved.”

“If Mars wasn’t touch averse,” I propose, “would you hold him in your arms, hand buried in his hair, lips pressed against his head?”

He freezes, hand in my hair flexing. “No,” he says. “But that’s different.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Because you’re in love with me.”

“No,” he counters. “Because you’re Lyra.”

I groan, fisting his shirt in my hands. “And what do you think that sentence means?” You clueless, clueless boy.

“It means you’re Lyra,” he says.

I would pound my head against the wall if he weren’t holding it so closely to his chest.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats. “But also… does it matter? I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m willing to stay with you. To care for you in any and all ways you’ll let me. If you want marriage? I’ll give you marriage. If you want it to be a real marriage? Well, we’ve already established that we’re attracted to each other, so we can do that too. I’ll give you everything you want – kids, money, security. And none of it requires me to be in love with you. Good ole regular friend love is strong enough.”

“I do not think you have any idea what good ole regular friend love feels like,” I tell him. “Because good ole regular friends do not offer to marry each other.”

“One could posit that other people are bad at good ole regular friend love,” he says. “On account of most people being selfish idiots.”

He is, possibly, not wrong.

Time for a new approach.

I put pressure on his hand, and he oh-so-graciously allows me to move my head half a foot away from him. I use that space to look up up up into his eyes, which stare down down down back at me, so full of sweetness.

Gazing. He is gazing lovingly at me.

When does cluelessness turn into stupidity? I thought we were in a friends-to-lovers situation, but maybe it’s actually idiots-to-lovers. We’ll be one of those couples people say Took them long enough. or Weren’t they always together? about.

“What trope are you planning for tonight?” I ask. “In our ‘fake’ dating?”

His lips purse. “I think you were right about it no longer being fake. If you’re in love with me and I’m going to marry you, that seems pretty real.”

Uh huh. You don’t say.

“The trope?” I prompt.

“Only one bed,” he replies, eyes wandering over my head, where they go distant. “Less of a trope testing now, though, and more of a trial run. What if I snore, and that makes you fall out of love with me? Or, worse, what if you snore outside of the sick time snores I’ve already witnessed, and I don’t think it’s an adorable addition to all that is you, and I find that I can’t, in fact, live with a wife who not-adorable snores?” He shudders, and his eyes flash to mine. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this, actually. If we wait until we’re married, I’ll be locked in already, so the snores can’t drive me away.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” I shake my head. “We’re doing your trope. And when we do it, I want you to really pay attention. No researching allowed. Only feeling. Okay?”

“But the snoring,” he says. “I don’t want to ruin our chances of marriage.”

I squeeze my arms between us to grab his face. “You know what will ruin our chances of marriage, Jove? If you aren’t in love with me. I’m not marrying a man who can’t feel the depth of his feelings for me, and I’m definitely not marrying a man who thinks I’d be okay with a lifetime of knowing I’m not getting back the same amount of love that I’m putting in.”

His eyes widen, panic shooting through them as his arms contract around me. “You said you’re mine forever,” he blurts, words jumbling as he races to get them out. “You said helplessly mine.”

“And I am,” I assure him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to accept whatever scraps you’re willing to throw my way, no matter how enticing they are.” And a rich, full life with the man I love is pretty enticing. “I’m demanding better for myself.” I smile, a little rueful. “You taught me how to do that.”

“I’m in love with you,” he declares, desperation coating his voice. “Totally gone. Very in love.”

I laugh, but not in a happy way. “We both know that’s not a real confession, Jove, and honestly it kind of hurts to hear you throw it out there without thought, even knowing you mean well.”

I move in, tucking my head against him again.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’ll be here for you, always always. We can have what we have now, if maybe a little bit… less touchy.” I sigh. “It’s not an ultimatum, Jupie. It’s respecting myself. It’s saying this is what I’m willing to accept for my life, and this is what I’m not. I am still yours, either way, because no amount of boundaries and self-respect can change the feelings of a heart – and, truthfully, I wouldn’t even want them to. I love loving you.” I snuggle close, trying to reassure him as he clings to me. “This might not matter anyway. I know you’re in love with me. It’s just a matter of whether or not you’ll realize it too.”

We stand in silence after that for a long time, Jove doing his very best to meld into my skin and me giving him whatever reassurance I can with my hold.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers eventually. “I barely survived the last time I lost someone. I can’t do it again.”

Knife to the heart. “Your mom?” I ask, already knowing and hating the answer. He doesn’t bring her up much in his letters, but when he does, it’s always heartwrenching.

His breaths come fast, stuttering against my cheek as his heart beats in my ear, a too-quick thumping that has me straining my arms to hold him together.

“My mom,” he answers, sorrow spitting the words out rough. “She was everything, you know? Not in the same way that you are everything, but in her own way. So special.” He sniffs, and my heart breaks. “She was beautiful and kind and so sweet, she could rival you in that department. Loving. Perfect.” He pauses, chest puffing as he breathes. “And then she was gone.” Then, in a whisper I barely hear, “I don’t want you to be gone.”

“I won’t be gone,” I promise. “I’ll be right here.”

“You swear?” he asks. “Even if I’m not in love? Even if all we ever have is what we already have? You won’t leave me behind?”

“I swear.”

He takes in a huge, heaving breath, then separates from me. Mostly.

His hands trail down my arms, fingers hooking in mine as our glassy eyes meet. His resemble a misty forest, hazy after a summer rain, depths full of lurking scaries and uncertain steps. Mine probably look something like rotten seaweed.

Some people have all the good genes.

His mouth moves, an unsure motion that endears as much as it concerns. I suppose I will be taking the lead still.

“Do you want a secret Diet Coke?” I ask. “They always make me feel better.”

Surprise flits across his face before a spark of humor takes over and his lips lift, just the tiniest bit.

A kaleidoscope of monarchs take off in my stomach.

“I would love a secret Diet Coke,” Jove replies, running a thumb over my knuckles. “Does Diet Coke solve mommy issues? And abandonment issues?”

I wince. “It solves the snoozies?”

“Ah,” he mutters, tugging me toward the kitchen, which leads to the garage. “Close enough. Let’s go.”

We get our Diet Cokes and drink them crouched behind my car in the garage, lit only by a faint sliver of sun filtering through a definitely-needs-to-be-replaced window. As I sip, I watch Jove carefully for any signs of upset, but the only clues I get that he’s not his usual self are the crushing hold he keeps on my hand and a niggle of uncertainty that floats through his eyes before I speak, whispering about nothing and everything, showing him that we’re okay in the only way I can think to – by being okay.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Only one bed! Only one bed!

Jove

“You know, I don’t know if this is actually an only one bed trope,” Lyra comments, tossing her empty soda can into a green bin under her sink and gesturing for me to do the same. “I think only one bed requires there to truly be no other option. Not only do you live near enough to find your own bed, but you’re rich. You could go to a hotel.”

My can follows hers as I hum. “True,” I confirm. “Which is why I gave Mars everything in my wallet – except my license – and told him to bar me from the house should I show up. Voilà. Options eliminated.”

Lyra takes a moment to process my incredible problem-solving skills, then says, “Would Mars actually bar you from going home?”

I snag her hand as we head to the living room, letting the pressure of her skin continue to soothe the lingering anxiety beneath mine, then answer. “Yes. Quite happily, I believe. He heavily implied that he wants me to try so we can have play time while he ‘defends the tower’, as he called it.”

Lyra’s eyebrows rise. “Do you guys often have play time where you attempt to break and enter into your own house?”

I shake my head, falling into her couch and tugging her down with me. “Sometimes we attempt to break and enter into other people’s homes.” Mainly our dad’s, but her adorably appalled face as she turns toward me stops me from admitting that. She might unwiden her eyes and close her mouth, and then what will I do? Suffer in the knowledge that she can make such a cute face and no longer is?

No, thank you. I need this morale.

“Occasionally, we play fire chicken instead,” I tell her, thoroughly enjoying the way her eyes get impossibly larger. Her jaw continues to hang, and I find myself wondering if it would be cuter closed, or if the addition of her little pink tongue is what pulls the expression together. To test, I untangle my hand from hers and push on her chin.

Hm. No less cute, no more cute. A different kind of cute, one might say.

“Do I want to know what fire chicken is?”

Probably not.

“Fire chicken is when we go in the backyard and light patches on fire, then whoever puts their patch out first loses.”

Lashes flutter over moss-green irises as she takes that in. “You… purposefully… set fire to your yard… for a game?”

“It’s fun,” I assure her. “You can play with us next time.”

“Um,” she says. “No.”

I raise an eyebrow, and she adds, “Thank you.”

I shrug. Her loss. It really is fun. Invigorating.

“Do we have any plans beyond sleepover?” Lyra asks. “I wasn’t planning on staying in, and Saturdays are my grocery days so I’ve got basically nothing in the house right now for us to eat.”

“Ah!” I exclaim, standing. “I have a list!”

Grabbing my duffel from where I dropped it by the door, I bring it to the living room and plop it on the coffee table, then dig inside. I push my clothes and toiletries out of the way so that I can grab my research notebook – a black, faux-leather-bound journal that contains all of my thoughts, questions, and findings for the Flag Day project. I sit, hooking a leg under one of Lyra’s so that I can bring her thigh over mine as I flip through to my list for tonight.

She leans into me, wedging herself against my arm so she can read with me.

Dinner - spicy nuggets or life is not worth living

Movie

Arts and Crafts Time

Braid Lyra’s Hair

Role Play an Enemies-to-Lovers Scenario

Only One Bed Time

“You’re going to braid my hair?” she asks, finger tracing our evening’s itinerary. “What is all this?”

“I remembered in middle school you were obsessed with sleepovers,” I reply, “and then devastated you never got invited to one. I thought we could fulfill your dream since I’m staying over. Sleepover and a trope. One for you and one for me.”

Her finger freezes on the page, hovering over Arts and Crafts Time before leaving the paper to land on my cheek, turning me to face her. “Thank you, Jupie,” she says, sincerity and gratefulness pouring through her words. “This means a lot to me.”

I slip an arm around her waist as I kiss her temple. “Anything and everything for you, Lyra-love.”

She echoes my words in a whisper, then taps the list. “Food. Can you order while I go get changed? Sleepover activities require sleepover attire.”

My brain stutters over several possibilities for what Lyra might consider “sleepover attire”, all of which are less appropriate than anything Lyra would be likely to even look at.

Clearing my throat as I shift on the couch, I tug at the collar of my t-shirt. “Of course,” I rumble. “Do you mind if I turn down the thermostat a couple of notches too?”

She shrugs, tells me to make myself at home, then disappears into her bedroom to change.

The house temperature reads 70 degrees, so I bump it down to 68 before pulling up the Wendy’s mobile app on my phone and ordering roughly half the menu. Those things settled, I raid Lyra’s linen closet for extra pillows and blankets, push the coffee table out of the way, push the couch back so we don’t break our necks looking up at the TV from the floor too close, and then, finally, make us a comfortable sleepover movie night nest on the floor.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Lyra says, rejoining me in the living room. “I spent my entire savings on my mattress three years ago, if you remember. I sleep nowhere but it unless I absolutely have to.”

“I remember telling you not to spend all your savings, and that I’d buy you a top of the line mattress instead,” I reply, fluffing a pillow. “But we aren’t sleepi-” I choke as my eyes flick up, landing on my very best friend in the entire world.

That’s outfit number two of the possibilities I deemed not something Lyra would consider.

She’s trying to kill me.

“What are you wearing?” I wheeze, eyes wide as I take her in.

She blushes, so sweet, and runs her hands over her short shorts, made even shorter by the fact that the bottom half of them – maybe four inches of fabric – is a sheer, dusky red lace. Which matches perfectly the, blessedly opaque, silky red material above it, clinging to her hips beneath a top that isn’t cut in a way any man would think much of, but enthralls nonetheless. The bottom comes together in a V, mimicking the line of the collar as it comes down from the skinniest bits of lace I’ve ever seen as they valiantly attempt to hold the shirt on Lyra’s star-freckled shoulders.

While the cut alone is loose, hiding the curve of her breasts and the line of her waist, lace flirts along her collar, teasing shadows of what’s beneath while never quite showing. More lace cuts through the sides of the top, forming more Vs and casting more shadows as the fabric moves with her, nearly but not quite revealing things that are only Lyra’s to reveal.

I gulp.

A work in contrasts that seriously works on me, Lyra stands there in the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen, blush stealing over her cheeks as her fingers twist in front of her and her feet shuffle. Her eyes hit mine, then dart away, and she bites her lip.

I inhale, sharp.

Hot. Gorgeous. Sweet. Shy. Innocent. Perfect.

Nervous.

Flag, she’s nervous.

“Hey,” I say, dropping the blanket in my hand and coming near. I reach for her, bypassing all of the tempting spots I could land on until I get to her face, where my hands settle on her burning cheeks. “You look gorgeous, honey. So flagging gorgeous.” I let loose a curse, and it’s not flag. “I wasn’t expecting you to come out here wrapped so pretty just for me.” My eyes drop to her toes, which are painted the same red as the silk she wears, then drag up her body, taking in the present that is her.

I grab her hand, bringing it to my chest. “Feel?” I ask. “You have nothing to be nervous about. I am, as ever, at your mercy here, Lyra. Possibly more so now than I have ever been. I think you could ask me to walk off a cliff and I’d do it quite happily right now.”

Her lips tip up and relief courses through me. Less nervous. Good.

“I just thought,” she starts, eyes flicking between mine, then away. “Well, I thought that if I’m going to make you realize you’re in love with me, I should give it my best effort, you know? Say I actually tried.”

“No one could deny that you are trying your very best,” I concede. My hand on her cheek lifts until only my fingers remain for me to trail across her skin, down her neck. Over her star-studded shoulder.

I push the lace there, enjoying the hitch in Lyra’s breath as it falls away, leaving no hindrance to my appreciation of her freckled complexion. “My goodness, Ly,” I mutter. “You try so well.”

She shivers, then, despite my protesting whine, takes her hand off my heart, steps back, and fixes her strap. “Thank you,” she says, voice wobbly and high. She clears her throat, then braves a look at my face.

She finds me pouting, and lingering tension sinks out of her. She laughs. “Oh, don’t pout, Jupie. You can touch as much as you like later. Once you’re able to correctly interpret your feelings.”

“You mean to tease and torture, then?”

“I mean to entice and enlighten,” she says, scooting around me. “This is all just for the movie, right?”

The movie? Flag the movie, I want to play. To touch. To feel.

“Yes,” I reply. “We’ll be doing only one bed in bed. The last time I slept on a floor, my back hurt for a week and I had to go to that massage place in town to get it fixed. Erin, the masseuse? She does not practice the art of soothing, relaxing massages. What she does is torture of a different kind than what you’re partaking in right now. I was quite abused. Then, fortunately for the state of her tires, I was better. Apparently beating people up is healing now.”

“I know Erin,” she replies. “She’s great.”

Oh, the torturers are friends? How surprising.

A knock sounds at the door, and my eyes shoot wide. I move on instinct, scooping Lyra up and dropping her in the nest, then throwing any loose blanket I can find over her until she’s covered head-to-toe in plaids, peaches, and pinks. Only her eyes peek out at me, astonished, as I order, “Don’t move.”

I handle the food delivery quickly, opening the door just wide enough to throw a tip at the boy on the other side and snatch my bags and drinks. He bids me a goodnight, and I growl in response, then slam the door. Barrier renewed, my heart rate slows.

I move to the window, pushing aside the curtain so I can watch him leave the property. He throws startled glances behind him as he mounts his bicycle, shoving green bills into the money pack around his hips as he goes.

“Well,” Lyra says behind me. “It’s a good thing nobody panicked.”

I blink and turn around. “I told you not to move,” I grumble, retrieving the big brown bag containing our food before joining her in the nest, where she’s disobediently uncovered her top half. “You’re a terrible listener.”

“I’m an excellent listener,” she counters. “It’s the obeying that you have an issue with. Sadly for you, I’m a fully grown woman who answers only to herself these days. It’s all that character growth, you know?”

I do know, and I couldn’t be more proud. She shies, pleased, when I tell her so.

“Okay,” she says. “Food? Before the fries get cold?”

Ew. Cold fries.

I stand to disappear into the kitchen to find a tray for our drinks. Tray secured, I return to a wiggling, happy Lyra.

“This smells so good,” she says. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, which was a two pack of Reese’s cups and a half a bottle of kombucha. I need this.”

I fold myself into the blankets next to her, scowling. “You didn’t eat lunch?” I ask. “And your breakfast was chocolate and a drink you hate?”

She shrugs, pulling tiny pots of sauce out of a bag and lining them up beside her. “I was anxious about telling you you love me,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d be mad at me about it.” She glances at me, sheepishly. “I couldn’t eat.”

“I hate everything you just said,” I tell her. “You have to eat, Ly. That’s Being a Human 101: Basic Necessities. Food. Water. Shelter.”

“And look!” she exclaims, presenting a fry before shoving it in her mouth. “Food! I live another day!”

It’s enough to make me wish I was in love with her. I could feed her carrot cake every day, like Mars does for me. And she’d never drink flagging kombucha ever again.

“Pick a movie, Jove.” Her shoulder bumps mine, then stays there, the heat of her skin soaking into my shirt where they meet. “It’s sleepover time!”

Eying her as she merrily dunks a spicy nugget into a slew of sauces, I grab the remote to do as she bids.

After the movie and the food, we spend some time rooting through her art supplies to decide on a project, ultimately landing on making tiny clay dragons. Hers is about a million times better than mine, with vines crawling over its miniature scales and leaf-like spikes crawling up its back. In comparison, the dragon I’ve molded looks more like a sick puppy with wings, no matter how insistently Lyra tries to tell me otherwise.

Braiding her hair goes slightly better than clay sculpting in that I get to touch Lyra for the entire process. The end result is about the same on the disaster scale, though, and she ends up rebraiding it herself. “Although, honestly, if you’d like to keep playing with my hair, feel free. It feels really nice.”

Goodbye, hair tie. Hello, joy.

We watch another movie with her curled up between my spread legs, head resting on my thigh as I run my hands through her hair and rub at her scalp. I learn that she likes it best when I push to the point that I think I might hurt her, and then go a little bit more. At some point she starts to purr, and I wonder if any moment has ever been more beautiful than Lyra in my lap, safe and content and happy, purring at my touch.

When her purrs turn into the most adorable snores I have ever heard in my life, I stop stroking her hair to poke at her. “Lyra-love,” I murmur. “We’re supposed to do the enemies-to-lovers thing for my research.”

She groans, twisting her face into my thigh. “Make them friends-to-lovers,” she whines. “I’m sleepy.”

And what, exactly, is a man to say to that?

“Okay,” I whisper. “They can be friends-to-lovers.” I run my hand through her hair again, continuing down her back when I reach the end. “Do you want me to take you to bed?”

“Mm,” she replies. “Comfy. Sleepy.”

Cold, too, I notice. Goosebumps line her arm and upper back where they’re exposed to the air, and when I bring the blanket up to warm her, her feet peek out the other end. My nose wrinkles.

“Sorry, honey,” I rumble. “We’re going to have to move you. These blankets aren’t big enough.”

She groans, twisting to squint up at me. “You hate me?” she asks. “That’s what this is? Hatred? If you cannot in love me, you will in hate me?”

I sigh, bringing my hand to her cheek, red and puffy from where it pressed against my leg. “I could never in hate you,” I tell her. “Do you want to walk or would you prefer I carry you?”

She frowns. “I want to stay here. Forever, preferably.” Her hand covers mine, and she moves it back into her hair. “You can play with my hair,” she offers, so magnanimous. “It will be perfect, yes?”

“No,” I refute. “Because you would be cold, and I can’t bear the thought.”

She pouts, hand sliding to my forearm and squeezing her displeased revenge.

“I can play with your hair in your bed,” I offer. “After we’ve locked up the house and brushed our teeth.”

She huffs, but concedes, rolling away from me to sit up.

My breath catches in my throat as she stands, the back of her tiny shorts right in my face.

Flagging, flagging, flag, I was not prepared for this.

Blessedly, she turns, realizes how close we are, and takes a big step back. “Whoops,” she mutters, stumbling over the blankets. “Sorry.”

I nod my forgiveness, not trusting my voice. “Go ahead and brush your teeth,” I say. “I’ll clean this up and close up shop.”

She looks around at the mess, biting her lip. “Are you sure?” she asks. “I can help.”

I look at her as I stand – her mussed hair, her barely opened eyes – and raise my eyebrows. “Go brush your teeth,” I order. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

She smiles, sheepish, and nods. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll see you in bed?”

My heart jumps, stops, and restarts.

I dip my head in an affirmative, and she comes to me, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss the line of my jaw.

My stomach erupts, a flock of butterflies taking off so violently, I think I must be floating.

She turns to walk away and my hand covers my midsection in a vain attempt to quiet the riot happening within. One butterfly escapes, despite my efforts, and flutters its way past my seized lungs and stumbling heart, straight up to my brain, where it whispers a teensy little niggling thought at me.

“Ah,” I whisper to it. “Right.”

Well, flag.

I was wrong.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Oh, what, he is?

Jove

It’s 3:00 AM, and I can’t sleep.

If you’re not in love, then why am I here?

I don’t know, butterfly, I’m not a flagging expert.

Clearly.

Considering I’ve been in love with a woman for years and had no clue.

My goodness, then my stupid self didn’t believe her when she told me.

I have worms for brains, I swear.

Lyra lies next to me, cuddled deep into my side as she sleeps. Her little honk-shoos tightening a knot in my chest.

I have to tell her.

She already knows, but she doesn’t know that I know, and it’s tearing me apart.

I can’t sleep.

By the time I made it to bed after securing the house, she was already under the covers and out like a light. I couldn’t bring myself to wake her.

I couldn’t calm enough to sleep.

And so here I’ve lain, thinking over every letter I’ve ever written, every hint there’s ever been that I’m completely gone for this girl.

It’s terrifying.

It’s invigorating.

Do I actually hate Brian Single, I ponder, or do I just hate that she gave him pieces of her heart that should have been mine?

When I promised her at fifteen that I’d wear my necklace over my heart so that it would be next to her, how did I not see it?

Nearly a lifetime of signs, and I missed them all, including the huge light up one she shoved in my face.

“I’m so stupid,” I tell the ceiling, frowning at the faintly glowing fairy lights strung across it. “I’ve wasted so much time.”

I could’ve been here with her ages ago. What was I doing?

Being stupid. So unbelievably stupid.

I hope she can still love me despite my incredible lack of brain cells.

She shifts, nose nuzzling my skin as her lashes flutter, tickling me. “Jupiter?” she slurs. “You okay?”

I am, unequivocally, the most okay I’ve ever been.

“No,” I answer. “I have to tell you something.”

She smiles, a sleepy, beautiful thing. “Didn’t take long,” she mutters. “Outfit worked.”

I snort, then shove my arm under her to lift her up on top of me. “I love you,” I confess. “I’m so stupid.”

Her smile is a little bit dopey, and she doesn’t open her eyes when she responds, “You totally are. It’s cute.”

I groan, throwing my head back against the pillows. “I’m a himbo,” I complain. “And you’re encouraging it.”

Her answering giggle is as adorable as it is sleepy.

“Will you even remember this?” I ask.

“Nope,” she replies. “You’ll have to tell me again tomorrow. Probably the next day too.” She smiles. “And the next. I’m very forgetful.”

I puff a laugh and dig my hand into her hair, lifting her head to face me.

Her eyes are open, happy and mischievous. “I guess you won’t remember this either then, huh?” I ask.

Confusion sparks in her irises, and I strike.

My lips hit hers gently – cautiously – then harder as she responds, moaning a vicious approval. Her hands slide up my chest to my neck, dipping into my hair before they caress my shoulders. They continue their journey, restless as our mouths meet again and again, each kiss better than the last.

“I love you,” I pant against her lips when we part for air. “I’m in love with you.”

She presses into me, forgoing air for pleasure until we can no longer.

“I love you, too,” she gasps. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Tears nip at my eyes, so I nip at her lip. “Helplessly?” I ask.

“Helplessly,” she confirms, trailing her kisses to my jaw.

I throw my head back and groan.

“Powerlessly?” she asks, tongue torturing me more than her outfit ever could.

“Powerlessly,” I agree, breathless. “Come here.”

She does, my Lyra, so perfect. So sweet.

Our mouths fit together as if they were never meant to be apart, and when we do finally tear away, the separation feels foreign and wrong.

“Marry me?” I puff. “Tomorrow?”

She shakes her head, and I growl.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Tomorrow.”

“Flag Day,” she counteroffers, breathy. “Romantic.”

Well. I can’t argue with that.

My lungs half-recovered, I decide that’s good enough and bring her mouth back down to mine.

The next time we resurface, I wonder aloud, “Do you think this will help my writing?”

She laughs, rubbing her nose against mine. “Oh, yes,” she answers. “Without a doubt.”

This time she kisses me, tongue against tongue and hands roving, putting all thought of work miles from my mind.

The sun comes up before we’re satisfied, so we kiss through that, too, whispering love letters and promises to each other in the moments where our lungs protest.

It’s a perfect night. A perfect morning.

A perfect woman.

A perfect love.

Epilogue

Oooo, wow, an epilogue!

Lyra

“We just invite anyone to meetings these days?” Mars asks, eyes narrowed on me as we sit at the Rogue family’s kitchen table. A pretty blue journal sits in front of him, holding up valiantly under his aggressively tapping fingers. “Is nothing sacred? You don’t see me inviting Ceres to our special and super rare meetings.”

Jove shrugs, munching happily on a bite of carrot cake. “We have news. Meetings are where we discuss news.”

Mars lifts his brows. “Oh, well, by all means. If you have news.”

Jove takes a sip of his milk, then, casual as could be, says, “We’re getting married.”

I choke on my carrot cake. “Jupiter!” I chastise.

Mars’ eyes widen. “Already?”

Jove hesitates. “Is it too early?” he asks, frowning. “We planned for Flag Day.”

Mars’ eyes wander to the window, gazing distantly. “Too early? Of course not. It’s too late, actually. So late that I was possibly taking matters into my own hands. But it’s fine. Totally fine. No problem. It’s not like I planned an entire festival for you to have a big confession scene at or anything. Life’s not an anime, so why would I treat it like one?”

Oof. “We were hoping you’d let us have the wedding there,” I put in. “Jupiter says you’re already planning to have someone ordained there, and we don’t want anything crazy,” I assure him when his eyes dart to me, mania sparking in their depths.

“Are you suggesting… a double wedding?” he asks, pinning Jove with his crazy eyes.

Jove nods. “And I’d like you to make the wedding cake,” he says. “If you’re not too busy. Getting married yourself, or anything.”

Mars puffs a laugh. “As if I’d let anyone else make either of our wedding cakes. We’re Rogues, not animals.”

Uh.

Sorry.

What?

“You’re getting married?” I ask Mars before turning to Jove. “Your brother’s getting married? And you didn’t say anything? How long have you known?”

Jove pokes at my frown. “I don’t know. A little while.”

“And you just… didn’t think to mention it?”

His brows furrow. “Mars said to focus on you. I was focusing on you.”

Oh. Well. Sure. Because that makes so much sense.

Boys are so flagging boy.

“Is there anything I can do in order to make this the wedding of your dreams, dearest brother and dearest bike buddy?” my soon-to-be brother interjects, eyes flicking between Jove and I, amused.

“Sunglasses,” Jove answers.

I blink. “Sunglasses?”

“Sunglasses,” Mars confirms. “Already in the cards. Don’t worry.”

“Why do we need sunglasses?” I ask, head swiveling between them. “For a wedding?”

One of Mars’ thick, dark eyebrows rises on his forehead. “Because it’s a wedding,” he says.

Ah. Right. Of course. Silly me.

“Any other agenda items you’d like to add?” Mars turns back to Jove. “Or was it just the wedding?”

“Just the wedding,” he answers. “Thank you.”

“I have one I’d like to add,” I cut in, taking a sip of milk. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll allow it,” Mars says. “But only since you’ll be family soon. On top of being my bike buddy.” He hums, letting his gaze slip skyward. “All things considered, now that I’m thinking about it, you’re one of my favorite people.”

Shot to the heart, and how dare he. I was not prepared.

Thankfully, I remember that Jove told me Mars is touch avoidant half a second before launching myself across the table to hug him. Instead, I shoot him a grateful smile I hope properly conveys the warm, gushy feeling his acceptance of me inspires.

Based on his answering smile, it does.

“What would you like to address, Lyra-love?” Jove asks me, hooking his leg with mine to pull me – and my chair – closer to him.

How fortuitous.

I lean against his arm, now perfectly reachable, and flutter my eyelashes at him.

His face blanks. “Uh oh,” he mutters.

“Can we fly my cousin, Elodie, out for the wedding? She works for tips at a café, so she can’t really afford a plane ticket – or to take off work, truly, though she says it’s fine. I’m planning to make up for her missed wages by giving her a big ole chunk of cash in the form of a birthday gift this year once we’re married and I have rich wife money. She needs the plane ticket before then, though. Is that okay?”

Jove relaxes, rolling his eyes. “Is that all? I’ll buy her a private jet, if you’d like, and hire a standby pilot. Then she can visit whenever you’d like. We can have one here, too. Nearly instant access either way.”

“Nobody is hiring any private jets or pilots,” Mars inserts, drawing my attention. Disapproval rife on his face, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Trying to make us homeless aside, private jets are rotten for the environment.” With a sigh, he fixes his green eyes on me. “That said, a first class ticket isn’t a problem.”

“You aren’t allergic to your money?” I ask. “I thought that was a genetic thing.”

“That’s a Jove thing,” Mars informs me. “The man saw a bank statement one time and has been rioting ever since. Left to his own devices, we’d be on the streets. Therefore, I do not leave him to his own devices.”

“Anything else you’d like to add to the agenda, Ly-Ly?” Jove asks, apparently nonplussed at the information that his brother considers him to be a financial toddler.

“No,” I answer, eying Mars, who seems equally nonplussed. “That’s all.”

“Excellent.” Mars procures a pen and twirls it between his fingers. “In that case, we’ll return to our regularly-scheduled programming…?”

We agree, and Mars flips to a numbered list in his journal. Number one reads Jove book progress.

“Oh,” the man himself says, casual, casual. “I’ll be done tomorrow.”

Mars whistles. “Tomorrow? Last we talked you had thirty-k words left.”

“Correct,” Jove says. “I’ve written them. It’s been a very inspiring week.” He looks at me and smiles, soft and sweet.

“Well, then,” Mars murmurs. “I’ll let Sara know the wait is at an end and all her Flag Day romance dreams can finally come true. Any idea on when I should book our next project with her?”

“Soon,” Jove says. “I have an excellent idea for Grandparent’s Day.”

Mars blinks, so slow, but does not comment as he clicks open his pen and scribbles something in his notebook.

I, also, do not say anything.

If Jove wants to write a Grandparent’s Day romance? Then Jove can write a Grandparent’s Day romance.

And we’ll all enjoy it.

Another Epilogue, You’re Welcome

Wedding vows are wedding vowing.

Lyra

My dearest Jupiter,

I am so helplessly in love with you. Today, tomorrow, and every day after.

You’re the most thoughtful man I have ever met. The best protector. The best friend.

I thank the heavens above every day for you and for the impact you’ve made in my life. You make me a better person every day.

This letter is a promise to you that that love will be forever, whether in thought, deed, or feeling, I will spend the rest of my days devoting my heart and my life to you.

I will support you in your endeavors, cheer you in your dreams, and lift you up in your ventures, always.

I will care for you when you’re sick, and I will welcome your care when I am. I will cherish you in your richness and in your poorness, should you lose every penny. I devote myself to you and to our life together, forevermore.

There’s no one I would rather write letters to. No one I would rather test tropes with. No one I would rather watch the butterflies with.

You are my soul, Jupiter, and every breath I take. You own me completely.

I love you.

Helplessly yours until our death and beyond,

Lyra Eranthe Rogue

Jove

Lyra, my song and my love,

I am so grateful for you and so proud of you. We wouldn’t be here today if you hadn’t been smart enough and brave enough to point out what was painfully obvious, looking back. The way that I loved you was so violently clear, and yet I didn’t see it.

Thank you, Lyra, for being the eyes I needed to see. Thank you for telling me the truths I needed to hear to lead us both to happiness.

Thank you, Lyra-love, for being you. My dearest, bestest friend.

I love you so much. As big as my namesake and more.

I vow, my darling, to continue loving you until this earthly plane ceases to exist. I vow to protect you, to care for you, and to grow with you. I vow to dedicate myself to you, fully and completely.

I vow to be yours forever and ever.

I am, as always, powerless to prevent such a fate.

Joyfully, gratefully powerless.

I love you, my wife,

Your Jupiter

This concludes Red Flags Only. If you’d like to read a bonus scene from some of our characters, you are hereby invited to join my newsletter, which will also have any and all updates on new content in the universe of Lyra and Jupiter.

Keep scrolling to explore the other book in the Red Flags and Rogue Brothers duet!

Continue enjoying the stories from Camilla and me in the Eververse with:

Red Flag, Green Light by Camilla Evergreen

Mars Rogue is my next-door neighbor, the town's baddest boy, and now my boss…

Read Now.

Keep reading for an unedited excerpt from book one in the Red Flags and Rogue Brothers series!

Prologue

Some people say I’m insane. I respectfully ignore their opinion.

Mars

Coercion is wrong.

I know this. You know this. Everyone knows this.

Blackmail is illegal. No one is a fan of extortion. Or threats. Or infringements upon their free will.

This is common sense that rains from the sky. Abundant. Obvious. Agreed-upon in the minds of nearly every half-sane person—and even, on occasion, it is unanimous in the minds of some less-than-sane people, too.

Like me.

Of course.

But, well.

As with most things in this world—i.e. grammar, math…nepotism—there are exceptions to the rules.

And for this? There is one itty-bitty, teeny-weeny, tiny-whiny exception…

Allow me to explain the grand, grand wonder that is…⟡Book Girlies.⟡

Ahh, book girlies.

Shuffling a deck of cards, I watch the live footage spread out across my triple monitors, grin, and sigh.

I adore book girlies.

Book girlies—all kinds, not just the dark romance angels who support my and my darling brother’s livelihood—are nuts.

Once upon a time, I had the honor of talking to a dear young woman fond of historical fiction, high fantasy, and documentaries. Heavy stuff. Realistic heavy stuff, no less. I don’t know how she ended up in my inbox, or why she felt the need to tell me all about her current read in extreme detail, but I have one particular line she sent me immortalized on my computer—as a motivational poster I made in Canva.

Slapped across a sunset photo in charming, swirling font, it reads: I’m really not sure if it’s incest or not.

Graciously, it wasn’t. I know this, because I emailed her back, asking that she keep me abreast on the status of whether or not the main characters—who did not know they were related—had a Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker moment.

Every so often these days, I’ll email her to ask about what she’s reading. Once, I simply sent her a link to “Sweet Home Alabama” and said I hoped the song wouldn’t end up on her current-read’s playlist.

But, anyway, I’m about to lose the plot.

Let’s see…where was I…oh yes.

Book Girlies.

Book girlies are the carrot cake of the world.

They see coercion and say, “Yes.” They go feral for things that people should maybe not go feral for. Like. I don’t know. The utter disregard of boundaries.

It doesn’t even need to be unhinged or dark.

Did that male lead who couldn’t get over his ex—even after she’d moved on—crash her wedding in a grand, public, embarrassing gesture (which confused her endlessly and emotionally manipulated her into choosing him over her groom)? You bet. Are the book girlies eating it up? Oh, one million percent.

He just loved her sooo much, they say. Or, wildly, they’ll declare: I wish someone cared that much about me!

Crazy how we all want someone to care about us to the point of emotional manipulation. Just…love me until I lose the ability to access my common sense. Everyone wants it. And I get it. It is ever so, so, so, very exhausting to think.

Don’t tell me you don’t agree. You’ll only be lying to yourself. And me. Which is rude. If you chase after entertainment, like television, as a means to relax and refresh, you are chasing after the spare few moments you can get to shut your frontal lobe down.

Everyone, everywhere, is searching for the peace that comes when there’s silence upstairs. When someone else can be trusted to take care of everything…because they care that much about us…to such an extent they are willing to do anything.

Now, let me make myself immaculately clear: I am half the body of the dark romance author known as Rouge. Rouge is the amalgamation of my brother, Jupiter Caelum Rogue, and me, Mars Cygnus Rogue. Rouge is what happens when you both see that your brother has a gift with words…and that you do not aspire to put pants on every day.

The process is painfully simple: I developmentally edit the stories that my brother drafts. Jovey writes the plot. I add the spice. And finish the chapters he didn’t know how to. And fix a few hundred of his misplaced breakdowns…

I also manage the accounts, the marketing, the readers, and our editor. Naturally, just to make sure I’m pulling my weight.

We are in the business of stalkers, and age gaps, and kidnappers, and morally gray leads who show love via stab wounds.

I am a biased party on the “pro” side of “no boundaries.”

I am also kind of mental.

But I?

I am not alone.

Because my darling book girlies understand.

The more book girlies I meet in emails and fanmail, the more I wonder if we’re less an exception and more the rule.

Spinning a single playing card between my fingers, I watch my security camera footage, which is pointed at my next-door neighbor’s house. I have several cameras, all of them definitely affixed to my house and definitely pointed at Ceres Drop’s yard and main windows.

Here, in small town Bandera, West Virginia, we are the only houses tucked away on this corner of the street, and, for reasons unknown, whoever made that decision also made the decision to give Ceres’s house sliding glass doors that are perfectly visible from the vantage point of camera number four.

I have eight cameras.

Because eight is a great number.

It’s one less than nine, which is my big brother Jovey’s favorite number. It is also the number of stacks on the tableau in FreeCell Solitaire, AKA my favorite Solitaire. FreeCell has a ninety-nine percent chance of solvable probability. And what can I say? I prefer to play games I know I can win.

Now, if you’re not a book girlie, first of all, why are you here? And second of all, I know what you’re thinking.

Mars, it is undeniably illegal to monitor your pretty neighbor like that, regardless of your opinion on boundaries and your assumed statistics concerning how many people share your opinion. Not only is it illegal, it is disturbing. What is wrong with you?

Well, well, well, allow me to present my case to you, the minority, the real exception, the non-book girlie who is here for thoroughly confounding reasons. Probably to leave me a bad review. Even though I do swear I was immaculately clear regarding expectations…

Ahem. Anyway… What was the question?

Oh. Right. Yes.

What is wrong with me?

Loads. So many things are wrong with me that if I were to list them, it would take an entire novel, and I do not write books. I edit them. That’s it. Comma here. Scene-you-skipped-because-you-didn’t-know-what-to-put there. A touch of did you write this while you were drunk, my dear Jovey-wovey? A splash of darling, that is not how a participle works…

I am a collage of broken pieces and mentally-unstable character traits.

So, in order to maintain composure and quiet the ever-present voices in my head, I. have. hobbies.

Observe, hobby numero uno: cards. Card tricks. Card flourishes. Card games. Card collections. Cards.

My bedroom is wallpapered in the jokers from the decks I collect and stack on a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind my desk.

Hobby two! Carrot cake.

I bake it. Frequently. There is no food more perfect. I grow the carrots spring through fall. I do not add raisins. Adding raisins is truly illegal. Wake up, sheeple. You think home security is illegal? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s raisins. Always has been. Always will be. Get over it.

Hobby three…Ceres.

Ceres Dew Drop. Twenty-six years of age. Birthday: March 22nd. Lover of words and staying indoors.

My angel of a neighbor with brilliant red waves.

The precious, mild-mannered, cottagecore creature moved in next door but a few years ago, and I’ve been hooked on her ever since my eyes met hers.

Insanity knows insanity.

It has a scent.

The first time that woman saw me and pushed back the flower-scattered waves of her hair, she smiled. She smiled, and I lost whatever remained of my mind as the saccharine aroma clogged my senses.

You see, me being cracked off my rocker isn’t new. I have always been wildly unstable. My eyes have always been an electric green that sparks when I get a terrible idea. They’ve always been a little too wide, just like my smile, and it helps no one that my canines are ever so slightly fanged. When I smile, the points show, and people shudder.

Wild dark hair, wilder eyes. I’ve been called an animal and a hazard just about as long as I can remember. Based on my appearance and general aura alone, I’ve been avoided and outcast.

I am not the sort of creature pretty women in flowing garments smile oh-so-casually at.

Even without the rumors of my checkered past poisoning Ceres’s mind, I am a walking Rouge flag at first glance.

I know this fact.

Add in that I was practicing throwing cards on my front lawn. Into an apple. Upon Jovey’s head. And…well…Ceres knew. Ceres knew not to explicitly lock eyes with me and smile as warmly and sweetly as she did.

Was she asking to become my impaired brain’s favorite hobby?

Let’s not go that far.

It is, after all, easier to assume statistically-charged opinions in large-scale pools where data is more readily available. I can easily make educated guesses concerning how a group will veer based on past demographic data. I don’t get access to the same information for individuals, so making suppositions concerning their behavior trends is something that takes far more time and observation.

Hence the observation.

Ceres Dew Drop, my enchanting flower, my enrapturing rose, the darling of my bleeding heart…does not do much. She gardens. She reads. She works online. Until recently, I didn’t know her job since her computer is irritatingly directed away from my cameras…but I did know that she doesn’t have a career in town. Because she does not go into town more than once a month. For groceries.

She stocks up, like a squirrel in winter, and leaves her house a thrilling maximum of fifteen times a year. In direct contrast, she appears to order new books every three days. Once, I charted a stint where she had new books coming to her front door every day for seventeen days straight.

I almost went over at around day fourteen to ask if everything was all right. But. Well.

It’s easier to love someone from afar when you’ve yet to calculate the chance of heart-breaking rejection, isn’t it?

I might be a maniac, but I really am just like other boys.

Wait, no. I’m pretty sure that, actually, the unknown frightens everyone, not just other boys.

And maybe, just maybe…that’s why Ceres also prefers to stay inside.

Coercion is wrong.

Blackmail is illegal.

Setting my cards down, I put my attention on my third monitor and drop the tab with the camera footage showing Ceres’s yard to bring up the chat with Rouge’s proofreader, Sara Pond.

Three messages. That’s all it took to change my life forever.

Rouge: Hey. What’s you’re address?

Sara: *your

Sara: 90 Sterling Rd, Bandera, WV XXXXX

Right. Next. Door.

Sara and Rouge have been working together for half a decade. In honor of that, I planned to send her a little gift. So I asked where she lived, assuming I’d have to explain myself. As it stands, Sara has always been private concerning personal information. All I knew until just recently was that she’s professional and experienced and thorough…

But also nuts.

Which, of course, were the qualifications I required when I sought to offload the final typo scan on someone else way back toward the beginning of Rouge’s career. I burned through several proofreaders before finding Sara and upgrading her from proofreader to please find all the bad parts I stupidly missed and make the story five thousand times more marketable, thanks.

Sara’s chaos matches mine and my brother’s. She understands us. Her comments on our books reflect my internal thoughts more often than not. The girlie is unhinged, and dear, and seemingly unwilling to pair her editing career with her real name.

Which means I have stumbled upon unintentional ammo.

So.

Again.

Blackmail. Wrong.

Coercion. Bad.

My attention flicks to the corner of my screen, where I have a virtual post-it note listing a very important handful of goals. Very important in that it simply must be completed before I die of anguish and/or agony.

Problem.

Goal number one is: Marry Ceres.

And in the realm of good, healthy real-world relationships that seems to be skipping a few steps, I think.

…

Thank goodness for exceptions to the rules.

Read Now.

This part is boring. Go away.

Mouse!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My very favorite red flag is you. <3

Frank, of course, all hail. Thank you for making me all the covers, including the ones meant to coerce. You’re such a queen.

To Andy’s incredibly broad shoulders: I love you.

Alyssha, you are the best doctor I know. Stop beating me at cup pong. It’s rude.

Wendy, thank you a million trillion. I’m not writing Brianna for you though. Don’t be silly.

And to my ARC team, thank you. Thank you so, so much for all that you do for me. I love you all the way into the distant stars we shoot for. ♥

Storm Sterling loves writing unhinged, closed-door romance that’s HOT without spice. She lives in midwest America with a large, broad-shouldered man and three tiny clones. It is her life goal to write books well enough that she can afford all her favorite author’s books. This goal is secondary only to playing Stardew Valley all day every day.

Please buy Storm’s books so she can afford more gaming hours and more Camilla Evergreen books. Seriously. Please. She’s desperate.