Hers and his.
Ours.
“She says she wants a house that feels like hers from the beginning,” Luca goes on, and my stomach does this weird, slow-turning flip. “Not some place that’s full of someone else’s history.”
My history.
Like the kitchen where I saw Poppy for the first time, half naked. Or the first time we had sex. Or flirted in the pool during Cash’s party, then snuck inside to fuck.
I nod again. I have to. What are my options?
“Makes sense,” I say voice flat.
Luca beams, relieved. “Right? I knew you’d get it.”
I get it. Nova wants more and she deserves more.
But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to hear it.
Luca claps me on the back like he just gave me a stock tip. “You’ll land somewhere great, man.”
“How much time are we talking, here?”
“Months? Six, seven? We’re still talking about it, but I’ll let you know cause obviously we have to do a walk-through. Fix some things up. Maybe paint. Plus I have to let Cash know—not that he’ll give a shit, either.”
No, Cash won’t give a shit.
He’ll take his dog, his Xbox, and crash on someone’s couch like he always does. That’s the lifestyle he’s used to—transient, unbothered, perfectly content living out of a duffel bag and calling it freedom.
But me?
I’msettled. I’ve built routines.
This place is one steady thing in a career full of constant motion. Exhausting road trips. The threat of trades always looming. Noise and pressure and media and stress.
This house is quiet.
And now my room is on the chopping block because someone else’s ovaries areexploding.
Luca is still chattering, something about paint samples and market comps and maybe replacing all the mirrors in the bathrooms because “Nova hates the frames,” and all I can think is:How did I become the guy on the sidelines of his own life?
poppy
. . .
After lots of whining on my part, Nova finally convinced me to leave the house.
Which is why I’m sitting on a pale pink cushion at a café where everything looks like it was designed specifically to be photographed and posted to social media.
Floral walls.
Custom cocktails are being carried past us in delicate crystal coupe glasses, garnished with dehydrated citrus and tiny clothespins clipped to the rim. Fussy finger foods arrive on slabs of marble. Everything’s drizzled or foamed or micro-sprouted. There’s a neon pink sign behind us that reads“You’re Like, Really Pretty.”
I want to die.
Our waitress wore a matching linen set and called us “queens,” which I’m not sure if it’s meant to be empowering or just part of the schtick. And my salad? That came on a literal cutting board with edible flowers and zero croutons.
Nova looks like she belongs here. Big sunglasses. Gold hoops. That confident glow people have when they’ve had regular sex and emotional stability for more than a month.
