Cole’s POV
Two days on Derek's couch feels like two years, each hour dragging by in a haze of self-loathing and cheap beer.
ESPN plays on repeat because I can't be bothered to find the remote, and honestly, watching the same SportsCenter highlights over and over suits my current level of brain function.
I haven't shaved since I stormed out of Ryan and Grace's house, haven't changed this shirt, haven't done anything but marinate in my own failure like some kind of pathetic human marinade.
Beer for breakfast tastes like shit, but it's better than feeling everything I'm trying not to feel. The bottle sweats in my hand, condensation dripping onto my chest, and I don't bother wiping it off.
What's the point? I'm already a mess.
"This can't continue."
Derek says suddenly, planting himself directly in front of the TV, blocking my view of whatever quarterback controversy they're rehashing.
"You look like shit, smell worse, and your truck's been in my driveway for two days straight. You've been staying with Ryan and Grace for weeks, and now you’re not. What the fuck is going on?"
I stare at the ceiling, counting water stains like they might spell out answers. The contract Ryan made us sign said no external partners, but nothing about not telling anyone.
Derek isn't a stranger—he's been part of this weird family unit longer than any of us. If anyone deserves to know the truth, it's him.
"I fucked Grace."
I say it flat, emotionless, like I'm reading items off a grocery list. Milk, bread, eggs, I fucked my best friend's wife.
Derek's beer bottle freezes halfway to his mouth, suspended in midair like his brain just short-circuited. "You did what?"
"You heard me. I fucked Grace. Multiple times. In multiple positions. Ryan asked me to. He was even there once, watching from his reading chair like it was some kind of live theater performance."
"Cole, what the actual—"
"It's a polyamorous arrangement."
I continue in the same dead tone, because if I let any emotion creep in, I might shatter completely.
"Ryan can't perform since the accident—physically he's healed, but mentally he's been blocked. So he asked me to step in, to give Grace what he couldn't. There's a contract with bullet points and subsections."
Derek sinks slowly into the armchair across from me, his face cycling through expressions like a slot machine trying to find the right combination.
"You're serious. It’s not some elaborate joke or weird fever dream you're having?"
"Dead serious. Would I make this shit up?"
"Ryan asked you to sleep with his wife." Each word comes out careful, like he's testing them for stability. "Ryan Mitchell, who color-codes his sock drawer and schedules his bathroom breaks, asked you to have sex with Grace."
"More than that. He wanted me to give her everything he couldn't anymore. Physical intimacy, desire, connection, the whole package."
I laugh, but it comes out bitter and sharp. "What he didn't mention was that I'd start feeling things that wasn't in the fucking contract."
"You have feelings for Grace?"
The words hang in the air between us like a confession at gunpoint. My throat tightens, making it hard to swallow the beer that suddenly tastes like liquid regret.
"I can't stop thinking about her," I admit, the words pouring out now that the dam has cracked. "Not just the sex, though Christ almighty, the sex is incredible, but everything else.”
I press a genuine smile without even noticing. “Her laugh when she's genuinely surprised by something funny. The way she takes her coffee with too much sugar. How she hums old songs when she cooks."
I cover my face with my hands, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
"She does this thing where she bites her lip when she's concentrating, and it drives me insane. She leaves notes on the refrigerator for both of us, little reminders and jokes, and she includes me like I belong there."
"You're in love with her," Derek says simply, not a question but a statement of obvious fact.
"I can't be. She's Ryan's wife. They've been married for six years. And I don’t do commitment."
"Ryan literally gave you permission. Ryan specifically asked you to be intimate with. This isn't some secret affair, Cole. You have permission."
"For sex. Not for... this." I gesture helplessly at my chest where something feels simultaneously broken and too full.
"This thing that makes me want to punch Ryan when he kisses her good morning. That makes me answer her calls in the middle of hooking up. That makes me paint fucking watercolors of her smile to not forget how it looks."
Derek leans forward, elbows on his knees, giving me that look he gets when he's about to say something I don't want to hear but need to. "You paint her?"
"Shut up."
"No, seriously. Cole Jensen, who I've watched go through women like tissue paper for the past decade, is painting portraits of a woman he claims he doesn't love?"
"I didn't say I don't…" I stop, realizing what I almost admitted. "Fuck."
"Running won't fix this."
Derek says with the certainty of someone who's watched me run from everything my entire adult life.
"You can crash on my couch forever, drink yourself stupid, pretend this didn't happen, but it won't change the fact that you're in love with Grace Miller."
"It's what I do," I say weakly. "When things get complicated, when feelings get involved, I bail. It's safer for everyone."
"Not this time. You care about her—really care, not just want to fuck her. She obviously cares about you or she wouldn't be calling about dinner and leaving you notes."
Derek's voice turns firm, almost stern.
"And Ryan... hell, Ryan needs you both, even if he's too proud to admit it. This arrangement only works if all three of you are in it."
"I grabbed her," I confess suddenly.
"Two nights ago, when I snapped. I grabbed her roughly, bent her over the table like she was just some random hookup, not... not Grace. The look on her face, Derek. Like I'd betrayed something sacred."
"You were hurt and you lashed out. That's human. But leaving them to figure this out without you? That's cowardice."
He's right, and I hate him for it. The terrifying truth sits in my chest like a stone—I want to go back. Want to apologize for manhandling her, for storming out, for being exactly the kind of man I swore I'd never be.
I want to fight for whatever this bizarre situation is, want to see where these feelings lead, want to wake up in that house and know I belong there.
"What if it destroys everything?" I ask the ceiling. "What if trying to make this work ruins my friendship with Ryan, hurts Grace, leaves everyone worse off than before?"
"What if it doesn't?" Derek counters. "What if this weird, unconventional, completely fucked up arrangement is exactly what all three of you need?"
I close my eyes, and I can see her—Grace at the stove humming off-key, Grace laughing at my terrible jokes, Grace coming apart under my hands with Ryan watching.
Grace looking at me like I'm more than just Cole the commitment-phobe, Cole the player, Cole the guy who never stays.
The realization that I think of it as home, not Ryan's house or Grace's place but home, tells me everything I need to know about how fucked I really am.