Del Sol Valley

The black town car rolled through the quiet Del Sol Valley Hills, palm trees swaying in the early morning breeze. The sky was still lavender, the sun not yet risen, the world holding its breath.

Inside the car, Channing and Blaine sat side by side — both dressed up, both exhausted, both pretending they weren’t about to walk into life‑altering situations. Both yawning repeatedly. They were used to late nights, not early mornings.

Blaine flexed his braced wrist with a grimace. Channing tapped his knee like he was trying to keep his heart from sprinting out of his chest.

The driver glanced at them in the rearview mirror. “DSV Airport in twenty, no traffic yet.”

Blaine exhaled. “Thanks for the heads up. Well Channing. Here we go. You ready?”

Channing smirked. “Nope. You sure you don’t want to switch? I’ll go talk to Lauren and her dad, you go to the Russian oligarch wedding.”

Blaine snorted. “No thanks. I like my bones unbroken. Already dinged up enough with my wrist.”

Channing laughed. “Fair.”

Blaine nudged him. “You nervous?”

“Me? No. I’m fine. Totally fine. Why would I be nervous? It’s just a wedding with a woman I met a couple days ago at work and her entire scary family. How do I know they are scary? Cos I googled them.”

Blaine stared. “Yeah, I can tell. You’re sweating.”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s sixty‑two degrees and we are in a car with the A/C on.”

“Shut up.”

Blaine grinned. “Oh, come on. You want this type of thrill. You are totally here for that adrenaline boost. You can turn around. What is that Katia gonna do? I mean, who invites a man they just met to their brother’s wedding, right? But still, good luck, man.”

“You too.”

They bumped fists — not brothers, but something close enough to count.

The car pulled up to the private terminal.

Two jets waited on the tarmac.

One sleek, silver charter for Blaine — bound for San Myshuno, then by car to Brindleton Bay.

One black, razor‑sharp jet for Katia Orlova — bound for Ravenwood.

The boys stepped out, grabbed their bags, and split paths.

“Text me,” Blaine called.

“Only if I survive,” Channing shot back.

Katia was already at the foot of the stairs, sunglasses on, hair perfect, expression unreadable.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Morning. You look… extremely awake for this early hour,” Channing managed.

“I am Russian. Sleep is for the weak. Come on, let’s go.”

She turned and ascended the steps with the kind of effortless authority that made his pulse trip. He glanced back at Blaine, who lifted his braced hand in a half‑wave before disappearing into his own jet. Then Channing followed her inside.

The cabin was all white leather and chrome, the kind of quiet wealth that made you sit straighter without meaning to. Katia was already by the window, legs crossed, posture immaculate, scrolling through emails like she was running a small empire from 30,000 feet.

Channing, meanwhile, made a beeline for the attendant.

“Hi—sorry—could I get a coffee? Like… a strong one? Actually, two. One now, one in ten minutes.”

The attendant smiled knowingly. “Of course, Mr. Cameron.”

He sank into the seat across from Katia and downed the first cup like a man trying to resurrect himself. By the time the second arrived, he was gulping it too, praying the caffeine would hit before Katia did.

For the first hour, she didn’t look at him. Not once.

Channing tried to breathe normally. Tried to pretend he wasn’t hyperaware of her perfume, her presence, the memory of their late night’s kiss still burning somewhere behind his ribs. He sipped the last of his second coffee, debating whether ordering a third would make him look unhinged.

Then— A soft click.

Katia closed her laptop.

“Channing.”

He looked up, and she was already moving — sliding into the seat beside him with a slow, deliberate grace that made every nerve in his body sit up and salute.

“This morning,” she said, studying him, “you are calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm.”

“It’s the buttcrack of dawn, my brain is still asleep and I’m just… trying to be professional.”

“Professional,” she repeated, as if tasting the word and finding it bland. “How boring.”

He swallowed. “We’re on a plane. Flights are always boring. And yes, professional. I’m a professional actor playing your fake boyfriend at a family wedding, remember?”

“Yes,” she murmured, leaning in, “and?”

“Katia—”

She didn’t let him finish.

Her hands came up to his collar, and she kissed him — not the wild, chaotic collision from last night, but something slower, deeper, more controlled. A kiss that felt like she was deciding something. Claiming something. Testing how far he’d let her go.

He kissed her back, helplessly, because resisting her felt like trying to stop gravity.

Then she shifted.

Before he could process it, she was straddling his lap — knees braced on either side of him, her hands sliding into his hair, her mouth stealing the breath from his lungs. His brain short‑circuited. His hands hovered uselessly at her waist, unsure where to land, terrified and thrilled in equal measure.

“Katia—” he whispered, voice cracking.

She paused just long enough to glance toward the front of the cabin, where a flight attendant could appear at any moment.

Her eyes sparked with mischief. Danger. Decision.

“Mm,” she said softly. “You are nervous.”

“I—well—someone could walk in—”

“Then we should not be here.”

She slid off his lap with feline precision, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him toward the narrow hallway.

“Katia—where are we—”

“The bathroom,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Before he could form a coherent thought, the door clicked shut behind them.

What happened next stayed behind that door.

By the time they reemerged — Channing was in a full‑body daze. The kind where his brain felt three seconds behind reality and his legs weren’t entirely convinced they remembered how to function.

They stepped back into the cabin.

Katia looked flawless. Of course she did.

Channing… did not.

His hair was wild, he had red lipstick marks all over his face and neck, and he was still trying to remember how zippers — or life in general — worked when Katia stopped, turned, and stepped into his space with the precision of a surgeon.

“Channing,” she murmured.

He blinked. “What—”

She clicked her tongue softly — tsk, tsk, tsk — the sound somehow both scolding and amused.

“Channing, Channing, Channing,” she said, voice low and maddeningly calm, “you are walking around like this? Advertising our private moments?”

Before he could ask what “this” meant, she reached into her purse, pulled out a packet of wet wipes, and took his chin between her fingers. She wiped his face with brisk, practiced strokes — efficient, clinical, and somehow, to his horror, weirdly sexy.

He stood there, helpless, while she erased every lipstick mark like she was tidying up a crime scene.

Then her hand went to his waistband.

Channing nearly ascended.

He was used to women. Gorgeous women. But usually he had the upper hand — he set the pace, he made the women swoon, he controlled the moment. This? This was uncharted territory, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he liked it… or if he liked it too much.

His soul left his body, hovered somewhere near the overhead compartments, reconsidered its life choices, and then plummeted back into him as she — with total, icy efficiency — zipped his fly for him.

““There,” she said, giving his chest a light, dismissive pat. “Now you are presentable. Well… mostly.”

He made a noise that was not English.

Katia stepped closer again — too close — and slid her fingers into his hair. Not tenderly. Not lovingly. With the same cool, surgical precision she’d used on his face. She smoothed down the wild strands, nudged a few pieces back into place, and gave one final, decisive adjustment like she was calibrating a machine.

Then she leaned back, assessing her work.

A small nod. “Now you look… adequate.”

Channing nearly folded in half. His brain, his dignity, and whatever was left of his masculinity all tried to exit his body at once.

Katia didn’t even acknowledge it. She simply turned, reapplied her lipstick with a steady hand, and walked back to her seat as if she hadn’t just short‑circuited every neuron he possessed.

Channing, still in a dreamlike fog, plopped into the seat beside her. His knees bounced. His pulse was somewhere in the stratosphere. He felt like he’d been spun in a centrifuge and then gently placed back on Earth.

A flight attendant appeared — definitely aware they’d been gone too long.

Katia didn’t miss a beat.

“Two vodka doubles,” she said, waving a hand with queenly dismissal.

The attendant nodded quickly and vanished.

Channing blinked at her. “Vodka?”

“I’m Russian,” she said. “It is like water to us.” She gave him a once‑over, amused. “And you… well… you need it.”

The drinks arrived. Channing grabbed his and downed half of it in one go, like a man who’d just crawled out of the desert and found a slurpee machine.

Katia opened her laptop again like nothing happened. Channing dug for his cell phone with trembling fingers.

Channing: dude. off to a great start. mile high club: check 
Blaine: BRO WHAT
Channing: don’t judge me - don't hate 
Blaine: i’m not judging i’m high fiving you with my good hand. good for you, bruh

Katia glanced over. “Is your friend impressed?”

“Oh, I wasn’t—”

She raised a brow.

He shut his mouth instantly and pocketed the phone, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.

“Sorry…”

She studied him for a beat, her expression unreadable, then leaned in just enough that her voice dropped into something quiet and razor‑sharp.

“Channing,” she said, “know this: you will never be able to betray me. As long as you remember that I do not care what you do with what we do… or did. Tell him. Tell everyone. I have nothing to hide and I am not ashamed.”

Her gaze held his, cool and unblinking.

“But never lie to me. I can be your wildest dream,” she continued, “or your worst nightmare. Choose wisely.”

His stomach flipped. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or exhilaration — or why the line between the two suddenly felt so thin.

And that was it. That was the moment his body finally gave up.

Getting up way too early for his rhythm. The caffeine spike, the adrenaline rollercoaster, the vodka, the emotional whiplash, the kiss, the moments of passion behind closed doors, the threat, the promise — it all hit him at once. His pulse slowed, his limbs went heavy, and the world softened around the edges.

He told himself he’d just rest his eyes for a second.

Just a second.

His head tipped back against the seat.

His breathing evened out.

He was gone.

Out cold.

Katia didn’t look up from her laptop for several minutes. When she finally did, she found him slumped in the seat, mouth slightly open, lashes resting against flushed cheeks like he’d been dropped from a great height and landed in sleep.

She stared at him for a long, unreadable moment.

Then she reached over, tugged a blanket from the armrest compartment, and draped it over him with a precision that suggested she would deny doing it if confronted. She kissed him, gently, without waking him.

Hours passed.

The engines changed pitch. The cabin lights shifted. A soft chime sounded overhead.

A hand touched his shoulder.

“Channing,” Katia said, voice low but unmistakably amused. “Wake up. We are landing.”

He jerked upright, disoriented. “Landing? Already? I— was just resting my eyes!”

“You rested your eyes long enough that I considered checking your pulse,” she said dryly. “You fell asleep like a child after a tantrum.”

He groaned, rubbing his face. “Oh God. Did I snore?”

“Like a dying tractor,” she said, absolutely lying but enjoying herself far too much to stop. “Also you drooled.”

“I did not—”

She held up a napkin.

He shut his mouth.

And then the shame hit him like turbulence.

Because nothing — nothing — bruised a Cameron’s ego like realizing he’d spent the last several hours unconscious, snoring, drooling, and generally behaving like a man who had absolutely not impressed the hard‑to‑impress woman sitting beside him. He’d wanted to look cool. Controlled. Dangerous. Instead he’d collapsed like a fainting goat in designer jeans.

His proud and uber‑cool ancestors, famous for swagger, were rolling in their graves like wind turbines in a storm.

Katia smirked, smoothing her dress as the wheels touched down. “Ready?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Good.” She stood, immaculate as ever. “It means you will behave. Do not embarrass me, Channing Cameron.”

Ravenwood

Ravenwood rose out of the mist like something out of a legend — stone walls, sweeping lawns, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. The Orlov estate dominated the landscape with a presence that felt almost mythic: a fusion of Romanian austerity, Russian grandeur, and the mist‑kissed melancholy of old Welsh manors.

Up close, the mansion was even more imposing. Pale, weathered stone caught the fog and turned it silver. Arched windows framed in intricate stonework gave the façade a cathedral‑like solemnity, while ivy climbed the walls in deliberate, curated patterns. Twin glass conservatories flanked the entrance like crystal wings, their domed roofs gleaming faintly even in the muted light.

The courtyard was paved in dark stone, bordered by carved pillars and heavy planters that looked centuries old. Everything about the estate felt intentional, inherited, immovable — a place built not just for living, but for legacy.

This was not a home. It was a dynasty with a front door.

Katia led Channing through the massive carved doors and into the grand foyer — all marble, gold accents, and the kind of quiet wealth that didn’t need to announce itself. A framed engagement portrait stood on an easel near the entrance: the groom dark‑haired and impossibly handsome, the bride a luminous blonde in soft natural light. Channing clocked the contrast instantly — the only blonde in a family known for their striking black hair and ice‑blue eyes.

Before he could take in more, they were intercepted.

Nikolai Orlov — tall, silver‑streaked, intimidating in a way that felt generational — stepped forward first. Elena, his wife, followed, regal as ever, eyes sharp enough to slice through marble. Behind them came the younger sisters: Tatiana with her mischievous elegance, and Nadia glued to her phone, barely looking up.

They were the kind of family people noticed without needing to be told who they were — and suddenly the blonde bride in the portrait made perfect sense. Contrast, without breaking the perfect appearance.

Katia stepped forward to greet her father. Nikolai leaned in immediately, kissing her once on each cheek. She returned the gesture with perfect precision, a soft hand on his arm — affectionate, formal, ritualistic.

Elena followed, cupping Katia’s face briefly before kissing her cheeks as well. “Kotyonok,” (kitten) she murmured, warmth slipping through her otherwise regal composure.

Channing watched, wide‑eyed, like he’d stumbled into a ceremony he didn’t know the choreography for.

Then Nikolai’s gaze shifted to him — sharper now, evaluative.

“And this is the man you brought.”

Channing extended a hand automatically.

Nikolai ignored it and stepped in.

Katia murmured without moving her lips, “Left cheek first.”

Channing barely had time to register the instruction before Nikolai’s hands were on his shoulders and the man kissed him once on each cheek — brisk, formal, unmistakably Russian.

Channing froze.

Nikolai stepped back, expression unreadable. “Welcome.”

Channing barely had time to recover before Elena moved in next — already leaning forward, already expecting compliance.

So Channing did the only thing he could do: he let Elena kiss him on both cheeks as well. Her perfume was floral and expensive; her grip on his arms surprisingly firm.

When she pulled back, she smiled warmly. “Such a handsome young man, Katinka.”

Channing had no idea what to do with his face.

Katia, of course, looked entirely unbothered. “He is … adequate.”

Inside the reception hall, chandeliers glittered overhead, casting warm light across the marble floors. A string quartet played something sweeping and Russian, the kind of music that made Channing stand a little straighter without knowing why.

Nikolai’s voice carried across the room before they’d taken three steps.

“Katinka,” he said, joining them with the same quiet authority as before. Something softened in his expression when he looked at her. Then his gaze shifted to Channing — sharper again, assessing. “And this is the man we heard so surprisingly little about, though he seems to have stolen your heart.”

“Da, Papochka,” Katia said smoothly.

Nikolai nodded once, eyes never leaving Channing. “You must be very special to my daughter. She has not brought a young man home since… oh… high school.”

“Papa, be nice.”

“I am being nice, just observing facts,” Nikolai said mildly. “Channing and I are simply having a casual conversation. Are we not?”

Channing swallowed. “Yes, sir.” If this qualified as casual to this family, Channing was in for a rough ride.

Nikolai studied him with the slow, patient scrutiny of a man who had built empires and outlived rivals. Channing felt like he was being weighed, measured, and sorted into a category he couldn’t see.

“I see why she likes you.”

Trying to recover, he offered a charming smile — the kind that usually worked on his female fans, directors, producers, interviewers, and the occasional TSA agent. “Well, sir, any man would be lucky to spend time with someone as beautiful and special as Katia.”

Nikolai’s brow lifted. “Many men think so.”

Channing blinked.

That was… not the response he expected.

He tried again, dialing up the wattage. “I just meant— she’s incredible. Anyone would be—”

“Yes,” Nikolai said, cutting him off with a calm finality that felt like a guillotine blade. “They all say that too.”

Channing’s smile faltered.

Nikolai continued to watch him, unblinking, as if waiting to see whether Channing would sink or swim. Channing felt himself sinking. Fast. His usual charm — the thing he’d relied on his entire adult life — was plummeting like a lead balloon in a hurricane.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“You meant to impress me,” Nikolai said, voice mild. “You did not.”

Channing’s soul left his body.

Nikolai leaned back, folding his hands behind him with the ease of a man who had just checkmated someone in three moves.

“But,” he added, “you did not offend me either. This is good. Many men do both. I do not need someone to describe my daughter to me. I know her. Better than most. I raised her.”

Channing had no idea what category he’d just been placed in, but it didn’t feel flattering. It felt like the category labeled negligible, or worse — temporary. The kind of man Nikolai didn’t bother disliking because he didn’t expect him to be around long enough to merit the effort.

Nikolai’s gaze sharpened, just slightly. “Relax, Channing Cameron. If I did not approve of you, you would know.”

“How?” Channing asked before he could stop himself.

Nikolai smiled — slow, cold, and terrifyingly amused.

“Oh, believe me,” he said softly, “there would be no question in your mind.”

Channing swallowed. Hard.

“She simply has not found anyone she felt worthy to introduce to me,” Nikolai continued, perfectly calm. “So you must be very special yourself, seeing how you are here. And today of all days — my only son, my oldest child, is marrying his bride. A very important event for our family. Katia knows that, and wouldn’t invite just anyone.”

Channing’s stomach dropped.

Nikolai’s gaze swept the room, then returned to Channing with a look that made his spine straighten on instinct.

“I see you like this,” he said. “Yes, weddings are always special in my family, no effort or expense spared, seeing how it’s always a once in a lifetime event. There has not been a divorce on record for as long as such things have existed. We mean it when we vow ‘till death do us part.’”

He paused — deliberately — letting the words settle.

The look he gave Channing could have meant anything. Either Orlovs chose their partners well and were a dream to be married to… or the “death” part replaced divorce in a way that belonged in a thriller.

Channing swallowed hard.

Nikolai continued as if nothing ominous had just happened. “When Katinka marries, no costs will be spared for her either. She is my oldest daughter. Hierarchy carries weight in the Orlov family.”

His voice softened, but only in tone — not in intent.

“She will make her future husband a very fortunate man. So I must ensure he is worth it.” A beat. “I do not take kindly to people wasting my time.”

Channing wanted the marble floor to swallow him whole.

Before he could attempt to disintegrate at will, Katia slipped her hand into his with a smooth, practiced ease that sent a jolt through him.

“Papa,” she said, “stop interrogating him. No wonder I never introduce you to my… friends.”

“I am not interrogating, dorogoy,” Nikolai replied. “I am observing. If Channing has nothing to hide, he will not mind.”

“You observe too much. You sound threatening.”

“Do I?” Nikolai’s smile sharpened — a wolf wearing silk. “That is why I am still alive.”

He let the words hang there, just long enough for Channing to feel them.

Then a faint smirk curved his mouth. “Oh, Channing, your face is priceless. I am joking. Mostly.” His hand swept subtly to indicate the estate, the guests, the legacy around them. “But it is why we have our status. And all… this. It is well known that I am not someone to mess with.”

Katia rolled her eyes and tugged Channing away. “Papa, Channing has no agenda. He does not need money. He does well for himself.”

Nikolai called after them, “I expect to see you visit again. Soon. Both of you. And I will most certainly find your front door if you break my Katinka’s heart. Another thing I do not take kindly to.”

Channing nearly tripped over his own feet.

Katia squeezed his hand. “Ignore him. He likes you.”

“That was him liking me?! Felt more like the penalty box in the anteroom to hell!”

“You should see him with men he does not like.”

Channing decided he absolutely did not want to.

They moved through the crowd, and then the music shifted.

Katia turned to him. “Dance with me.” It sounded more like an order than an invitation.

He didn’t have time to answer — she was already pulling him onto the floor.

They moved together easily, too easily, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his settling at her waist. Her perfume curled around him, cool and intoxicating. Her eyes lifted to his — blue, sharp, unreadable.

Somewhere between one step and the next, he realized he wasn’t acting anymore.

She must have realized it too, because her expression softened — just a fraction, just enough for him to see something vulnerable flicker beneath the ice.

Then she kissed him.

Not a hungry, reckless kiss. Not the calculated, controlled kiss from the plane.

This one was different.

Deep. Soft. Dangerous.

A kiss with weight. A kiss with meaning. A kiss that felt like the beginning of something neither of them had planned for. Both were actors, but neither of them was acting anymore.

Channing’s world tilted.
He was in trouble.
Real trouble.
So much trouble.

And judging by the way Katia’s fingers curled into his jacket, pulling him closer, she was too.

Brindleton Bay

Rain hammered the car windows in relentless sheets, blurring the world into silver as Blaine’s driver eased up the long, tree‑lined road toward the Cunningham estate. The iron gates loomed out of the mist — wrought black metal, elegant, old, the kind of wealth that didn’t shout but whispered.

Blaine groaned under his breath. “Why does it always rain here? Who can live like this?”

The driver didn’t answer, just pressed the intercom. “Visitor for Dr. Cunningham. Blaine Cameron.”

A beat. Then the gates swung open with a soft hydraulic sigh.

“Here we go,” Blaine muttered, palms sweating around the bouquet he’d been gripping too tightly.

The car rolled forward, tires hissing over wet stone. Rosebriar Haven emerged through the rain — a grand white manor draped in ivy, its dark roof glistening, lanterns glowing warm against the storm. White and soft blue hydrangeas lined the entire drive in heavy, rain‑soaked clusters bending under the weight of the weather like they were bowing in greeting. Dogwood trees flanked the property in soft, pale blossoms, their branches trembling in the wind.

It wasn’t just this house. It was the whole town.

Brindleton Bay was built on hydrangeas and dogwoods — every lane, every porch, every cliffside garden bursting with them. Even in the rain, the place looked like a watercolor painting someone had left out to bloom.

Dr. Bradford Cunningham stood waiting beneath the portico, framed by golden foyer light. Curly blond hair dampened by the mist, kind blue eyes — Lauren’s eyes — and a posture that carried both grief and grace. He looked like a man who belonged in a house like this, not because of wealth, but because the land itself seemed to settle around him.

Blaine stepped out into the rain, bouquet clutched awkwardly in his hand.

“Blaine,” Brad said, voice warm despite the weather. “Long time no see. Didn’t expect you at my door again. Welcome.”

“Hi, Dr. Cunningham. Yeah, it’s… uh… been a while.” Blaine swallowed. “And… condolences. And congratulations. Delayed, I know, but… you’ve been in my thoughts.”

Brad’s smile softened, touched with something tired but genuine. “Thank you, kid. Kind of you to say. Come in before you drown.”

They shook hands — or tried to. Brad’s grip paused the moment he felt the brace, and his other hand came up automatically to Blaine’s shoulder, steadying him with the practiced ease of a man who had spent decades reading bodies for pain.

“Oh boy. Sprained?” Brad murmured, eyes flicking to the brace with clinical precision.

Blaine winced. “Yeah, just happened earlier this week.”

Brad gave the brace a light, approving tap. “Ouch. Sprains hurt worse than breaks. Soft support is good. Rest it, don’t push it. Most people underestimate the stress on the wrist and then it drags out the healing progress.” He caught himself and huffed a quiet laugh. “Sorry. Doctor mode. Can’t help it.”

Blaine nodded, embarrassed. “Yes, sir.”

Blaine scraped his shoes on the mat — a pointless gesture, his shoes were clean — and stepped inside.

Warmth hit him immediately. The house smelled like coffee and lemon polish, like a home that had lived through storms and holidays and heartbreak. Family photos lined the walls: smiling children, beach days, graduations, a life built with intention.

Brad led him into the living room. Soft lamps. A crackling fire. A piano in the corner with sheet music left open, as if someone had been playing earlier.

“Drink?” Brad offered. “Coffee?”

Blaine shook his head quickly. “No, thank you. I… am … fine. Well, fine-adjacent anyway.”

Brad chuckled, settling into an armchair. “Fair enough. So.” He nodded toward the bouquet. “I assume those aren’t for me?”

Blaine flushed. “Uh—no, sir.”

Brad barked a laugh. “Relax. She’ll be thrilled you brought them. God knows she could use something to make her smile these days.” His expression dimmed, just for a moment. “She took the loss hard. We all did. But once you’re a father, you learn to be strong through the unfathomable. Lauren needed me steady. More than her siblings. My late son’s widow has her parents. His and Lauren’s mother has her husband, though I have to say, Molly worried me for a while. According to her husband she is in therapy now. But Lauren…” He exhaled. “She only had me. She loves her siblings and Bri but … she just couldn’t connect on the right level with them about losing her brother. Especially after you two… well. No need to dig up old bones. Young hearts mend. Sometimes they even find their way back.”

He pointed at Blaine’s brace. “Speaking of mending — skiing accident? Or did you discover a violent streak?”

Blaine lifted the braced wrist.

“Work accident,” he said. “Stunt scene. Filming.”

“Ah, filming.” Brad’s eyes warmed with recognition. “So you made your choice. Last time we talked, you were torn — music like your father, or acting.”

“Acting kind of… chose me,” Blaine admitted. “I was leaning toward music, but nothing was sticking. Then acting opened doors. Now I’m filming my second lead.”

“Bravo.” Brad nodded. “Music is a fickle mistress. My wife, Bri — you remember — she’s brilliant musician herself. Stage presence like lightning. Doesn’t always matter. Some moments her career soars and she is drowning in engagements, other times her manager calls daily to bark at her because her latest single was in the top three the day before and dropped dozens of spots overnight, however that happens I will never understand. Dog‑eat‑dog world. I hope acting treats you kinder.” His gaze flicked to the flowers. “Peonies. Good choice. Lauren always loved peonies. Lucky for you, she’s actually home. Everyone else is out for the day. Just me and Lauren are here currently.”

Blaine’s heart thudded painfully. “Yeah. I remember her favorites.”

Chuckling, Brad rose up and clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course you would. She moved into the pool house. Just go on, son, I am sure you remember the way. And… good luck. I mean it.”

Blaine nodded, heart pounding, and stepped back into the rain.

The path to the pool house was short but slick, the storm still coming down in sheets. He knocked once, water dripping from his hair, his jacket, the bouquet in his hand.

“Yeah—just come in, dad!”

He pushed the door open.

Lauren turned.

And froze.

Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and for a moment she didn’t move at all — like her brain couldn’t reconcile the man standing in her doorway with the reality she’d been living.

“Blaine?”

He lifted the flowers, soaked and drooping, trying for a smile. “Hey. These were your favorites when I got them, but with all your rain here they’ve probably turned into water lilies now.”

She blinked at him — once, twice — as if trying to decide whether he was real.

Then she took the bouquet from his hands, staring down at the peonies like they were a puzzle she didn’t know how to solve.

“My favorites,” she whispered, as she smelled them, then smiled, still confused.

“I know.”

“I’ll… put them in water,” she murmured, voice thin, unsteady.

“Ha, I think they have had all the water they need for days.” Blaine chuckled, making her smile too.

She turned away, moving to the small kitchenette. The pool house was exactly what he expected from her — clean lines, soft colors, everything intentional. A studio layout with a queen bed tucked against the wall, a small sitting area, a desk with neatly stacked medical journals, and a bathroom door slightly ajar.

It smelled like her. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

She filled a vase, arranged the flowers with careful hands, but her shoulders were tense, her movements too precise — the way she always got when she was overwhelmed.

Blaine looked around, taking in the space she’d made for herself. It was so her it hurt.

When he turned back, she was staring at him.

Not confused anymore.

Just… undone.

And then she moved.

She ran to him — full speed, no hesitation — and he barely had time to brace before she crashed into him, arms wrapping around his neck, face burying into his shoulder. He caught her, lifting her slightly off the ground, holding her like a man who’d been drowning for two years and had finally found air.

He closed his eyes, breathing her in.

Then pain shot up his right arm.

“Ah—shit—ow!”

She jerked back instantly, hands flying to his wrist. “Oh my god—your wrist—Blaine, I’m so sorry—I forgot all about that! Did I hurt you?”

She was already examining him, her fingers gentle but firm, her voice slipping into full doctor mode.

“When is the last dose of pain meds you had? Let me see if it got impacted—”

“Lauren—” He tried to pull his hand away, but she held steady.

“Hold still, I need to check the swelling—”

“Lauren.” His tone was more urgent now.

She looked up.

And he kissed her.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t anything but two years of longing breaking through at once.

Her breath caught against his mouth — a soft, shocked sound — and then she melted into him, hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a desperation that made his knees go weak.

This wasn’t the kiss when they used to date. This wasn’t the kiss from their engagement. This wasn’t the kiss from their past.

This was the kiss of two people who had broken apart and somehow found their way back.
The kiss that almost happened when they reconnected in San Myshuno a couple days ago.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, her forehead rested against his shoulder, his arm around her waist, his eyes closed, just in the moment, savoring it.

“Blaine…” she whispered, voice trembling.

He cupped her cheek with his good hand. “I know.”

Her eyes shone — not with tears, but with something deeper. Something that had never really gone away.

The first kiss in two years.
The first kiss since the breakup.
The first kiss since the ring came off.

And it changed everything.

Ravenwood

Channing woke to the muted quiet of Ravenwood — a place that felt suspended in time, all old‑world stone and heavy drapery, the kind of silence that made you aware of your own heartbeat. He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to steady himself.

He’d slept in a bed big enough to house a small village. He’d slept alone. And yet he felt anything but rested.

He dressed quickly — dark slacks, crisp shirt, jacket — trying to look like a man who belonged in a place like this. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. He’d grown up affluent, but a modern kind of it. This was old wealth, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself. Awe‑inspiring rather than flashy. No logos, no ostentation — just quiet, devastating expense. Even the pillowcases probably cost more than most people made in a week.

When he stepped into the hallway, the scent of something warm and buttery drifted through the air. Voices murmured downstairs — low, elegant, Russian — echoing through the stone corridors with the kind of confidence that didn’t need volume to dominate a room.

He followed the sound down the sweeping staircase, through the lobby, and into a sunlit hallway.

The Orlov family was already gathered in the sunroom, sunlight pouring through tall windows onto a long table set with pastries, fruit, and — of course — vodka. Even at breakfast. Especially at breakfast.

Nikolai Orlov looked up first.

“Ah!” he boomed, spreading his arms as if greeting a long‑lost relative. “Katinka’s young man. Davai, davai. Come. Sit. Eat. You look thin. Thin isn’t good for you, real women want real men with substance.”

Channing blinked. “Good morning, everyone.”

A chorus of greetings followed — overlapping, unapologetic, affectionate in a way that felt like being wrapped in a velvet bear hug. Elena waved him over with regal authority. Tatiana gave him a once‑over that was both approving and amused. Nadia didn’t look up from her phone but angled it just enough to snap a picture.

Nikolai gestured to the empty chair beside Katia — the seat of honor, apparently. “Here. Next to my daughter. She will feed you. You need feeding.”

Channing sat.

Katia immediately reached for the serving dishes with brisk, territorial efficiency. Without asking, she began piling his plate high: warm syrniki dusted with powdered sugar, piroshki stuffed with potato and dill, slices of black bread, a spoonful of red caviar, a heap of tvorog with honey, and a wedge of something that looked like it could feed a family of four. Every time he opened his mouth to protest, she added something else — as if daring him to try and stop her.

He barely had time to breathe before Katia leaned in and kissed him.

Not a polite morning peck. Not a staged display for her family.

A real kiss.

A deep, confident, breathtaking kiss that stole the air from his lungs and made his pulse spike so hard he felt it in his fingertips. When she pulled back, her expression was unreadable — but her hand stayed on his thigh under the table as she whispered, “I missed you last night. So lonely without you.”

Heat shot through Channing’s entire body as she leaned back, serene as ever.

Across from them, Katia’s brother Roman Orlov lifted his vodka glass.

“Well,” Roman said dryly, “looks like we know whose wedding is next. My darling Inessa and I will give you recommendations for florists and confectioners when the time comes. Just tell me if you want traditional or modern. Traditional is better. More fire.”

He winked at Channing and downed the glass in one practiced, fearless sip.

Tatiana snorted into her tea. “Mama, look at him. He is already red. Poor thing.”

Elena didn’t look up from buttering her pastry. “He will survive. If he cannot handle breakfast, he cannot handle Katia.”

Nadia finally glanced up long enough to say, “He’s cute,” before returning to her phone.

Nikolai raised his own glass. “To Katinka and Channing,” he declared. “Nostrovie!”

The entire Orlov family cheered — loudly, joyfully, like they were blessing a union that had already been decided by fate and vodka.

Even Katia joined in, placing a vodka glass in Channing’s hand and tapping it, urging him to drink.

Channing nearly choked on the first sip. It was strong enough to put hair in places he didn’t know hair could grow.

Katia didn’t blink. She simply clinked her glass against his and murmured, “Smile,” before downing hers in one elegant, effortless swallow.

He smiled, but it wasn’t real. What was this? Did he just toast to their wedding? Was he engaged now? Was this how it happened in this family?

He wasn’t even sure he had a choice.

When the family’s attention shifted to a story Elena was telling — something involving a bear, a snowstorm, and a cousin named Misha — Channing slipped his phone under the table and typed quickly.

Channing: how did it go for you? i am still alive and might have just gotten engaged by the power of her father and brother and uber‑strong vodka or something. and bruh — i am not even hating it. might wanna start looking for a new place to live, bro. the way she keeps looking at me, she and i might both come back pregnant. also i think they’re fattening me up like a christmas goose. come monday, i won't need mask to blow out my hair, the velocity from the director and wardrobe taking turns yelling at me for having gained a ton of weight and not fitting in my costumes will. also russian food is insane — everything is either fried, buttered, stuffed, or all three at once. i can feel my macros crying. i'll have a dad bod before i even have a kid in the works

He hit send, heart pounding, and tucked the phone away before Katia could catch him.

Brindleton Bay

Blaine woke slowly, the world warm and soft around him. For a moment he didn’t know where he was — only that his body felt loose in a way it hadn’t in years. A pleasant ache lingered in his muscles, the kind that had nothing to do with sleep. His skin still held the faint warmth of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth.

Then he realized he wasn’t alone.

Lauren lay curled against him, her bare leg tangled with his, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath warm against his chest. The sheet was twisted low around their hips, the kind of careless tangle that only happened after hours of closeness. Her perfume — soft, familiar — clung to his skin like a memory he’d been starving for.

Her blonde curls spilled across the pillow like sunlight, and the actual morning light filtering through the window caught in her hair, turning it into a halo.

He looked down at her — at the peacefulness in her face, the faint, satisfied smile tugging at her lips — and something inside him cracked open.

He’d missed her. God, he’d missed her. And last night had reminded him exactly why.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it carefully, not wanting to wake her.

Channing’s message lit the screen.

Blaine snorted softly, then typed back with his good hand.

Blaine: going better than expected. i may have died and gone to heaven

He set the phone down and turned back to Lauren.

Her blue eyes fluttered open, sleepy and soft. When she saw him, she smiled — slow, warm, devastating.

“Morning,” she whispered.

He brushed a curl from her cheek and kissed her gently. “Morning, angel.”

She closed her eyes again, leaning into him. “If you are a dream,” she murmured, “please do not wake me.”

He pulled her closer. “Not a chance.”

They stayed like that for a long moment — wrapped in each other, wrapped in warmth, wrapped in something that felt like coming home.

Eventually, they got dressed — slowly, reluctantly — and wandered toward the main house, hand in hand. The air outside was crisp and clean, the kind of coastal morning where the world smelled like wet cedar, sea salt, and fresh beginnings. The Cunningham property stretched out around them — manicured lawns, weathered shingles, hydrangeas heavy with dew. A place built for family, not spectacle.

Inside, the Cunningham family was already gathered for breakfast.

Brad sat at the head of the table, coffee in hand, smiling the moment he saw them. Beside him was Briar Rose — still stunning, still youthful, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, green eyes bright with warmth. Their teen son Nathaniel lounged beside her, blond curls matching his father’s; Charley — Charlotte — sat across from him, dark blonde hair pulled into a messy bun; and Eden, the youngest, was humming to herself as she buttered toast.

All conversation stopped when Blaine and Lauren walked in.

Brad’s smile widened. “Well, look who finally decided to join us. Good morning, you two.”

Lauren blushed. Blaine squeezed her hand.

Briar Rose’s eyes softened. “Good morning,” she said to Lauren, then to Blaine, “Good to see you again, sweetheart.”

He nodded, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.

Brad’s gaze flicked — just once — to Lauren’s left hand.

Still bare.

Blaine caught it.

Their eyes met.

Blaine gave the smallest nod — a promise, a vow, a silent I’m working on it.

Brad’s expression softened into something warm and approving as he nodded back.

Lauren didn’t notice. She was too busy smiling at Blaine like he’d hung the moon.

And Blaine, for the first time in a long time, didn’t care about any ridiculous timelines or dares his namesake father might have imposed on him and Channing. He felt like he’d been handed a second chance — one he wasn’t going to waste. He found himself thinking about the same thing most young men eventually do: the irony of always wondering if the other side is better. When you’re in a relationship, you fantasize about freedom. When you’re single, you realize you’d trade all the freedom in the world for someone whose quirks and chaos feel like home.

Standing there with Lauren’s hand in his, Blaine knew exactly which side he wanted.

Lauren tugged Blaine toward the table, her fingers laced with his. They took the two empty seats beside each other, sliding in as the family resumed their chatter.

Nathaniel immediately launched into a story about a disastrous chemistry lab experiment. Charley rolled her eyes and corrected every detail. Eden hummed along to a song only she could hear. Briar Rose rose to refill the coffee pot, brushing a hand affectionately over Lauren’s shoulder as she passed.

For a moment, Blaine let himself breathe. This was what he’d missed — warmth, noise, belonging. Blaine was from a huge family, but they had never been like this. His parents were loving and caring, but for very obvious reasons there had never been any warm breakfast mornings. Even when all his surviving siblings and their families got together it was just… loud. Most of them were in music, aristocratic, or doing things so far outside the ordinary that “normal” wasn’t even in the vocabulary. It had never been like this.

The closest he ever got to it was when he visited his brother Chase and his family, but because there was such a gigantic age gap it was always just awkward for Blaine. Briar Rose, Brad’s wife, was actually Blaine’s niece by Chase, and she was the stepmom to the girl he wanted to marry. So much for normalcy.

But Lauren had always come with this family warmth Blaine craved. Even when she had stayed with him and his parents in Del Sol Valley, somehow she cooked meals and things just turned… warm and cozy.

Lauren leaned into him, her knee brushing his under the table, her smile soft and private. “Hungry?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, she reached for the serving dishes and began placing things on his plate — careful, thoughtful portions, the way she always did. A bit of fruit. A slice of pastry. A spoonful of jam. Her fingers brushed his wrist as she set the fork down, and something in his chest tightened.

“For food?” he murmured, leaning just close enough that only she could hear him. “Not really. My hunger for… other things… is insatiable.”

She blinked, confused for half a second — until she saw the look in his eyes. The one he used to give her when they were teenagers and he thought she wasn’t looking. The one that said you’re the thing I’ve been starving for.

Color rose in her cheeks, delicate and immediate. She shot a quick glance around the table. Only Brad was watching them.

“Blaine…” she whispered, barely audible. “Stop. You’ll get us in trouble.”

He smiled — soft, grateful, a little undone. “Just missed you,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

Her breath caught, and she looked down at his plate as if suddenly remembering she’d been feeding him. She nudged the fork toward him with a shy little smile.

“Well,” she whispered. “Nibble on the food until… later.”

She excused herself a moment later to help Eden with the jam jar, leaving Blaine momentarily alone.

Brad noticed.

He set his coffee down and leaned slightly toward Blaine, voice low enough that only he could hear.

“You seem different,” Brad said quietly. “Lighter. Happier. And not just because you’re dry this time.” His eyes twinkled. “And you brought the sun with you. Maybe take a walk later — let Lauren remind you how beautiful this town is when it’s not drowning. Maybe take the ferry over to the island and visit the lighthouse.”

Blaine swallowed. “I… yeah. I feel different.”

Brad nodded once, eyes kind but sharp. “I see.” He didn’t need details. He was a doctor. A father. A man who had lived enough life to recognize the glow of two people who had finally stopped running from each other.

“Good,” Brad murmured. “I can see a change in her too. She needed that. She needed you. They write songs about that kind of… healing.”

Blaine’s throat tightened. “Yeah. The feeling is mutual. In all the ways that matter.”

Brad studied him for a long moment — not judging, not probing, just… seeing him. Really seeing him.

“You know,” Brad said softly, “when you two broke things off, everyone was shocked, me more than most, probably. I told myself it was young love. Most who meet as teens don’t make it into adulthood as couples. I thought you’d both move on.” He exhaled. “But she never really did. There have been young men interested, but it was just never reciprocated.”

Blaine’s voice was barely a whisper. “Neither have I.”

Brad’s gaze flicked again — just once — to Lauren’s left hand as she laughed with her siblings across the table.

Then he looked back at Blaine.

“Are you here to stay then? I don’t mean physically.” Brad asked. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just a father wanting the truth.

Blaine inhaled slowly, the weight of the moment settling over him. “I know what you mean. Let me answer it this way: I know I don’t deserve to ask this yet. Not after how things ended. But I’m going to earn it. I’m going to earn her. And when I do…” He paused, steadying himself. “I’d like your blessing. To ask her a very important question again. When the time is right.”

Brad didn’t speak at first.

Then he reached out and placed a hand on Blaine’s shoulder — firm, warm, fatherly.

“You already have it,” he said quietly. “You always did. I’ve known you a long time, and I know your family. You know, your father and I have very different personalities, but when I was sixteen, he was the first — and only — person who ever stood up to my father to protect me.”

Blaine blinked, startled. Brad rarely talked about his past.

“During one of Chase’s parties here in the Bay, actually,” Brad continued. “Back when they all lived here. I refused one of my father’s demands — as usual, it was about Bri — and he hit me. Right there in front of everyone. The whole room froze. Everyone gulped, except Blaine. He was furious. Humiliated my father and then kicked him out of the house.”

A faint, almost amused breath left him. “For as much as Blaine Sr. likes to tease me, that always stuck with me.”

He looked at Blaine then, really looked at him.

“When his namesake son started dating my daughter, I was… surprised. But then I… how do they say… I ‘shipped’ it.” His mouth twitched. “Still do. You’re who my daughter wants. And you coming back here — like this — it told me everything I needed to know.”

Brad exhaled, the weight of years softening his voice.

“Look, Blaine, we all make mistakes. Some worse than others. We all have regrets. The older you get, the more you’ll accumulate without even meaning to. I have my fair share.” His eyes drifted briefly to Briar Rose, and a faraway smile touched his face before he turned back. “But I can also confirm that things that are meant to be… will be.”

Blaine exhaled shakily, relief flooding him. No bridges burnt here.

Next to him, Lauren turned back in her seat at that exact moment — eyes bright, smile soft, as if she could feel the shift in the air.

Blaine smiled back at her.

And Brad, unable to help himself, winked at Briar Rose — a silent, hopeful little gesture between two parents and lovers who would never forget how it felt when after lots of heartbreak the future finally settles quietly into place.