Wade’s apartment smells like takeout and whatever cologne he never admits to wearing. You’re halfway through your mascara, leaning close to the mirror above his sink. The dress you picked clings in all the right places—black, simple, devastating.

He’s behind you, sprawled sideways on the couch, pretending to be glued to some rerun of a bad '90s action movie. But his eyes? They’ve barely left you since you walked out in that dress.

You press your lips together, blot your lipstick. One last swipe of gloss.

And that’s when he says it.

“Who’s that for?”

You pause mid-motion, catching his reflection in the mirror.

“What?”

Wade sits up. Elbows on his knees, hands clenched loosely like he’s trying not to grip something too tight. His voice is still teasing—but it cracks just a little around the edges.

“I mean…” He gestures vaguely at you. “You look like the kind of trouble that gets written into country songs. Is it that girl from your office? Or the guy who keeps texting you with too many emojis?”

You blink. “I’m just going to see my friends.”

He doesn’t smile.

“Sure,” Wade says. “Friends who deserve lipstick and that dress and—” He stops. Shrugs. “Never mind.”

You turn around slowly. The tension in the room sharpens. Heavy. Unspoken.

“Would it matter?” you ask, voice softer.

Wade doesn’t look away. His tongue flicks out across his bottom lip, then he chuckles—but it’s bitter.

“Not to me,” he says. “Just… whoever it is better say thank you. For getting to see you like this.”