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He pauses at the doorway, glancing at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

“You’re letting me in without cussing me out?” he asks, stepping cautiously into the penthouse like I might suddenly revert to my usual self and throw him out.

I grunt. Wordless. Motion to the hallway with a jerk of my chin and head toward the bedroom to grab the last of my stuff.

The place is quiet—too quiet—the kind of silence that creeps in after a storm.

Brody follows, trailing behind me with tentative steps.

“Okay…” he says slowly, dragging the word out. “Who are you, and what did you do with Jack Calloway?”

I pull open the dresser drawer and toss in the last few things I need—charger, sunglasses, a beat-up paperback I never got around to finishing. I don’t look at him.

I don’t answer either.

Because there’s nothing to say that would make sense out loud.

Not to him.

Not to anyone.

Some things… some shifts in your chest… they happen too deep for words.

Some realizations crawl into your bones in the middle of the night, settle into the hollow spaces you pretend aren’t there. They don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to. They just change everything—quietly, irrevocably.

And explaining them?

That’s like trying to describe a scar to someone who’s never been cut.

So I keep my mouth shut and zip the suitcase.

Brody stands there, arms crossed, waiting for the punchline. When he realizes it’s not coming, he exhales loudly and shakes his head. “Weirdest morning ever,” he mutters. “I don’t like it. You’re freaking me out.”

I smirk a little at that—not because it’s funny, but because part of me takes a weird comfort in the fact that even my silence can throw someone off.

It’s a reminder I’m still in control.

At least a little.

At least of something.

He hands me the coffee without another word, and we walk out together.

No drama. No yelling. No theatrics.

Just quiet steps toward whatever comes next.

We get to the airport early. It’s too early if you ask me. But Brody insists on beating traffic and “dodging the paps,” so here we are—me in a hoodie pulled low over my eyes, a baseball cap jammed down, and sunglasses that practically swallow my face.

The whole undercover celebrity look.

It works. Mostly.

People glance our way, some longer than others, like they’re trying to place the face beneath the layers of secrecy. But no one comes up to ask for a selfie or an autograph or to lecture me about morals, so I call it a win.

Mia’s already there when we arrive. She’s standing a few feet from Nova, her suitcase upright at her side like she’s a seasoned traveler—which she probably isn’t, judging by how small and unflashy the luggage is.

She’s dressed in something simple yet polished. A fitted blazer over a soft blouse, dark jeans, and low-heeled ankle boots—elegant without trying too hard. It says put-together. Sophisticated. The kind of style that doesn’t need to shout to be noticed.