Months passed after Blaine Sr.’s unexpected visit — long enough for the shock to fade, but not long enough for either young man to forget the weight of what he’d said. They pretended they had. They joked about it, brushed it off, rolled their eyes at the idea of being nudged toward settling down by a man who’d lived through more centuries than fashion cycles.

But the truth lingered like a ghost in the corners of their minds.

It haunted them in quiet moments. It whispered at the edges of their thoughts. It reminded them that something in their lives was… off.

Channing Cameron and Blaine Cameron Jr. weren’t brothers. They weren’t even from the same generation. Channing was a great‑grandson springing of Blaine Sr.’s first marriage; Blaine Jr. was the youngest son of his second, born nearly sixty years later. On paper, Blaine Jr. was technically Channing’s great‑uncle.

In reality, they were two men in their twenties sharing a mansion, a kitchen, a life — and the same gnawing sense that something was missing.

The Cameron line, for all its supernatural oddities and sprawling branches, had one trait that never seemed to skip a generation: they were not built to be alone.

Not truly. Not happily. Not for long.

So, without ever discussing it, without admitting it even to themselves, both men started trying again.

And it was a disaster.

Every date was worse than the last. Every attempt felt forced, hollow, wrong. Every woman they met seemed to highlight exactly what they weren’t finding.

It became almost comical — if it hadn’t been so depressing.

After months of false starts, awkward dinners, mismatched expectations, and romantic misfires so painful even the tabloids lost interest, both men quietly reached the same conclusion:

Maybe there wasn’t a lid for their pot. Maybe they were the exception. Maybe Blaine Sr.’s warning wasn’t a threat — but a prophecy.

And then, just when they were both ready to give up — when Channing had actually started scrolling through listings for penthouses and quiet houses on the outskirts of Del Sol Valley, convinced maybe solitude was his destiny — everything changed.

San Myshuno Downtown

The man in the dark suit ran like the night itself was chasing him.

San Myshuno’s back alleys were a maze of wet pavement and flickering neon, the kind of place where shadows clung to brick walls and steam curled up from subway grates like ghosts. His breath came sharp in the cold air as he sprinted past shuttered storefronts and graffiti‑tagged dumpsters, the city’s distant roar muffled by the narrowness of the street. He didn’t look like someone who belonged here. His suit was too well‑cut, his movements too precise, his eyes too alert.

He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing but darkness.

Still, he ran.

The alley spat him out into a small park clearing, the kind meant for stolen kisses and late‑night confessions. Lanterns glowed warm against the damp air, casting soft pools of light over empty benches and the first shy buds of spring. The world felt suspended, holding its breath.

He slowed, listening.

Silence.

Then— a click. The unmistakable sound of a gun safety sliding off.

He froze.

A figure stepped out from behind a tree, gun raised, smirk sharp enough to slice through the quiet.

“Going somewhere, Agent Cross?”

The man in the suit turned slowly, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing with a cold, lethal calm.

“You really want to do this here?” he asked.

“Oh, I insist.”

A beat. A breath. A coil of tension so tight it hummed.

Then he lunged.

They collided hard, bodies slamming into the wet grass. The gun skittered across the ground. A fist connected with a jaw. A knee drove into ribs. They grappled, rolled, fought for leverage, breath mingling in sharp bursts of effort.

A shot exploded into the night.

The villain jerked, staggered, and collapsed onto the bench behind him, head lolling at an unnatural angle.

The man in the suit stumbled back, clutching his wrist with a sharp, involuntary cry.

“Shit—!”

He doubled over, pain flashing across his face.

“CUT!” a megaphone enhanced metallic bark rang through the night.

And then the world shattered.

Floodlights snapped on, bleaching the clearing in harsh white. Crew members swarmed in from every direction. Someone yelled for the medic. Someone else cursed about continuity. The “dead” villain sat up, rubbing his neck and complaining about the landing.

Blaine Cameron Jr. stood in the center of the chaos, breathing hard, rain‑damp hair falling into his eyes, his right wrist cradled against his chest.

“Great,” he muttered, followed by a string of colorful curses that made a nearby PA reconsider their career choices. “Perfect. Love that for me.” He plopped down on the pavement.

The medic jogged over and immediately crouched beside him. “Let me see,” he said, taking Blaine’s wrist gently but firmly.

Blaine hissed the moment the medic rotated it. “Okay, ow— yeah, don’t do that.”

The medic frowned, pressing along the joint with practiced fingers. “Swelling’s already setting in. Range of motion is shot. That’s a sprain at minimum. Could be a hairline fracture. Maybe worse.”

“I’m fine,” Blaine insisted through clenched teeth. “Just give me something for the pain. The good shit.”

“Not until you’ve had imaging,” the medic said, already shaking his head. “I’m not dosing you blind.”

Before Blaine could argue, the director’s voice exploded across the set.

“CAMERON!”

Everyone froze.

“If the medic says you need the ER, your ass is going. You think I keep him on the payroll cos I think he’s cute? He’s here to make sure all of you are fully intact. Ever heard of liability? You’re mine until this movie wraps, so move or I’ll find another actor for the lead!”

A beat.

“Someone get the car around and take Cameron to the ER! Everyone else, go home. We resume tomorrow at one pm sharp. Hopefully this fucking rain stopped by then. Don’t be late!”

Blaine sagged, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go and have me waste all night sitting in some ER then.”

San Myshuno General Hospital

San Myshuno General was a hive of motion — fluorescent lights, ringing phones, the sharp scent of antiseptic. Nurses moved like seasoned warriors through the chaos, weaving between gurneys and anxious families. Blaine sat on a bed behind a curtain, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, wrist wrapped in temporary bandaging. He looked out of place — a movie star dropped into real life, trying not to wince every time he shifted.

A nurse swept the curtain aside. “Alright, Mr. Cameron, your doctor will be—oh, there she is.”

Footsteps approached. A voice followed — calm, steady, clipped with the exhaustion of a long shift.

“What do we have?”

The nurse turned. “Male, Caucasian, twenty‑six, presents with injury to wrist from impact, probably sprained—”

A woman stepped inside, reading the chart.

And then she looked up.

The world stopped.

Her breath caught. His heart dropped. Two plus years of silence collapsed into a single, devastating second.

She was in scrubs, her curly blonde hair pulled back, dark circles under her blue eyes, a pen tucked behind her ear. Older. Stronger. Changed. But unmistakably her.

Lauren Cunningham.

Blaine swallowed. “Twenty‑five, actually. At least for another few months. Same as you, doc.”

Her eyes widened. “…Blaine?”

He tried to smile. It came out crooked. “Hi, Lauren. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Back at you. Small world.”

The nurse blinked between them, sensing the shift in the air. “Should I… uh… give you two a minute?”

Lauren didn’t look away from Blaine. “No,” she said, too quickly. Then quieter: “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

She wasn’t.

Lauren slipped into doctor mode — that quiet, practiced dissociation ER physicians learn to wear like armor. Her face smoothed, her voice cooled, and whatever shock had flickered through her eyes vanished behind clinical steadiness. Two years had carved sharper lines into her features, but also a steadiness that hadn’t been there before. She looked like someone who had survived something and kept going.

“How did this happen?” she asked, fingers brushing lightly over the swollen joint. The touch made him wince, breath catching through his teeth.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though her tone stayed professional.

“Stunt fight,” he said. “Bad angle. My wrist lost.”

Her brows lifted just slightly. “Stunt?”

“I’m the new Agent Cross,” he said, trying for casual but failing to hide the way he watched her. “We’re filming a few sequences for the next movie in town, down by Myshuno Meadows. I do my own stunts. Well, as much as the director allows before sobbing into his script about liability.”

“Oh, so it really is you. I am such a big fan. Loved you in the first one! Can I get a Selfie?!” the nurse blurted, practically vibrating with excitement.

Lauren shot her a look sharp enough to slice through the air.

The nurse wilted. “Sorry, Dr. Cunningham,” she whispered, cheeks flushing.

Lauren turned back to Blaine, expression unreadable. “So that’s why the road closures. Really messes everything up here.”

“Sorry, Dr. Cunningham,” Blaine said, smirking as he gave her the most shamelessly soft, puppy‑eyed look he could muster.

It worked on everyone else. It always had.

But Lauren only blinked at him, unimpressed, though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

He watched her hands as she worked — steady, sure, confident. She’d always been capable, but now she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who’d been forged in fire. Literally, in her case. He wondered if she knew she still tucked her lower lip between her teeth when she concentrated. He wondered if she knew he still noticed.

“So,” he said softly, unable to stop himself, “you did it. Dr. Cunningham. A real doctor.”

She paused, just for a breath — a tiny, involuntary hitch in her movements — before she resumed wrapping his wrist.

“I’m a resident,” she corrected, voice even. “Second year. Not a full attending yet.”

“Still counts,” he murmured.

“It doesn’t,” she said, but her voice had softened, just barely. “Ask me again in two to four years. So, you are some hot shot actor then, huh? Guess you finally decided between music and acting.”

“Well, it was decided for me. I was trying to go the music route but turns out really wanted my music. I did manage to get this far in acting, second time in a lead role, so, yeah, I guess it was decided somehow.”

He smiled. She didn’t. But something in her eyes flickered — recognition, memory, something she wasn’t ready to name.

She secured the bandage with a practiced flick. “You’ll need imaging to confirm it’s just a sprain,” she said. “But based on the exam, it looks straightforward. With proper rest and a brace, you should be a lot better in a couple of weeks — though a full recovery will take closer to four to six.”

“Straightforward,” he echoed, though his voice had dropped, almost reverent. “That’s good. The four to six will give the director a couple more stomach ulcers.”

She didn’t look at him as she finished smoothing the bandage. “Well, that can’t be helped,” she said, already reaching for the chart. “I’ll put in the order.”

The nurse slipped out, leaving them alone behind the curtain. The silence stretched, thick and electric, humming with everything unsaid.

Lauren finally exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “You should be more careful,” she said, though it came out quieter than she intended.

He tilted his head, studying her. “You still worry.”

She froze for half a heartbeat — a tiny, involuntary pause — before she forced herself to move again, gathering her tablet, adjusting her stethoscope, doing anything to avoid the weight of his gaze.

“I worry about all my patients,” she said.

“Right,” he murmured. “Of course.”

But the way he said it made her chest tighten.

She stepped back, needing space she couldn’t quite find. “Someone will take you to imaging,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll write a script for the pain. They’ll have it ready when you’re discharged.”

“Lauren—” he reached for her, he jerked away.

“Don’t.” It came out too fast, too sharp. She closed her eyes for half a second, softened. “Please.”

He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say.

She slipped out through the curtain, leaving him alone with the echo of her voice and the ghost of her touch.

Parking Cars

Hours later, her shift finally ended. Lauren walked toward her car, exhaustion dragging at her limbs, blonde curls slipping loose from the bun she’d twisted up fourteen hours earlier. The night air was cold and crisp, smelling faintly of rain, street food, and the metallic tang of the city. She dug for her keys, already fantasizing about collapsing into bed.

And then she froze.

He was leaning against her car.

Hands in his pockets. Head tipped back against the silver Mercedes. Looking like trouble wrapped in nostalgia.

“Blaine,” she said, stopping several feet away. “What are you doing here?”

He pushed off the car with his good hand. “Waiting for you.”

“I can see that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been standing here for hours.”

“Nah.” He shrugged — casual on the surface, but the smile was too bright, too boyish to be real. “Took forever and a day for them to find a wheelchair, because apparently I can’t walk anymore with a sprained wrist. Then another lifetime for imaging just to confirm that I got an ouchie”—he wiggled his fingers dramatically—“they slapped another bandage on, but not as good as yours, by the way. You were right. It’s a sprain. Four to six weeks. Director’s living his best life rearranging the filming sequencing schedule. Guessing all the shirtless scenes are getting shoved to the end. Sad, those are filmed on location in Sulani and Tomarang, I could sure use some sun after all this rain here. How do stand it, all that rain all the time?”

She crossed her arms. He kept going.

“Well, look, Lauren… after I was done, I asked someone where you were, didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye, and they said your shift had just ended. So I came out here and remembered your quirk about only parking on odd‑numbered floors, but never ground level. And the Cunningham loyalty to Mercedes.” He nodded toward her license plate. “BRN‑CNGM. I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed — especially standing next to your overachieving self — but even I could figure out that meant Brindleton Bay Cunningham. Took me less than ten minutes to find your ride, doctor.”

Her jaw tightened. “Bravo. So, what do you want? All this just to say goodbye? That’s a bit over the top, even by your standards.”

“Just to talk.” His voice softened. “Lauren, it’s been… forever. Two years and change since… well. And we both know things were said back when everything went to hell — things that weren’t right. Especially me. I can’t let that stand. Please. Just dinner. You have to eat, right?”

“Not at one in the morning.”

“Then have a drink with me.”

“You’re on pain meds. They told you not to mix with alcohol.”

“One glass.” He clasped his hands together dramatically. “Pretty pretty please…”

She exhaled sharply, annoyed — or pretending to be. “You need to go back to your hotel. You shouldn’t be driving with that wrist.”

“I can’t drive anyway. I don’t have a car. Director insists on drivers for lead roles. I sent mine home after he dropped me off at the hospital, just wasn’t feeling it, having that guy hover. Was supposed to call him to get picked up but – not at one in the morning. I know I have my shitty person moments but even my spoiled ass isn’t like that.” He gave her a helpless shrug. “So… drive me. Please, Dr. Cunningham.”

She glared. He held her gaze.

With a sigh that sounded like surrender and self‑reproach all at once, she unlocked the car.

Blaine didn’t wait for permission. He strode around to the passenger side, pulled the handle with his good hand, and did a ridiculous little “YES—strike!” motion with his injured arm tucked close, like he’d just won a prize at a carnival.

Lauren bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted metal. She refused — absolutely refused — to let the smile rise. But it tried. God, it tried.

He caught the flicker anyway. Of course he did. His grin spread, boyish and triumphant — the same one he used to flash when he managed to make her laugh during high school study sessions.

He slid into the seat with exaggerated care, as if the sprain had suddenly rendered him fragile. She rolled her eyes, shut his door, and walked around to the driver’s side before he could say something that would make her smile again.

San Myshuno blurred past in streaks of neon and steam. The city was alive even at this hour — late‑night diners glowing warm, subway grates exhaling clouds, taxis weaving through traffic like restless fireflies. Inside the car, silence stretched between them, thick and charged, humming with everything they weren’t saying.

Lauren kept her eyes on the road. “You shouldn’t have waited.”

“I didn’t know how else to see you again.”

Her grip tightened on the wheel. “Blaine…”

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said quietly. “Just two people who knew each other better than anyone. Brought together by fate. Tell me this doesn’t feel like fate.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t tell him to stop, either.

Hotel Talk

His hotel room was dim and quiet, smelling faintly of cologne and rain. He tried to pour them drinks, but the bottle slipped in his hand, clinking against the glass. He winced, breath catching.

Lauren sighed — the first real, unguarded sound she’d made all night. “Move. You’ll hurt yourself. You’re supposed to be resting that wrist, not testing its limits. Still not able to follow simple directions, huh?”

He stepped aside without argument, watching her as she took the bottle and poured with steady, practiced hands. She handed him a glass. Their fingers brushed.

A spark. A memory. A wound reopening.

They sat. Talked. Laughed — cautiously at first, then with the kind of ease that felt like muscle memory. Old rhythms resurfaced, slipping back into place like they’d never left. The warmth between them wasn’t new; it was remembered.

Somewhere between the second sip and the third, the air shifted.

He looked at her. Really looked. Like he was seeing the version of her he’d been trying not to think about for two years.

“I never stopped missing you,” he said quietly.

Her breath hitched. “Don’t.”

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said. “I just… needed you to know.”

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in almost two years, she let herself feel it — the ache, the grief, the unfinishedness of them.

“Lauren, look…” His voice was soft, raw. “I get it now. I didn’t then. I didn’t understand why your brother’s death made you rethink us. But I get it now. I’m so sorry about everything I said to you. I didn’t mean any of it. I was scared. I panicked. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “Thank you for saying that. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have gone nuclear on us, but Graham’s accident… it derailed me. I’m still not one hundred percent. Trust me, the way I was going, we would’ve ended up breaking up anyway. I couldn’t stand to be around myself most days. My poor family. Luckily, the friends I do have left were all busy forging their own futures, so they only got glimpses of my crazy.”

He stood slowly, walked toward her, reached for her hands.

She stepped back.

Not harshly. Not angrily. Just… protectively. Like she was guarding something fragile inside herself.

She turned and walked to the window, staring out at the glowing city below. He followed, stopping beside her. For a moment, neither spoke. The city lights reflected in the glass, painting them in soft gold.

Two silhouettes. Two ghosts. Two people who had once been everything to each other.

And now stood inches apart, unsure whether to reach forward — or run.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full. Heavy. Alive.

He watched her profile — the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders rose and fell too quickly, the way she held herself like someone bracing for impact.

“Lauren…” he said softly, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t trust herself to.

She turned to him.

“I have to go.”

“Lauren, stay.” His voice was quiet, steady. “Please. I swear I’ll be a gentleman. It’s late. Don’t drive all the way home like this. Take the bed. I’ll take the couch. And… have breakfast with me in the morning.” A beat. “I don’t start until one tomorrow because of the wrist.”

Lauren looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Then she sighed.

“I have a change of clothes in the car. For emergencies. And my cosmetics bag.” She rubbed her forehead. “Let me go get it. At least give me a minute away from you to try and talk some sense into myself.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I should go get it instead.” Then, more seriously: “Please don’t talk yourself out of it.”

Her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. She shook her head and headed for the door. She paused with her hand on the handle, as if reconsidering everything, then stepped out.

The door clicked shut.

Blaine let out a breath he’d been holding. He pressed his good hand to his chest, eyes closing for a moment, overwhelmed by the simple fact that she hadn’t run. She might stay. Not for anything physical — just stay with him. Be near him. Talk to him. He had no plan, no strategy, nothing clever lined up; he was winging it, clinging to every tiny victory like it was oxygen. She was staying. That was all that mattered.

When she returned, she disappeared into the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly nervous in a way he hadn’t been since he was seventeen.

When she stepped out, he looked up — and something warm and painful twisted in his chest. She wore a soft Pj set, shorts and a shirt, her curly blonde hair down, her face scrubbed clean, her blue eyes bright. She looked… young. Tired. Real. And she clearly felt exposed.

She slipped into the bed quickly, turning down the covers like she was trying to minimize the moment.

The TV was on, but neither of them could have said what was playing. Blaine reached for two pillows, intending to take them to the couch, when Lauren’s hand shot out and caught the corner of one.

Their eyes met. She swallowed.

“Stay,” she said quietly. “This is silly. We’re adults. If you say you’ll behave, I believe you. And you’re already injured — I don’t want you on the couch. And I had a fourteen‑hour shift, so I’m not playing the martyr either.” A breath. “Get into bed, Blaine. Doctor’s orders.”

He smirked, tossing the pillows back into place before sliding under the covers beside her.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

She let out a soft, exhausted laugh as she settled in. “I’m going to regret this. I can already tell. You’ve changed, but the effect is the same. You’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” he murmured, turning his head toward her. “Not to you.”

“Especially to me,” she whispered — but she didn’t turn away.

Blaine hesitated, breath catching in his throat. Then he reached across the small space between them, his fingers brushing hers — tentative, asking. She didn’t pull back. So he threaded their hands together, slow and careful, like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too quickly.

Her breath hitched.

He lifted her hand, bringing her fingertips to his lips. The kiss was soft, reverent, almost shy — the kind of touch that remembered everything and asked for nothing. She closed her eyes, a tiny sound escaping her, something between relief and ache.

“Lauren…” he whispered, voice barely there. “I missed you.”

Her fingers curled around his, holding on. “I missed you too.”

They lay there in the dim room, hands entwined, foreheads almost touching, the world outside fading to nothing. No heat. No urgency. Just two people who had once loved each other fiercely, finding their way back to the quiet place where it had all begun.

For the first time in years, it felt safe to breathe.

The Morning After

Lauren woke slowly, surfacing through layers of warmth and unfamiliar softness. Something heavy rested across her waist. Something warm pressed against her back. A breath — not hers — brushed the nape of her neck.

Her eyes flew open.

Blaine.

At some point in the night, they had drifted toward each other. His arm was around her. Her leg was tangled with his. Their bodies fit together with the kind of ease that came from history, not intention.

She froze.

A beat later, he stirred behind her. She felt the moment he realized it too — the sharp inhale, the sudden tension, the careful untangling.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “I didn’t mean to — uh — wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know.” She sat up, pushing her hair back. “It was… muscle memory.”

A fragile silence settled between them. Not cold — just careful.

She cleared her throat. “Who gets the bathroom first?”

“You,” he said immediately. “Take your time. I’ll, uh… order breakfast. I promised you breakfast.” A pause. “And I’d prefer to eat here. Privacy. If you don’t mind.”

She didn’t. She nodded and slipped into the bathroom.

Steam drifted out when she emerged a few minutes later — hair damp from the shower, curls beginning to form as she crossed to the window mirror. She plugged in the blow‑dryer and began working through her hair, warm air filling the quiet room.

Only then did Blaine finally rise from the bed.

“Your turn,” she said, still focused on her reflection.

He nodded and headed into the bathroom, managing the door with his good hand.

While he showered, she finished drying her curls into loose spirals, then moved on to her makeup — quick, practiced motions born from years of long hospital shifts and too little sleep.

A moment later, Blaine stepped out — hair wet, shirtless, towel around his neck, moving carefully as he tried to rewrap the bandage on his wrist one‑handed.

“Stop,” she said, crossing the room. “You’re going to do it wrong.”

He froze, letting her take his arm. She unwound the damp, sloppy wrap and replaced it with a fresh one from her bag, her fingers gentle but sure.

He watched her the whole time — not staring, not pushing — just watching her like she was something he’d forgotten how much he missed. When her fingertips brushed the inside of his wrist, he inhaled sharply, almost imperceptibly.

When she finished, she stepped back. “There. Better.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her a beat too long. “Thank you.”

She cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how close they were. “Put on a shirt.”

He smirked — slow, warm, a little dangerous — and reached for a tee. “Didn’t know it bothered you.”

“It doesn’t,” she lied, turning away before he could see the truth in her face. “I’m a doctor. I see naked torsos all day. Yours is… nothing special.”

She regretted it the second it left her mouth.

Because Blaine went still.

Not offended. Not embarrassed. Just… amused.

In the next breath he was behind her, close enough that the heat of his still‑damp skin brushed her back. His good hand slid to her hip — not grabbing, just anchoring — as he leaned in, his bare chest pressing lightly against her shoulder.

“Nothing special, huh?” he murmured, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.

Her pulse jumped. Betrayed her. He felt it.

He smiled — she could hear it.

“Then why are you blushing, doc?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing coherent, anyway.

He let the moment hang — just long enough for her to feel it, to remember it — then pulled back, slow and deliberate, like he’d made his point.

He winked as he reached for his shirt. “Relax. I’ll cover up before you faint.”

He tugged the tee over his head, still grinning to himself.

Room service had arrived while they were getting ready: covered dishes, fresh fruit, coffee, and — she blinked — two glasses of champagne.

She pointed at them, arching a brow. “Really?”

He grinned. “It’s a celebration.”

“I have to work later.”

“So do I. Just one glass,” he repeated, nudging it toward her. “Live a little, Lauren.”

She remembered — painfully, sweetly — how it used to be. She, the voice of reason. He, the one who pulled her out of her box. She kept him out of trouble; he kept her from disappearing into her own rigidity.

She sighed, lifted the glass. “To… old connections.”

“To us,” he said softly, clinking his glass to hers.

They lifted the lids on the dishes. Lauren’s eyes widened.

“Greek yogurt with lychee, banana, and oatmeal?” She looked up at him. “You remembered.”

“Of course. Lauren, we were engaged to be married. I remember everything.”

They ate. Talked lightly. Avoided the heavy things — until the plates were empty and the coffee was half gone.

Lauren leaned back, studying him. “What are we doing here, Blaine? You’re flirting with me, and I’m clearly not immune to it. For heaven’s sake, I spent the night here. In the same bed. With you. What were we thinking?” She let out a shaky breath, rubbing her forehead. “So nothing has happened — yet — but we both know if we keep this up, it’s just a matter of time.”

Her voice softened, almost pleading. “This isn’t healthy. We both know it. We’re playing with fire.”

She looked away, jaw tight. “We’re exes. There are songs and books and entire movies about how reconnecting with your ex is a terrible idea. Everyone knows how that story goes. You fall back into old patterns, pretend it’s harmless, and then—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “It never ends well.”

He set down his cup, the movement slow, deliberate. “I know,” he said softly. “I know we’re exes. I know this is messy and risky and probably the kind of thing people write cautionary songs about.” He leaned forward, eyes steady on hers. “But I’m not flirting with you to drag us back into old patterns. I’m not trying to recreate what we had.”

His voice dropped, warm and earnest. “I’m trying to fix what we broke.”

He let that sit between them, not pushing, not crowding her.

“We’re not falling into the past, Lauren. We’re not pretending it’s harmless. We’re two different people now, sitting here because something still matters. And maybe… maybe this isn’t playing with fire.” A breath. “Maybe it’s finally putting one out.”

Lauren held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed and looked out at the rising sun over the San Myshuno skyline.

“I want kids,” she said quietly. “Helping with Graham’s twins made me realize that. I want a family. A real family. One day. With the father in the picture and present. And kids, plural. Two minimum.” She turned back to him. “How do you feel about that?”

He blinked, surprised by the shift — but not thrown. He lifted his mug, letting the steam curl between them as he gathered his thoughts. “You’re asking the man with seven siblings who all had a bunch of kids — and some of those have kids? If I’m not the quintessential family man, then who is?”

She nodded, taking a sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim.

He hesitated, thumb tracing the edge of his cup, then chuckled softly. “Funny story. And I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’d hate for it to come up later and look shady.”

She raised a brow. “That sounds concerning.”

“Just more Cameron family fuck‑up‑ery.” He leaned back, mug resting loosely in his hand. “My family relationships are… complicated. Because of who — or what — my parents are. It messed with the natural order of things. So let’s just say a relative of mine, Channing Cameron, is living with me now that my parents moved out. The mansion was too big for one person.”

He took another sip, then continued. “Anyway, my dad showed up out of nowhere one day to remind us he still owns the place and, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Daddy dearest announced that the first of us to marry a decent girl and father a child gets the deed to the Cameron Mansion. The other one is basically SOL and needs to find a new home. But no pressure or rush. Still… it’s been looming.”

Lauren stared at him. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he do that? Nobody should marry or have kids unless they really want to. Until they’re ready.”

“Yeah. That’s the point.” Blaine shrugged. “He agrees with that, but he also knows some Camerons need a swift kick in the ass to snap out of coasting mode. When he was a boy, my dad swore he’d never marry or have kids. Had this macho idea about waiting until he was old and frail, then fathering a kid with some ‘hot model’ to carry on the legacy. But then at fifteen he met my mom. And everything changed. They had eight kids. Plus fosters. My dad would’ve had more if my mom hadn’t pulled the plug on him.”

He met her eyes. “And you know their story — it wasn’t easy for them. A lot of heartbreak before they found their forever. A million reasons they shouldn’t have worked. But their hearts didn’t care. They found a way. And decades later, they’re still crazy about each other.”

“Your parents are also officially dead, Blaine,” she said dryly. “While we both know better, I’m not sure they’re the posterchildren for healthy and normal relationships for… various reasons. But I get your point. He felt like you and Channing needed some proverbial gun to the head to get back out there.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

She crossed her arms, shifting back in her chair as if distance might help her think. She gestured vaguely around the room — the bed, the breakfast trays, the two of them sitting far too close. “So is that why all this? Because of the dare?”

“No.” He shook his head immediately. “I’ll admit my dad’s Cameron Lineage Hunger Games made me realize I don’t want to be alone. But dating isn’t for me either. Most women are… all the same. Something is always wrong. Usually their motives. I am not desperate enough to have someone at my side and in my bed to ignore the fact that they are dating my bank account, my fame, my lineage or my mansion, which may end up Channing’s mansion after all. I am not even mentioning love here as I honestly felt nothing. Not one single time I went out with some girl did I feel anything real. The only thing I ever felt was the need to watch my back.”

“So you came to me because I’m safe? Because you know I don’t need any of those things, as I have my own money, lineage and – well – if you could call it that, my dad’s ‘fame’.”

“I didn’t come to you. That’s my whole point.” He leaned forward, voice low, earnest. “I didn’t come to you. It didn’t even occur to me to try again for you.” His expression softened, something raw flickering through it. “Fate brought us together again. Don’t you see that?”

He gestured lightly with his good hand, as if trying to gather the impossible into words. “How many doctors work the ER at a major medical center in a city as huge as San Myshuno? And I just happen to end up there on a night you’re working the shift? And you — you — end up being my doctor?” He shook his head, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Lauren, that’s a lot of coincidences daisy‑chained together.”

His voice dropped, softer, almost reverent. “Or it’s fate.”

He held her gaze, steady and unguarded. “I’m taking the hint. I thought about you plenty of times, but I knew if I showed up at your doorstep you’d have chased me off. And honestly? Until I saw you again, I didn’t even realize that’s what I still wanted.”

He exhaled, the truth settling between them. “But me injuring myself, and you — of all doctors — being the one who helps me? Lauren… if that isn’t a big, fat hint from the universe, then I don’t know what is.”

She looked away, jaw tightening. “Why do you want kids, Blaine? And please don’t say because your dad made them mandatory for you to keep your childhood home. You and I both know Blaine Sr. would never. He’s blowing hot air at you and Channing to get you into gear. Clear as day.”

“Probably right.” He smiled faintly. “I do want kids one day — when I’m ready, and when their mother is ready — because to me, they’re the fusion of love between two people. The best of you and the best of me in a new person we get to help shape.”

She snorted. “Oh, whoa. You and me, huh? We haven’t seen each other in almost two years, then barely managed to spend a night in the same room without it being super awkward, and now at breakfast we’re already having kids? You move fast.”

“Do I?” he asked quietly, chuckling. “I don’t know how it’s been for you, but for me… this feels like making up for lost time. You and I — we’re this generation’s Blaine and Scarlett. I didn’t see it before. Kind of, maybe, but not as clear as I do right now. When we broke up, I was butthurt. Blamed you. Felt sorry for myself. Thought I was right and you were wrong. Until I realized we both messed up. But it was too late.”

He looked down at his hands. “And I realized I needed to get my career off the ground. Prove I could stand on my own. Like you. You know — the mature thing, for once. I thought it would be music, but looks like it’s acting for me.”

She studied him, her expression softening. “You do sound different. You’ve grown up a lot. And thank you for being honest about your dad’s… conditions. You’re right — things like that always come out eventually, and they leave a bitter aftertaste. Definitely get brownie points for bringing that up right away. I get the dating fails. Been there too. Maybe you’re right. We never really got closure. So we couldn’t move on.”

“Or maybe we shouldn’t move on,” he said softly. “Maybe we should… rebuild. Maybe that’s why we can’t move on. Because it’s wrong.”

“Blaine…” She rubbed her temples. “Not this. Not now. I can’t talk about this now. I need to brush my teeth and get ready for my shift. I can drop you off on set if you want.”

“Okay.”

By the time her car rolled to a stop, the film crew was already in full motion. Police had blocked off entire city blocks. Extras milled around. Lights flashed. Chaos buzzed.

They sat in silence for a moment.

He spoke first. “Thank you, Lauren. For everything. I mean it.”

She nodded.

He reached for the door latch — first with his injured wrist, then with his good hand — but the angle was awkward, the handle stiff, and he couldn’t get enough leverage. He tried again, muttering under his breath.

Lauren sighed, the kind of sigh that was half exasperation, half affection she refused to acknowledge. “Stop. Just hang on,” she said, already unbuckling.

She got out, jogged around the front of the car, and opened the passenger door for him with one smooth pull.

They both laughed as she helped him out of the car.

“How masculine of me,” he said. “A real man makes the lady open the door for him.”

“I won’t tell,” she teased. “Doctor‑patient confidentiality.”

Their eyes locked. Their faces drifted closer — too close — breath mingling, the world narrowing—

“CAMERON!” a voice bellowed, making them both jump apart. “There you are! Get your ass into mask! We already lost half a day with your damn fragile wrists, you fairy! Move!”

Blaine gave her a small, helpless smile. “Yeah, today seems to be emasculate‑Blaine day. Apparently I’m a fairy because I got injured on the job. Can I call you later? Still have the same number?”

She didn’t trust herself to answer. She just nodded and got back into the car.

He watched her drive off, something fierce and certain settling in his chest.

The makeup artist appeared beside him. “Who was that?”

“My future wife,” he said.

“Oh! Congratulations! I didn’t know you were getting married!”

“Neither did I,” Blaine muttered. “But I do now. Just have to convince the bride again.”