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I'm here for her.

She's already seated when I arrive, one leg crossed over the other in that casual-but-deliberate way she has about everything. Her sunglasses are pushed up into her wild dark curls, and her lips are pressed into a line so sharp it could cut glass. Her iced coffee sits half-melted beside her phone, which lies face-up on the table like a silent sentinel.

Her stare zeroes in on me the moment I step into view, and I see her entire body tense with recognition. There's relief there, but also something harder—the kind of anger that comes from genuine worry.

I barely get two steps in before she's rising from her chair and pulling me into a hug that's half bone-crushing, half you-better-explain-everything-right-now.

"You're alive," she mutters against my shoulder, fingers digging into my back. "I was two seconds from calling the FBI. Maybe the National Guard. Definitely my cousin who works for that sketchy security firm."

"I texted you," I manage, my voice muffled against her hair.

Shepulls back, holding me at arm's length. "Barely. You ignored every one of my questions. And besides, 'I'm okay' is not a status report when you vanish after stealing your sister's invitation to a creepy rich-people sex party."

"I'm here now," I offer, giving her a half-smile that feels strange on my face, like I've forgotten how to wear it.

She studies me with narrowed eyes, hands still gripping my arms like she expects me to disappear if she lets go. Her gaze roams my face, searching for... what? Bruises? Fear? Stockholm syndrome?

"You look... good," she says finally, sounding almost disappointed. "You look like shit, but you look good. It's confusing me."

I laugh, and it feels rusty in my throat, unused. "Thanks, I think. That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Sit," she commands, already dragging me toward the table with the same force of nature energy that's defined our friendship since college. "Talk. Start from the beginning. Don't skip. Don't lie." She points a warning finger at me. "And if you say 'I'm fine,' I will flip this table in front of God and brunch."

I sink into the chair across from her and wrap my hands around the chilled glass waiting for me—an iced vanilla latte, already made because she's Avery and, of course, she remembers all of my favorites. The icy sweetness coats my tongue, grounding me in something familiar when everything else feels like it's been rewritten.

"I'm... here," I start lamely, knowing it's not enough but unsure how to distill the past couple of weeks into words that make sense. "I'm figuring it out. I don't know what I'm doing."

She stares at me flatly. "That's not a beginning, Luna. That's not even a middle. That's the kind of vague bullshit you text your mom when she asks how you're doing."

"It's all I've got right now," I say, turning the glass in my hands. "I'm still processing."

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward, voice dropping. "How bad was it?"

I pause, weighing my words carefully.

It's long enough for her to know it's complicated. Long enough for the truth to stretch and twist and curl up in the back of my throat where it won't choke me. I remember Beckett's hands, his voice, the way he made me feel simultaneously owned and freed—and how do I explain that without sounding like I've lost my mind?

"I was claimed," I say finally.

Her brows lift slowly, mouth parting.

And then I drop it.

By accident. On purpose. I don't know.

"By Beckett Sinclair."

Everything stops.

The city. The street. The sunlight. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Avery's eyes widen, and her coffee straw slips from between her fingers.

And then—like a switch being flipped?—

"BECKETT FUCKING SINCLAIR?"

Heads turn at nearby tables. A waiter nearly drops a tray. I wince and shrink into my seat.