He’s lying on the grass like he’s trying to remember what peace feels like. Face tilted toward the sun, sunglasses shielding eyes that haven’t truly rested in years. He looks still, curated as always—but inside, he’s falling apart.

She answers his call on the second ring. Not out of eagerness. She just knew he’d keep calling if she didn’t.

He tells himself this is casual. Just a getaway. Not a cry for help.

But then she does what she always does: She turns off his phone. She suggests they cook in instead of going to that restaurant that costs more than her car note. She tells him, casually, that he should probably apologize to Kendall. And he nearly dies on the spot.

She’s not from his world, not really. That world chewed her up, and she spit it out. She doesn’t care who’s CEO. She doesn’t flinch at the market crash. She knows where the knives are in his kitchen and doesn’t ask for permission to use them.

She’s the quiet mirror he can’t hide from.

The one person who doesn’t buy the performance—and for some reason, that makes her the most dangerous woman in his life.

He doesn’t know if he wants her to fix him or destroy him.

She says, “You’re not that deep, babe,” while making tea like she didn’t just rearrange his entire emotional architecture.

And he hates how much that makes him feel seen.

So he invites her. And she says yes.

But this isn’t about healing.

It’s about what’s left after all the armor cracks.