Chapter Text
“The guy at the end of the bar is staring at you.”
It’s Friday night, and Anika has refused to let her sulk over yet another failed relationship. Belly had finally ended things with her cheating ex, Luke, a month ago, and had spent the last four weekends curled up on Anika's couch, feeling sorry for herself. According to Anika, that officially makes this an “intervention.” That’s why Anika insists on Belly wearing her most revealing dress, a tight green number that she’s only worn once before.
“Brunette hottie or cross-eyed suit guy?”
Anika doesn’t even hesitate. “Brunette hottie. He’s looked over here at least ten times in the last two minutes.”
“He could be looking at you.”
Anika snorts, lifting her drink. “Please. If he were looking at me, I’d already be over there. Trust me. He only has eyes for you.”
She rolls her eyes slightly, but there’s a flicker of curiosity now, betraying her usual indifference. “You’re overestimating my appeal.”
“I’m really not,” Anika says, nudging her arm. “Just turn around.”
She doesn’t, not immediately. Instead, Belly takes a slow sip of her drink, like she’s buying time, like looking might somehow commit her to something.
“Subtle,” Anika adds dryly.
“Give me a second.”
“You’ve had several.”
Another beat. Then, with a quiet exhale, Belly turns. It’s almost immediate.
She catches his eye like he’s been waiting for it.
No awkward double-take, no glance away, just direct, steady eyes. His dark blond hair falls naturally, parted down the middle, slightly wind-tossed like he’s just run a hand through it. He doesn’t look surprised to find her looking. If anything, he looks like he’s been waiting for it.
And then, just slightly, he smiles. Not wide. Not forced. A crooked, almost knowing tilt of his mouth that lands somewhere between amused and interested.
There’s something about the way he holds her gaze, unhurried, unbothered, that sends a flicker of something electric through her chest. Not overwhelming, not dramatic. Just enough to make her aware of it. Of him.
She doesn’t look away right away. Which, in itself, is unusual. For a second, the noise of the bar dulls around the edges, like everything else has stepped back half a pace.
Then she turns back to Anika, a little too quickly to be completely casual.
“Well?” Anika asks, already grinning.
Belly picks up her glass, emptying it in one quick swig, then sets it back down almost immediately, decision forming faster than she can overthink it.
“Fuck it.”
Anika’s grin widens. “That’s my favorite version of you.”
Anika’s words land somewhere deeper than Belly expects. Because the version of her that’s been dragging through the last month hasn’t exactly been her usual self. It’s been quieter. Smaller. A little dulled around the edges. So the fact that Anika is looking at Belly like this, like she’s back, like she recognizes her again, does something. She straightens her spine just slightly.
Belly slides off the barstool, smoothing her hands briefly over her dress. Not nerves, exactly, just something to do with the energy suddenly sitting under her skin.
“Don’t do anything embarrassing while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Anika says. “I’ll be watching, though.”
“I’m sure you will.”
She glances back once more, just to confirm he’s still there. He is. Still watching her. That same slight smile.
Yeah. Fuck it.
And this time, Belly doesn’t hesitate. She walks over and sits down beside him.
“You looked intriguing from across the room. I’m here to confirm or deny.”
He glances at her first, slow, assessing, but not in a way that feels invasive. More curious than confident.
She notices his hands first. The way they move. Slow. Unhurried. One wrapped loosely around his bottle of beer, thumb tracing the rim absentmindedly as he listens. His fingers are long, steady. Clean nails. A small scar across one knuckle that looks old.
“And what’s the criteria? I’d like to know how badly I’m about to fail.”
“Step one is not making me regret walking over here. You’re holding steady,” she says, leaning one elbow onto the bar. Belly turns her head then, just enough to meet his eyes. Up close, they’re steadier than she expected. Less playful. More deliberate.
“Can I get you something?” he asks.
“Vodka gimlet?”
“A question or a request?”
“A test.”
“Alright. I’ll try not to fail this one.” He turns to order. “Two vodka gimlets.”
When the drinks arrive, he slides one toward her. There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m Belly.”
“I feel like I missed the socially appropriate moment for this. I’m Beck.”
“Now I can stop mentally referring to you as brunette hottie.”
There’s a beat where neither of them looks away.
The space between them narrows—not physically, but in awareness. The noise of the bar fades just enough that it feels like the conversation exists in its own pocket.
He shifts his weight closer, forearm brushing the bar near hers. Not touching. Just there.
“So far, you’re holding steady.”
“That sounds like I’m being evaluated again.”
“You are.”
“Should I be trying harder?”
“No,” she says. “That usually makes it worse.”
“I’m relieved. I was worried I peaked too early.”
She watches him for a second, then looks away, like she caught herself doing it.
“You probably did.”
“That’s harsh.”
“I'm sure you’ll recover,” she says, smiling at him.
He studies her, a little more openly now. “You do this with everyone, or am I getting a particularly difficult version of you?”
“You’re getting the version that walked over here,” she says. “Don’t overanalyze it.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
She keeps the conversation deliberately shallow. Names are exchanged, and that feels like enough. When he almost drifts into asking her what she does for work, she redirects with a quiet, “That sounds like it would turn into a long story,” and takes another sip of her drink.
He catches on quickly.
So instead, she learns that he supports the Red Sox and she pretends to judge him for it, that his phone background is a beach somewhere sunny, and that he has a habit of tapping his fingers against the glass when he’s thinking. Belly doesn’t want to know anything that might matter tomorrow. Because tomorrow isn’t part of this.
Up close, his eyes are lighter than she expected. Not bright, just clear. Focused in a way that feels deliberate. He doesn’t dart around the room while she talks. Doesn’t scan for distractions. When she speaks, he listens.
He's convenient, Belly decides. He’s easy to talk to, easy to look at, and just distant enough to stay that way. A clean distraction. A rebound, if she’s being honest with herself. Belly's mid-sentence when he shifts closer.
There’s no big lead-in. No drawn-out hesitation. He just decides. She finds that to be incredibly hot.
His hand brushes lightly against her arm, enough to get her attention, and then he leans in and kisses her.
It’s confident, unexpected in a way that cuts clean through her careful distance. For a split second, she goes still, surprised more by the certainty of it than the act itself. Then she exhales softly and leans into it. Her fingers catch briefly at his sleeve, steadying herself as much as anything. When he pulls back, it’s unhurried.
Belly looks at him for a moment, measuring.
“That was bold,” she says.
“You didn’t stop me.”
“I was considering it,” Belly replies, dryly. A beat. “Briefly.”
She turns her glass slightly, watching the condensation gather under her fingers before setting it down.
He glances at her. “Come home with me.”
“I should probably pretend to think about this longer,” she says.
“I can give you a minute.”
“No, I think that would make it worse,” Belly replies, tilting her head. “Come on,” she says, already slipping off the barstool. “Before I change my mind.”
“You will?”
“Probably not,” she says over her shoulder. “But I’d rather not test it.”
His mouth finds her neck, and Belly makes a sound that would have embarrassed her if she were less somber, much thanks to the five vodka gimlets. But there in his apartment, all she could focus on is the heat of his mouth and the way his hand are touching her through her dress. She quickly removes the dress, less gracefully than she would have hoped.
"Green lace," he says, voice thick with desire, tracing the edge of her bra. He lowers his mouth to her breast, taking his time, and she arches into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. His mouth is everywhere, kissing her shoulder, neck, and earlobe.
He whispers into her ear, “Can I eat you out?”
It might be the sexiest thing she’s ever heard, his voice sending shivers down her spine. Belly lets out a loud sigh and nods her head enthusiastically. He kisses her down her stomach, dropping to his knees beside the bed. Hooking his fingers in her underwear, his hands steady.
He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, then the other, his stubble rasping against her skin.
The first touch of his mouth between her legs has her crying out, hands fisting in his hair. He groans against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine.
He holds her hips down with one forearm, the other hand sliding up to lace with hers against her stomach. Fuck. The intimacy of it, his fingers threaded through her hand while his mouth works her open. Her orgasm builds up slowly, and her whole body twitches when she comes. “Fuck”
“You have such a way with words,” he says as he slowly leaves wet kisses over her whole body.
“Fuck you.” She’s feeling delirious but has the presence of mind to say, “Condom?” He makes a little sound, rolls off of her, and opens his bedside table, and Belly can’t help but study the muscles in his back. He grabs a condom, starting to tear it open when she stops him.
“Slow down,” she says, and pushes him down on the bed and settles between his legs.
“You don’t have to...” he starts to say.
“Shut up.” She throws her dark hair over her shoulder, licking her lips, taking his hard cock in her hand, fondling him between her fingers. He sighs.
“Fuck.”
She parts her lips, lowering her head to his cock, giving the head a lick. Her moments are slow and deliberate. She can feel him sinking into the feeling of her mouth around him. She wants to look up at him, but it feels too intimate. The sound of her sucking him off and his moaning has her thrillingly aroused.
“That’s it,” he praises her, his fingers twisting around her hair. “Fuck. Just like that.” She hums in reply, the vibration of it pushing him closer towards the edge.
“I want to fuck you,” he says in a deep growl.
After a couple of more sucks, she sits up, crawls up to his chest, and throws him the condom from his bedside table. They maneuver a little, negotiating with splayed hands, and she eases herself down onto his cock, and it doesn’t take them long to build up a good rhythm, his hand firmly on her hips, pushing into her. She’s intensely aware of his green eyes on her, and she lets her hair fall over her face to shield herself from his gaze, allowing herself to feel every sensation. Neither of them lasts very long.
Later, when the air had settled and the sheets were twisted around their legs, she lay on her back staring at the ceiling. His fingers traced idle patterns against her skin, absentminded and warm. She must have fallen asleep like that.
She wakes up early. For a second, Belly doesn’t move. Just lies there, eyes half-open, aware of the unfamiliar ceiling, the quiet hum of a space that isn’t hers. Then she remembers.
The weight of his arm is draped loosely across her waist, heavier in sleep than it had felt hours ago. His breathing is steady, even, close enough that she can feel it against her shoulder. Belly stays still for a moment longer, considering. Gently, she lifts his arm, inch by inch, guiding it back toward the mattress. He shifts slightly, something half-formed in his sleep, and she freezes.
Waits. Nothing. Still asleep.
She exhales quietly and slips out from under the covers, moving slowly, deliberately—every motion measured so the bed doesn’t dip too much, so the sheets don’t pull. The floor is cool under her feet. She gathers her clothes in silence. She glances around for her things, phone, and bag, spotting them where she left them, scattered. Almost done.
She hesitates by the kitchen counter, eyes landing on a pad of napkins near the coffee machine. For a second, she considers leaving nothing. Cleaner that way. She reaches for one anyway, grabs a pen from beside it, and writes quickly. Just her number and a smiley face.
Belly tears it free, folds it once, then sets it down on the counter. The door clicks softly behind her as she leaves.
“Okay, I need you to be honest with me,” she says the second the call connects. Belly’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, carefully brushing red nail polish onto her toenails.
“That’s never a good opening. What happened?” Taylor replies.
“Surfboard Guy ghosted me.” She dips the brush back into the bottle, wiping it carefully along the rim.
A pause.
“The guy from last weekend.” The polish goes on slightly uneven this time. Belly stares at it too long before adding. “The one with the surfboard mounted on the wall of his bedroom. Very committed to the aesthetic.”
“Oh. Him. I thought we decided to call him ‘mindblowing sex guy’.” “What do you mean by ghosted? Like… fully?”
Belly rolls her eyes, blowing lightly on her freshly painted toes before inspecting them. “Fully. I left my number. On a napkin. Very cute, very casual, very ‘call me if you want, no pressure.’” She drags the polish carefully across her pinky toe, concentrating a little too hard.
“And he has not, in fact, called you.”
“Not even a text,” Belly says, screwing the cap on tighter than necessary. “Not even a ‘hey, made it home alive?’ Nothing.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t misread it? Maybe he was just looking for a hook-up?” Taylor asks carefully.
The brush stills mid-air. Belly stares down at her toes, one foot propped awkwardly on the edge of the couch. The polish glistens wet under the lamp light.
“Possibly. But it felt too good for just a hook-up.”
“Good good, or ‘I want to believe it was good’ good?”
“Good enough that I wrote my number down without spiraling first,” Belly exhales, tilting her head back against the couch. “That should tell you everything.”
“Fair.”
“I just—why not text? Even a ‘hey, not interested’ text. I would respect that.”
“Men don’t do closure,” Taylor replies. “They do silence and hope it resolves itself.”
“Cowardly.”
“Deeply.”
She picks at the edge of a pillow. “It’s annoying, because I wasn’t even trying to make it a thing. He was literally perfect rebound material.”
“Ah. Surfboard Guy: gone too soon.”
“Tragically,” Belly says flatly. “He had potential.”
“Maybe he lost the napkin.”
Belly narrows her eyes slightly. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m just offering alternatives,” Taylor replies.
“Stop making him sympathetic.”
“I’m trying to soften the blow.”
“It’s not working.”
A small pause.
“…Okay, but if he did lose it, and then finds it later—”
“I’m hanging up,” she says.
Taylor laughs. “You liked him.”
“I liked the version of him that texted me back,” Belly corrects.
Belly lets herself wish, because she can see it. A second date. Something small. Coffee somewhere nice, wondering if he likes his coffee black or sweet, as she does. A walk that stretches longer than intended. Another conversation that doesn’t feel forced.
“Which, to be clear, does not exist.” Taylor says tauntingly.
“Apparently not.”
“So what are you going to do? Taylor asks.
Belly leans back, staring at the ceiling. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I gave him my number. Ball’s in his court. I’m not chasing Surfboard Guy.”
A boundary. A rule she set for herself long before this specific man existed. Belly did her part. She walked over. She flirted. She stayed. She wrote the number down and left it. It means she doesn’t have to check her phone every ten minutes, though she does. If he wants to call, he will. If he doesn’t, his loss.
“Strong.”
“Thank you.”
A pause.
“…but if he texts, I’m answering immediately,” Belly adds.
She wants him to text. Not desperately. Just enough to prove she hadn’t imagined it. That the night hadn’t existed only in her version of it. So yes, Belly would answer immediately. And she refuses to feel embarrassed about that.
“Of course you are.”
“Shut up.”
Belly’s halfway down the coffee aisle at Trader Joe’s, scanning the shelves for her usual, French vanilla, when her podcast cuts out, replaced by her mom’s ringtone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, bean. Am I interrupting?” Laurel says on the other end.
“No, I’m just at the store trying to figure out what to eat tonight.” Belly shifts a few bags around, checking labels like one of them might suddenly become the right one.
“What are you going for?”
Belly looks down at her cart.
“So far? Fancy stuffed olives and dill cream cheese.” There’s a pause. Then Laurel sighs.
It’s not that Belly can’t cook. She absolutely can. She lived in Paris, for God’s sake, survived on markets and wine bars and tiny kitchenettes where she learned how to build a meal from almost nothing. She can make something impressive without trying very hard.
But she’s spent the last two years dating a man whose idea of food revolved around macros and meal prep containers. Every plate had to justify itself. Fifty grams of protein minimum. Measured rice. Dry chicken. Sauce on the side.
So now she’s going to eat crackers for dinner if she feels like it. Olives straight from the container. Dill cream cheese piled irresponsibly high. No weighing, no calculating, no commentary about “optimal intake.”
“Hey, don’t judge my girl dinner if you’re not offering to fly to Boston and make me bulgogi.”
“I’m just saying,” her mom replies, dry. “That’s not a meal.”
“It’s a concept.”
“Mm.”
She finally spots a familiar-looking package, pulls it out, then frowns. Hazelnut. Not it.
“Speaking of cooking…” her mom adds.
“What is it?” Belly asks, already bracing.
She can hear her mom take a small breath on the other end.
“What are you doing for Memorial Day weekend?”
Belly pauses mid-reach, fingers brushing a bag of coffee she doesn’t actually want. Around her, carts rattle past, someone arguing softly about oat milk across the aisle.
“I haven’t planned that far ahead.”
“It’s in two weeks,” her mom says and quickly continues. “I want you to meet Adam.”
“Oh.”
Her mom had mentioned Adam Fisher before. Still, the idea of her mom dating someone who wasn’t her father lands the same every time she’s reminded: a quiet, unwelcome chill. It’s also the fact that Laurel had met him on a singles cruise that makes Belly instantly dislike him.
Though it’s not like Belly hasn’t had time to adjust. Her parents have been divorced for over twelve years. And her dad, well. He’s made his way through enough overly enthusiastic, significantly younger girlfriends that none of this should feel surprising anymore.
But it does. With Laurel, it had been different. Careful. Which somehow makes this worse. She’s never once met one of the guys she’s dated, so it must be important to her. It must be getting serious.
“I’ve already talked to Steven. He and Taylor are flying out.”
Of course, she has already talked to Steven. Easier to convince. So this isn’t really a question.
“He’s coming to Philly?” Belly asks, shifting the coffee bag under her arm as someone reaches past her for a tin on the shelf.
“No, Adam is inviting all of us to his summer house in Cousins. His sons will be there too.”
Right. The sons.
Belly remembers her mom mentioning them in passing before. Two of them. Around her and Steven’s age. One in Boston, like her. The other is somewhere in California. She hadn’t really cared enough to remember.
She wonders briefly if they’re as put off by this as she is. Or if they would have no problem making polite conversation over dinner, like none of this is bizarre.
“Luke is, of course, also invited.” She insists.
Belly closes her eyes for half a second. Of course he is. Her mom had always liked Luke. She had meant to tell her mom they’d broken up. It had been on her mental to-do list for weeks now, filed somewhere between “schedule dentist” and “cancel shared streaming account.”
And definitely not a conversation she wanted to have like this, wedged between grocery shelves, fluorescent lights humming overhead.
“Mom,” she says, keeping her voice even, “we broke up a few weeks ago.”
A pause. Just long enough to suggest this is inconvenient information.
“Oh,” her mom says finally. “I’m sorry to hear.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Laurel asks, softer now.
Belly watches a woman compare two identical bags of coffee a few feet away, grateful for the distraction. “It didn’t feel like a phone call conversation.”
“I see.”
Someone nudges a cart past her. She steps aside automatically, already half-turned toward the register.
“I actually need to pay,” Belly adds, tone light but final. “But if it's important to you, of course I’ll come. We can figure out the details later?”
A small beat.
“Yes,” her mom says. “I’ll call you on Thursday?”
“Yeah. Thursday’s good.”
They hang up. Belly stands there for a second longer than necessary, the noise of the store settling back in around her, before looking down at the coffee in her hand. Hazelnut. Still not what she was looking for. It will have to do.
She manages to leave work early on the Friday before Memorial Day. Her schedule is light. Enough to feel productive, not enough to keep her there. Her day had been intentionally cleared. Admin work, emails, loose ends, all things she can handle from anywhere, which had felt like a good idea when she planned it earlier in the week. By late morning, she’s packing up her things, ignoring the quiet sense that she’s committing to something she hasn’t fully thought through.
She loads her car just before lunch, bag in the backseat, laptop tucked carefully beside it, a grocery tote with snacks she didn’t need but bought anyway.
She slides into the driver’s seat, hands resting on the wheel for a second longer than necessary, like she’s waiting for a reason not to go. So she starts the car and pulls out.
Belly calls Taylor when she’s pulling up to the house. “It’s massive, Taylor.”
She snaps a picture and sends it to Taylor. “Check your phone.”
She shifts the phone between her shoulder and ear as she puts the car in park. Gravel crunches under the tires.
“Wow. It’s giving Martha Stewart.”
Belly snorts. It’s nicer than the house she grew up in, and it’s a second house. She looks up at the house, wide windows catching the light, wraparound porch, the kind of architecture that suggests generational wealth and very good accountants.
“Don’t tell me you're the first to arrive, Belly.” Taylor asks
“No. There’s already a car here.”
She glances at it again as she turns off the engine. A silver Range Rover. Clean, but not new. Not the kind of car she’d picture for Adam Fisher. “I think one of the sons?”
She pushes her car door open, stepping out into the quiet. It’s noticeably calmer than in Boston, just wind, not so distant water, and something rustling in the trees.
“The chef or the doctor?”
The first thing Taylor had done when Belly had called her up about the whole dinner in Cousins' situation was to go down a rabbit hole of cyberstalking the Fisher brothers' social media. Taylor had found the chef, or Jermemiah, quite easily. “He’s massive on TikTok.”
Belly and Taylor had taken one look at him and declared he had the unmistakable look of a fuckboy, surprised, even, that he wasn’t out there making those aggressively oversexualized cooking videos that dominate divorced middle-aged women’s algorithms.
The older brother had been harder to track down, but Taylor had found him anyway. That part hadn’t surprised Belly in the slightest. His profile was nearly empty, reduced to a single photo so grainy it was almost useless. You could barely make out his face. It was old, too, more than a decade. In it, he was sitting on a surfboard, back to the camera. It could have read as mysterious. Or, as Belly had decided, deeply uninteresting.
“If it’s the chef, tell him I want him to cook those Arrancini balls I saw him upload last week,” Taylor shouts.
“You tell him yourself tomorrow. I got to go. See you tomorrow,” Belly replies and then hangs up. She walks up to the front door and tests the handle first, just to check. It opens easily.
She pushes it open a little wider, not stepping in right away. “Hello?” she calls, voice carrying into the house. “Anyone home?”
Nothing. No answer. No movement. Just quiet.
She lingers for a second, like she might hear something if she waits long enough. When she doesn’t, she steps inside anyway, easing the door shut behind her. They knew Belly was coming. That’s what makes it strange; she should probably feel uneasy about it. About walking into a house that isn’t hers, about the silence stretching too cleanly through the hallway. But she doesn’t.
“Hello?” Belly tries again, louder this time.
Still nothing. She sets her bags down by the door, the sound oddly loud in the stillness, and starts down the hallway. Her footsteps soften against the floor as she moves further in, past a sitting room and toward what Belly assumes is the kitchen.
The house is not at all what she had expected. She knew Adam Fisher was rich; that part had been clear. A summer house like this doesn’t exist without money behind it. But the space doesn’t feel cold or showy the way she’d imagined.
Very Martha Stewart, as Taylor had put it. Definitely not something she can picture Adam Fisher putting together himself.
Belly steps into the kitchen, taking it in for a second, the clean counters, the soft light coming in through the windows, the quiet hum of a house that’s clearly been used but currently empty. She frowns slightly, glancing around again.
The dirt bombs on the kitchen table are the only sign that someone else had arrived before her. Perhaps the chef? Belly makes a mental note to take one after she’s replied to all the emails she knows are waiting for her. Past the kitchen, a strikingly blue pool catches her eye. She’s grateful her mom reminded her to pack a swimsuit, and beyond that, the beach stretches out in the distance.
Belly settles at the kitchen table, pulling her laptop out and opening it with a quiet sense of purpose. If she’s going to be here early, she might as well be productive. Treatment plans, notes, revisions. The kind of work that keeps her mind occupied without asking too much of it. She moves through them steadily, barely noticing the time passing.
At some point, she gives up trying to ignore the coffee machine. It looks unnecessarily complicated. Sleek, expensive, and full of buttons that suggest it does far more than it needs to. Belly stands in front of it for a minute, squinting slightly, pressing one thing, then another. Eventually, after some trial and error, she manages an iced latte. Not perfect, not sweet enough, but close enough. She brings it back to the table, settling in again, one hand on the keyboard, the other loosely around the glass.
By the time she hears it, a car pulling up over the gravel, it’s been well over an hour. Belly pauses. For a second, she considers getting up. Going to the door. Instead, she stays where she is, eyes on her screen. The front door opens.
Voices follow almost immediately.
“Connie, we’re here!”
Loud. Casual. Youthful. Not Adam Fisher. She exhales softly through her nose, saving her document but not closing it. She hears footsteps. Closer.
And then—
“Oh.”
She looks up.
A tall, blond man is standing in the kitchen doorway, exactly as she remembers from the profile Taylor had found. Jeremiah. There’s a split second where he just looks at her, clearly not what he expected.
“You’re not my brother.” He says sheepishly.
“Observant,” Belly replies, not missing a beat.
“I’m Jere,” he says, gesturing vaguely behind him. “And this is my partner, Dennis.”
Belly smiles, shifting slightly in her chair, finally closing her laptop halfway. Jeremiah’s attention flicks to the coffee in her hand, then back to her. “You figured out the machine?”
“Eventually.”
“Impressive,” he says. “It took me a week.”
“That’s concerning,” she replies lightly.
Dennis smiles at that from somewhere behind him.
Jeremiah glances past her, toward the window, his expression shifting slightly. “Ah,” he says, almost to himself. “There comes my brother.”
Belly turns in her chair, more out of instinct than intention. Through the glass doors, out past the deck, she sees him. Walking up from the beach.
Barefoot with a surfboard under his arm, hair slightly damp, pushed back carelessly. There’s a towel slung over his shoulder, a familiarity to the movement that makes something in her chest tighten before she can stop it. And then he looks up.
Of course he does. Their eyes meet through the glass. Recognition lands instantly. Surfboard Guy. Beck. Fuck.
It hits her all at once, sharp, inconvenient, unavoidable. The surfboard on the wall. The quiet apartment. The napkin. Of all people. Of fucking course it’s him. Belly goes still for half a second too long, hoping no one notices, her brain catching up to what she’s seeing.
Behind her, Jeremiah is still talking, something about going out to surf before dinner himself, but it fades into the background.
Because outside, the man Belly knows as Beck is already stepping onto the deck. Already closer. He steps inside a moment later, bringing the outside air with him, salt, wind, something cooler than the stillness of the house.
Jeremiah moves first. “There you are.”
Surfboard guy drops the towel somewhere by the door, running a hand through his hair before his attention shifts, landing on her. There’s a flicker. Recognition. Quick, but unmistakable.
“Hey, Conrad.” Jeremiah continues, gesturing between them. “This is—”
She stands before he can finish, already stepping forward, already committing to it. Normal. Keep it normal. He offers his hand.
For a second, it feels absurd. Shaking his hand. As if she hadn’t been naked in his bed less than 4 weeks ago. But Belly reaches out anyway, her gaze lands somewhere near his shoulder instead of his eyes.
“I’m Isabel,” she says evenly. “But all my friends call me Belly.”
There’s the slightest pause. He raises an eyebrow, just a fraction, just enough to register. “Nice to meet you,” he says.
Just like that. Like they’re strangers.
So that’s what they’re doing. Good.