A beat of silence.
“I may be a mess, but I hold a damn good grudge. If you hurt him again? I won’t be on your side next time.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
And I stand there, the phone still to my ear, my pulse racing.
Because he’s right. And this time… I don’t plan to run.
Okay,maybe I lied.
I’m sitting in his trailer now, hands trembling so hardthe pages in my lap are crumpling.
I’ve been here for over two hours, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to say. How I’m supposed to look him in the eye and make sense of everything I broke.
What if he doesn’t want to hear it?
No.I can’t let myself spiral. I have to believe in us. Not just hope, butknowthat what we had, what we still have, is real. I can’t let the doubt creep in again. Not this time, not after what it cost us.
Still, I smooth my palm over the wrinkled top page on my lap.
Backstage Heart.The first-ever printed copy, fresh off Maya’s office printer.
Maya.
Just thinking of her makes me smile a little and calms my nerves. She was all in the second I told her my crazy plan to fly to Hungary and surprise Jake. She called it “my turn for a grand gesture.”
She’s basically my version of Will but with fewer questionable choices and significantly less chaos.
I glance at the digital clock on the wall, the sun already sinking beyond the set lot. I’ve been sitting here too long, second-guessing things—not coming here, no, never that… but this, now waiting to corner him at the end of a long day.
What if it’s the wrong time? He’s probably exhausted, running on caffeine and retakes. Maybe I should come back in the morning. Let him rest. Let us start clean.
But then the door opens.
And there he is.
He stops short when he sees me, caught mid-step, andthe breath punches out of me.
For a second, all I see isAnlon. Tall. Commanding. Long dark hair and a leather tunic. His eyes, icy blue from the contacts, make him look otherworldly. Untouchable.
I miss the green. I misshim.
Because the man in front of me is real. Not Anlon. Not Eli. Not the perfect character fans worship from pages or screens.
Jake. My Jake. Flawed and funny and overwhelming in all the ways that made me fall in love with him.
He sets a takeaway coffee cup on the table, his movements carefully measured. His face stays neutral, unreadable, but his hand trembles just slightly.
“They told me I got a package.”
His voice is steady, but something about it sounds… distant.
I force a smile. “Surprise.”
His gaze softens but only slightly. There’s warmth in it, yes, even longing, maybe. But it’s tangled with something else. Caution. Hurt. That flicker of wariness in his shoulders like he’s bracing for impact and I feel myself deflate, just a little.
Because I put that tension there. I know I did.
