He wakes me at sunset with coffee and a mysterious smile, telling me to get dressed for a drive. I don't ask where we're going—something in his expression says this is important, something he's been planning, something I need to experience rather than have explained.
The city falls away behind us as we head east, suburbs giving way to farmland, streetlights growing sparse until there's nothing but headlights cutting through the purple dusk. I watch his profile in the fading light, the way his jaw relaxes away from the pressure of basketball and agents and everything that's been consuming us for months.
Forty minutes outside the city, he turns onto a gravel road I haven't seen in three years. My breath catches when I realize where we're going, memory flooding back before my eyes even confirm it.
The old railroad bridge.
He parks at the edge of the overgrown lot, killing the engine but leaving the radio playing softly. The bridge rises ahead of us, rusted metal stretching across the ravine, exactly as I remember it. Wildflowers have overtaken the embankment, purple and yellow blooms swaying in the evening breeze. In the distance, city lights twinkle like earthbound stars.
"I can't believe you remembered," I breathe, staring at the place where we spent so many stolen hours.
"I remember everything about us." He reaches across the console to take my hand. "This is where I first told you I wanted to go pro. Sitting right there on the edge, legs dangling, terrified you'd think I was crazy for dreaming that big."
"And I told you that you'd make it." The memory surfaces sharp and sweet. "That anyone who couldn't see how talented you were wasn't paying attention."
"You were the only person who believed in me back then." He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "My mom hoped, my coaches saw potential, but you believed. Without question, without doubt."
We climb out of the car and walk toward the bridge together, his hand warm in mine. The metal groans softly as we step onto it, old bolts protesting our weight the same way they did when we were seventeen and sneaking out of our parents' houses after midnight.
He pulls a bottle of wine from his jacket—I don't know how I didn't notice him grab it—and we settle onto the edge of the bridge with our legs dangling over the drop. The ravine below is shadowed and mysterious, the same view that used to make me feel like we were suspended between the world and something bigger.
"This is where I first told you I loved you," I say quietly, accepting the bottle when he passes it. "Junior year. Right before prom."
"You were wearing that yellow sundress." His voice is soft with memory. "The one with the flowers on it. You were so nervous, stumbling over your words, and I thought I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life."
"I was terrified you wouldn't say it back."
"I'd been wanting to say it for months." He takes the wine from me, drinking deeply before passing it back. "I just didn't think I deserved to."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth, watching the stars emerge one by one above us. The night is warm, the air sweet with wildflowers and something nostalgic I can't quite name. It feels like stepping back in time—like the last three years were just a bad dream and we're still those kids with our whole lives ahead of us.
"Tell me something ridiculous about the fake dating," I say eventually, leaning into his side. "Something that made you want to laugh."
"The Instagram captions." He groans, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. "Vance had a spreadsheet, Harper. A color-coded spreadsheet of approved hashtags and optimal posting times."
"He made me practice my 'candid surprised face' for fifteen minutes before the coffee shop date." I snort at the memory. "Like there's a wrong way to look surprised."
"Remember when he suggested we stage a 'casual beach day' in February? In forty-degree weather?"
"Oh my god, the hypothermia photo shoot." I'm laughing now, really laughing, the absurdity of it all hitting me fresh. "We were both blue and shivering and he kept saying 'more natural, more romantic.'"
"Nothing says romance like frostbite." He pulls me closer, his laughter vibrating through my body. "The whole thing was insane. The contracts, the scheduled PDAs, the talking points for reporters."
"And somewhere in the middle of all that insanity, it stopped being fake." I tilt my head to look up at him. "When did that happen for you?"
"The night you had the panic attack." His expression softens, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "When I found you in that closet, hyperventilating, and my only thought was 'I need to fix this, I need to make her okay.' That's when I knew I was completely fucked."
"For me it was the bus." I rest my head on his shoulder, staring out at the distant city lights. "Waking up with your arm around me, your lips in my hair. Realizing I didn't want to move. That I wanted to stay in that moment forever."
"I missed this," I admit quietly. "I missed us. The real us, not the performance."
"Me too." He presses a kiss to my hair, lingering there. "I'm sorry it took so long to get back here. Three years of silence when we could have had this."
"We're here now." I tilt my face up to look at him. "That's what matters."
He kisses me slow and sweet, tasting like wine and happiness and something that feels like forever. No urgency, no desperation, just the quiet certainty of two people who've finally found their way home. The stars wheel above us and the wildflowers sway below, and for this perfect moment, nothing else exists.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, both of us smiling like idiots in the darkness.
"I want to tell people," I say quietly. "That it's real now. Not fake anymore. I'm tired of pretending, tired of performing for Vance's cameras."
"Then we tell them." His thumb strokes my cheek. "On our terms. When we're ready."
"What about the contract? We still have three months left."
"Fuck the contract." He grins, that reckless smile I fell in love with years ago. "Let Vance sue me. I don't care. I'm done pretending you're not the most important thing in my life."
I kiss him again, harder this time, and he pulls me into his lap right there on the edge of the bridge. For a few minutes we lose ourselves in each other, hands wandering, breath mingling, the wine bottle forgotten beside us.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. And again. And again.
I pull back reluctantly, fishing it out to check the screen. Vance's name glows in the darkness, followed by a text that makes my stomach drop.
Vance: Call me immediately. Draft news. This changes everything.
The real world crashes back, shattering our perfect bubble like glass. Ethan sees my expression and his smile fades, the tension returning to his shoulders.
"What is it?"
I turn the phone so he can read the message, and watch the color drain from his face.