The mansion is dark when Derek's car pulls into the garage, the dashboard clock glowing 4:47 AM in soft blue numbers.
I watched him activate autopilot the moment we left the restaurant parking lot, his fingers swiping across the touchscreen.
"She knows the way home better than I do," he'd said, settling back into the driver's seat while the car navigated itself through empty streets.
Now the car is parked, the engine silent, and neither of us moves to go inside.
"Beach?" Derek asks, producing the half-empty champagne bottle from the back seat like a magician revealing his final trick.
"Beach," I agree, because sleep feels impossible and the night doesn't feel finished yet.
We kick off our shoes at the patio edge and walk barefoot across the sand. The pre-dawn air carries a chill that prickles my skin, but the champagne warmth still hums through my veins, insulating me from the cold.
Derek leads us to the double sunlounger near the water's edge—the wide one with the thick mattress that I've seen Veronica sprawl across in designer swimwear.
He drops onto it with graceless relief like he's been performing all night, and I settle beside him, our shoulders almost touching.
He passes me the bottle. I drink directly from it, the bubbles flat now but still sweet, and hand it back.
"So." I tuck my legs beneath me, turning to face his profile. "Are you going to tell me what that was about? The girlfriend thing?"
Derek takes a long pull from the bottle, his throat working in the moonlight. "Does there have to be a reason? Maybe I just wanted to show off the most interesting person I know."
"Flattery is not an explanation."
"It's not flattery if it's true." He grins, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Sasha and her crowd have certain expectations. Being around without a plus-one invites questions I didn't feel like answering tonight."
"What kind of questions?"
"The invasive kind." He passes the bottle back, and his fingers brush mine in the transfer. "Trust fund kids are surprisingly vicious when they sense vulnerability. It's like they can smell weakness and feel compelled to exploit it."
I study his face, searching for the truth beneath the deflection. There's more here—I can feel it in the careful way he's choosing his words, the slight tension in his shoulders that contradicts his casual sprawl.
But the champagne has softened my edges, and pushing feels like too much effort.
"Fine," I say, letting it slide. "Keep your secrets. But you owe me for my stellar performance as the devoted girlfriend. I expect payment in future restaurant shifts and possibly unlimited access to Rafael's risotto."
His laugh is genuine this time, warm and relieved. "Done. You're officially on the payroll, and I'll personally ensure Rafael makes you whatever you want, whenever you want it."
"See, now we're negotiating." I take another sip and let the silence settle between us.
The sky above us is shifting—that deep blue-black of late night softening toward something lighter at the edges.
I keep glancing at Derek when he's not looking.
The dizziness in my head isn't just the alcohol anymore. It's him. The ease of being around him, the way conversation flows without effort.
With Tyler, every interaction feels like navigating a minefield. With Zack, there's always the weight of what we shouldn't have done and can't do again.
But Derek is simple. Derek is warmth without conditions, attention without cruelty, presence without demands.
"You're staring," he says without opening his eyes.
"You're worth staring at." I throw his words from earlier back at him, and his smile spreads slow and satisfied.
When the bottle is finally empty, Derek sets shifts onto his back. I mirror the movement, and suddenly we're lying side by side, our bodies close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his arm.
The sky stretches above us, infinite and indifferent.
"Do you ever think about what we're supposed to be doing?" I ask the stars, because asking Derek directly feels too vulnerable. "Like, there's this assumption that by a certain age you're supposed to have figured out who you are and what you want. But what if you never do?"
"Deep thoughts for five in the morning." But his voice is soft, contemplative. "I think most people are faking it. They pick a direction and commit hard enough that eventually it starts to feel like a choice."
"Is that what you did? Picked a direction?"
"I picked the path of least resistance." He turns his head to look at me, and in the growing light, I can see the complicated honesty in his expression. "My father built an empire, and Tyler's building one on the track. Me? I run existing restaurants."
"That sounds lonely."
"Sometimes." His eyes hold mine. "Less so lately."
The admission hangs between us, fragile and weighted with implications neither of us is sober enough to navigate carefully.
I think about what he told me at the restaurant that night—his philosophy of variety and freedom. The memory surfaces through my champagne haze with sudden clarity.
"You said you didn't do relationships," I hear myself say.
Derek goes still beside me. "I remember."
"But you introduced me as your girlfriend tonight. Told them you don't like to share." I turn onto my side, propping my head on my hand so I can watch his face. "That's a strange move for someone who claims to be selfish. What if one of them tries to steal me away?"
His jaw tightens, and something flickers behind his eyes—something that looks almost like jealousy before he buries it beneath his easy smile.
"They wouldn't dare," he says lightly. "I have a very good lawyer and absolutely no moral qualms about ruining someone's social standing."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting at—"
His hands move before I can react.
Fingers dig into my ribs, finding the spots where I'm most vulnerable, and suddenly I'm gasping, writhing, trying to escape the assault of tickling that has replaced our serious conversation.
"Derek, stop—I can't—" The words dissolve into helpless laughter, my body twisting away from his hands even as he follows, relentless.
"Take back the accusation," he demands, grinning, his fingers merciless against my sides. "Say I'm not selfish."
"You're—" I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except laugh and squirm and try to grab his wrists. "You said it yourself—stop it!"
He doesn't stop. I thrash sideways, and my hip collides with his thigh, and suddenly we're tangled together—my leg hooked over his, his chest pressed against mine, our faces inches apart.
The laughter dies in our throats.
His breath is warm against my lips. His eyes have gone dark.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I'm acutely aware of everywhere our bodies touch—the solid weight of his leg between mine, the press of his chest against my breasts, the way his hand has stilled on my waist but hasn't moved away.
"Ellie." My name comes out rough.
I should pull back. I should make a joke, break the tension, retreat to the safety of friendship and pretense. Yet, I stay exactly where I am.
The dawn breaks behind us, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, and all I can think is…
Shit.
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