I needed this outing like I needed oxygen.

My brain had been stuck on repeat for three days straight—Lewis’s hands, his voice, the way he’d completely rewired my understanding of power dynamics in about thirty seconds flat.

Vaughn’s warning glares across campus weren’t helping either. Neither was the fact that I kept catching myself checking my phone every five minutes like some kind of Pavlovian disaster.

The city air was sticky and loud, and Cleo’s voice had already drowned out my inner monologue before we even hit the first store.

“Explain to me again why you own twenty-nine identical plain black shirts,” she groaned, holding one up like it personally offended her ancestors. “You’re not Steve Jobs, babe. Try color. Try literally anything that suggests you have a pulse.”

“I like black,” I said, folding my arms. “It’s reliable.”

“So is death. And taxes. And my vibrator when the batteries are fresh.” She tossed the shirt into her growing reject pile. “You need something sluttier. I’m thinking red. Maybe leather. Maybe… crotchless.”

“Cleo!” I hissed, glancing around. “We’re in Zara!”

“Exactly. Time to spice up the polyester.”

I rolled my eyes, but honestly? This was exactly what I needed. Cleo’s beautiful, chaotic energy. Her ability to make everything feel lighter, more manageable.

Her complete inability to take anything too seriously, including my obvious mental breakdown.

The problem with Cleo is that she also has this supernatural ability to spot trouble from three zip codes away.

“Uh-oh,” she said, voice going flat. “Red flag ex alert. Ten o’clock.”

I turned my head and immediately regretted it.

Ethan walked toward us like he still had rights. Hoodie half-zipped, fake regret painted on his face, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to look harmless.

“Sophie,” he said, slightly breathless, like seeing me was some kind of cardio. “Can we talk?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Cleo answered before I could even process the question. “She’s got better dick now. Bye.”

“Cleo—” I groaned.

Ethan frowned. “I wasn’t talking to you, loudmouth.”

Cleo took a step forward. “And yet I’m still the one about to break your nose. Funny how that works.”

I stepped between them because I know Cleo, and she’s absolutely not bluffing about the face-rearranging thing.

“What do you want, Ethan?”

“I just…” His gaze swept over me, and something bitter flickered across his expression. “I miss you. I know I fucked up, but you don’t have to punish me by throwing yourself at whatever creep is feeding you lines now.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not interested. You were too late. That’s it.”

He scoffed, and that’s when his mask slipped completely.

“Oh, so what now? You’re into that whore shit like—what? Choking? Whipping? Is that your new thing?”

I froze. My skin burned. My mouth opened, but before I could even form a word—“Is he harassing you?”

“I wasn’t with him. I was shopping with Cleo. He ambushed us.”

His eyes narrowed—not angry, exactly. More like recalibrating. “You don’t need permission. But if you’re going to be in public with exes who talk to you like that, I want to know where you are.”

“It wasn’t planned. And I was handling it.”

“No,” he said, voice dropping another octave. “I handled it.”

Silence stretched between us, loaded with about fifteen different kinds of tension. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to tell him off or climb him like a tree.

Probably both.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same place. Five sharp.”

I nodded because my vocabulary had apparently shrunk to single syllables.

“And Sophie?” He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Wear something red.”

Then he was gone, leaving me standing there feeling like I’d been hit by some kind of very attractive tornado.

Cleo appeared at my shoulder, eyebrows practically in her hairline.

“So,” she said thoughtfully. “That was aggressively hot.”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “Ugh stop. Just help me find something red before I completely lose my mind.”

“Babe,” Cleo grinned, “I think that ship has already sailed.”