The cruelest lies are the ones we tell ourselves about what we want.

Steam clings to my skin as I stand in front of the fogged mirror, towel wrapped tight around my body. My hair drips onto the tile floor, each drop marking time I’m wasting.

He texted again while I was in the shower. Three messages in twenty minutes.

Lucas: Can’t wait to see you Friday.

Lucas: What’s your costume? I’ll coordinate if you want.

Lucas: You’re going to have fun. I promise.

He’s sweet. Persistent in a way that feels like warmth instead of pressure. Normal in a way I’ve forgotten people can be.

This is good. Lucas is good. Lucas is exactly what you need—Caleb without the emotional terrorism.

This is what you should want. This is what healthy looks like.

Except that’s the problem, isn’t it? Lucas is Diet Caleb.

Same great taste, zero psychological damage. Same broad shoulders and athlete’s build, same easy confidence that comes from knowing your body can do whatever you ask of it.

But where Caleb’s presence feels like a blade pressed against my throat, Lucas feels like sunlight. Safe. Uncomplicated.

A replacement, my therapist would probably call it. Redirecting unhealthy fixation toward a healthier target.

I’m not fixated on Caleb. I’m not.

But if I were, hypothetically, Lucas would be the perfect antidote. Same packaging, none of the poison.

My thumbs move across the screen as I type back.

ME: Keeping the costume a surprise. But I’ll find you.

His response is instant, like he’s been staring at his phone waiting:

Lucas: I’ll be counting the minutes, pretty.

Pretty. He called me pretty.

A normal, sweet compliment that doesn’t come with layers of mockery attached. My mouth curves into an actual, genuine smile—the kind that would probably give Caleb an aneurysm if he saw it.

This is what normal feels like. This is what I deserve.

I push open the bathroom door, eyes still on my phone, still composing a reply that sounds flirty without trying too hard.

“Well, fuck me sideways. That’s a face I’ve never seen before.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin and my towel.

My head snaps up from the screen and I see Caleb sprawl across my bed like he owns it. One arm propped behind his head, the other holding up a pair of my underwear.

The pink cotton ones with little strawberries that I bought specifically because they’re the opposite of sexy.

Anti-lingerie. A monument to not giving a fuck.

“Texting lover boy with that dopey-ass smile?” His gaze flicks to my phone, then back to my face. Pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover it, princess.”

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” My voice comes out steadier than my pulse, which is currently attempting to break the sound barrier. “Get. Out.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes travel from the underwear to me, cataloging the wet hair plastered to my shoulders, the towel that suddenly feels paper-thin.

It’s a look that feels like being undressed when I’m already basically naked.

“These are tragic, Serena. Truly. Like, seek-help levels of unsexy.” He reaches for my laundry basket. “Let’s see what else you’re hiding in here.”

I cross the room in three steps and the basket tips as I shove it away from him, spilling clothes across the carpet, while my phone clatters to the floor somewhere in the chaos.

My chest heaves. I’m too aware of everything—the terry cloth barely covering me, his proximity, the way his gaze hasn’t stopped tracking the lines of my body since I walked in.

“I said get out.”

“Are you wearing these to the party?” He stretches the pink cotton between his fingers again, examining the strawberries with theatrical disgust. “Please say yes. I need to see Lucas’s face when he discovers what’s underneath.”

Heat crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks. “Give those back!”

“Granny panties with fruit on them.” He whistles low. “Bold strategy for a girl trying to lose her V-card.”

“I’m not trying to—” I cut myself off because engaging is exactly what he wants.

His grin widens, shark-like and satisfied.

“Oh, you’re definitely trying. That dumb smile you just walked in with? The sad little hair flip in the library? Touching his arm like you learned flirting from a WikiHow article?” He tosses my underwear aside. “It’s physically painful to watch.”

“Get off my bed!”

“Lucas Bennett.” He ignores me, leaning back against my pillows like we’re having a casual chat. “That’s your big play? You really think that golden retriever boy is interested in you?”

The word sweetheart curdles in the air between us.

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