Los Angeles — 2004

Late night. Hayden’s place. You were in the kitchen, pacing. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. That tight-jawed look he gets when he was holding back too much at once.

“I don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice sharp. “Why are you making this such a big deal?”

You stopped . Turned. “Because it is a big deal, Hayden.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just a party.”

“No,” you snapped, “it’s a party with Ewan. And we both know what that means.”

He frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You really want me to spell it out?” you said your voice rising. “Every time you go out with him, it’s clubs and girls and cameras, and then you come back acting like none of it matters—like I’m just supposed to be fine with it.”

“Nothing happens,” he said, stepping forward. “You think I’d do that to you?”

“I don’t think you’d mean to. But you go out with a guy who has cheated on his girlfriend more times than I can count on one hand, and then you expect me to believe you’re not tempted?”

He recoiled like you slapped him. “That’s low.”

“It’s honest.”

You saw it flicker in his eyes then — anger, hurt, defensiveness. He looks away.

“I’m not Ewan,” he said tightly.

“I know you’re not. But you idolize him. You laugh off the worst things he does and then follow him like he’s some damn hero.”

He slammed a drawer shut. “I’m not a kid, okay? I can make my own decisions.”

“Then make better ones.” Your voice cracked. “Because it’s not just a party. It’s me, sitting here wondering if you’re choosing your image or your relationship. If I matter at all when you’re out there with him, pretending you’re still single.”

Hayden looked at you then. Really looked.

And under all the anger, you saw it — fear.

“You don’t trust me,” he said softly.

You hesitated. Then: “I don’t trust what this is turning you into.”

Silence.

The kind that echoes through bone.

He looked down, jaw clenched. “So, what? You want me to stay home and babysit your insecurities?”