Because what the hell is there left to say?
The lights dim, and the movie starts. But I don’t watch.
Instead, I pull out my phone. My thumbs move frantically.
Texts pour out—apologies, rambling explanations, declarations of love—all messy, pathetic nonsense.
All marked undelivered.
I don’t stop until, suddenly, the phone is ripped from my hands.
I flinch, turning sharply, ready to snap. But Will’s already staring straight ahead, his jaw tight and his eyes hard.
He doesn’t even glance at me—just holds my phone like it’s burning him. And somehow, that’s what makes me stop fighting.
I sag back into the seat. “I love her, man.”
“I know.” His voice is quiet..
“She hates me.”
“She doesn’t,” he whispers, like if he says it softlyenough, it might become true.
I stay silent for the rest of the movie, itching to grab my phone back. To email her, message her on AO3—something. But Will sits stiff beside me, and I know damn well he’d tackle me in front of a full theater if it came to that. No need to add public humiliation to the list tonight.
So I sit there, barely hearing the final hour of blood and drama on-screen, my mind spinning.
Making a plan.
I know where she lives. I could go to her.
The thought makes me wince. Yeah, that soundspredatory as hell.
She deserves space. She deserves better than this.
But if I let her walk away without explaining—without telling her why I did what I did, no matter how fucked up it looks—then I’ve lost her. Maybe I already have. But I can’t live without trying.
By the time the credits roll and the lights come back up, the decision is made.
It’s a half-baked, borderline disastrous plan—one worthy of Will Winters himself. But it’s all I’ve got.
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing?” Will mutters under his breath, flashing a practiced smile as we both turn toward the guests and wave.
I open my mouth?—
"Don’t," he says again, sharper this time, a command more than a suggestion. His hand tightens on my shoulder, anchoring me in place.
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts, but I don’t move. I don't fight him.
Deep down, I know he’s right.
For the next thirty minutes, we sit through the Q&A. It’s tedious—soulless, even—but thank God, most of the questions are directed at Will and hisverycinematic death.
When it’s finally over and the last polite applause dies out, people start filtering toward the exits. I immediately hold out my hand.
“Phone.”
Will sighs but pulls it from his pocket, slapping it into my palm just as Landon, our agent, appears out of nowhere, smiling like a man who smells fresh blood.
