His handshake is firm and professional, a reassuring grip that I instantly respect.
Under the studio lights, his blonde hair practically glows. And then he cocks his head to the side, raking his fingers through it as he introduces himself.
Andrew.
I completely blank, like a goddamn lunatic.
My eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw, following it to where it melts into the curve of his neck and shoulder. I watch the way his lips lift into a smile, how his big blue eyes lock onto mine, steady and unwavering, pinning me in place under the studio lights.
Where did this gorgeous fucker even come from, and who the hell gave him permission to do this to me? The question ricochets through my skull, a frantic search for an explanation that doesn't exist. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't look like this, shouldn't be unraveling my carefully constructed composure with nothing more than a smile and those impossibly blue eyes that see too much. My mind races, cataloging details I shouldn't be noticing: the way his blonde hair catches the harsh studio lights, turning it almost white at the temples; the slight cleft in his chin that I hadn't seen before; how his collar sits perfectly against the strong column of his neck. This is not just physical attraction—this is something deeper, more dangerous, a recognition that feels both foreign and terrifyingly familiar. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat I'm sure the microphones will pick up, broadcasting my betrayal to everyone watching.
If Sam knew what was running through my head, I'd be both mortified and murdered. Definitely murdered. The image flashes through my mind: Sam's face, usually so warm and full of laughter, contorting into something cold and unforgiving. I can almost hear her voice, sharp with disbelief, asking how I could do this—how I could look at someone else this way after everything we've been through. She'd see the truth in my eyes before I could form a lie, and the thought makes my stomach twist into knots. Six months we've been building something real, something stable after years of chaos. Six months of late-night talks, of shared vulnerabilities, of Sam patiently piecing me back together when I didn't think I was worth the effort. And now? Now I'm standing here, my body betraying everything we've worked for, all because of a blonde stranger with eyes that seem to know exactly where all my weak spots are.
I remind myself we have an audience.
The crew watches, waiting on me to show up and do my job. I can feel their collective gaze like a physical weight, a hundred pairs of eyes cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift in my posture. Gary's warning echoes in my ears—"Don't get punched in the face again"—but this is worse. A punch would be honest, straightforward. This... this is a slow unraveling, a quiet betrayal that happens in silence.
I force my lips into something resembling a smile, hoping it doesn't look as brittle as it feels. My professional mask slides into place, but it feels thinner than usual, more fragile, like it could crack at any moment and reveal the mess underneath. My fingers twitch at my sides, desperate for something to hold onto, some anchor in this sea of confusion.
The thought of Sam settles into a pit of guilt in my stomach, and I force myself to look away. I focus on the camera lens instead, that black void that has been my salvation so many times before. But today it offers no comfort, only a stark reflection of my own turmoil.
I can see Andrew's silhouette in the glossy surface, a ghostly presence that lingers even when I'm not looking directly at him. The guilt intensifies, burning like acid, and I have to swallow against the bile rising in my throat.
Sam deserves better than this—better than a man who can't control his own thoughts, who gets distracted by a pretty face when he should be focused on building a future. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, too long for professional standards but not long enough to fully compose myself. When I open them, I'm still trapped in this moment, still caught between the life I've chosen and the pull of something I can't have, shouldn't want, and yet can't seem to resist.
I sit down ready, or pretending to be, for taping to start.
Chapter 8
The Group Chat
Vince
Vince: Hey. I have a completely hypothetical question.
Todd:Oh this should be good.
Aubrey:Hypothetical huh? Question for a friend?
Eli:I have a hypothetical answer for you, and it's in my pants Vince.
Wayne:I'm ten seconds from permanently blocking Eli.
Eli:Wayne is also invited to the pants party.
Vince:Will you all shut up for a second?
Todd:Eli can't get laid, and now he's starting to get annoying.
Aubrey:Starting to?
Todd:lmao
Eli:Fuck both of you.
Vince:I'm serious, you idiots. I need advice.
Frank:What kind of advice?
