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She cocks a brow. “Possessive?”

“Protective.” I shrug. “And if wearebeing watched, I want to make sure the shots are good.”

She stares. Then sighs. “Fine. I was just about to leave anyway.”

I watch her pack up, taking her time. We don’t speak as we leave the building, the quiet between us loaded but not tense.

I hold the front door open. She gives me a look like she’s not sure if it’s real.

Neither am I.

Outside, there’s no one obvious, but we both know the paparazzi don’t need obvious.

She leans against her car, eyes on me. The wind lifts her hair just enough to send my thoughts sideways.

For a second—just one—I forget we’re pretending.

And I know she feels it, too.

Her gaze softens, and before I can stop myself, I take her hand. Lift it. Press a kiss against her knuckles like I’ve done it a hundred times.

Her skin’s warm.

And suddenly, so is the tight space behind my ribs.

“See you tomorrow.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if this is still part of the script.

“Right. You too.” She turns to open her door—and that’s when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

A sharp vibration. One I almost ignore.

I pull it out without thinking, thumb dragging across the screen. I go to slip it back into my pocket—then I catch the preview.

One new message.

Unknown number:

Keep your fucking distance from my sister.

My blood goes cold. No name. No context.

Just a digital snarl.

She’s right there—barely two feet from me, keys in hand, still looking over her shoulder like she’s waiting for something else.

I school my face. Lock the screen. Swallow the heat climbing up my throat.

“Everything okay?” she asks, brows pulling together slightly.

I nod once. Lie through my teeth.

“Yeah. All good.”

But it’s not.

Because now I’ve got two problems: