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Who the hell took this?

And, more importantly, why are they sending it to me now?

I inhale slowly, willing my nerves to settle. The rational part of my brain tells me this is just some sick prank. The irrational part—the one currently winning—is already spiraling into worst-case scenarios. If someone has this photo, what else do they have? How long have they been watching?

For a split second, I consider calling Liam. But I'm not ready to have another sensible conversation with him, not with my heart going a million a minute.

Instead, I do the only thing I can. I shut off my phone and shove it under a couch cushion like that'll somehow erase the entire situation.

Then I pick up my fallen dumpling and take a bite because, crisis or not, wasting crab Rangoon is a sin.

* * *

The next afternoon rolls in, and I cannot shake the gloom that has settled over me.

Sunday brunch at the Bennett house is a ritual. One that, today, I would rather chew glass than attend.

But ignoring my brothers is like ignoring a persistent case of food poisoning—eventually, it'll catch up to you, and it won't be pretty.

So, after spending an hour lying in bed staring at my ceiling, overanalyzing every possible outcome of that damn text, I finally drag myself out of the apartment, throw on a sweater and jeans, and head to Willow Heights.

The moment I step through the door, I'm ambushed by the chaotic medley of coffee, maple syrup, and what I can only assume was once bacon. Which can only mean one thing.

Ryan is cooking.

"Someone hide the fire extinguisher," I announce, stepping into the kitchen.

Ryan, standing over the griddle in a faded Henley and sweatpants, smirks as he flips a pancake. "Real funny, Ava."

"Just saying, last time you cooked, we had to evacuate."

"That was one time."

Nate, sitting at the kitchen island with his feet propped up on a chair, grins. "It was three times."

Ryan flips him off with the spatula before glancing at me, brow furrowing slightly. "You look… weird."

I blink. "Thanks?"

Dean, seated at the head of the table with his morning paper—because of course he still reads a physical newspaper—lowers it just enough to scrutinize me. "Ryan's right. You're twitchy."

I scoff, making my way toward the coffee pot like the caffeine might help me fake normalcy. "Wow, what a warm welcome. You guys ever consider just saying ‘Hi, Ava, how's your morning?'"

Dean ignores me, setting his paper down fully. "Did something happen?"

Yes. A possibly unhinged individual has photographic evidence of me making out with your best friend and is currently taunting me with it.

I pour myself a mug of coffee and take a sip. Bitter, but it'll do. "Nope."

Dean doesn't look convinced, but before he can launch into full interrogation mode, Nate, bless his meddling little heart, changes the subject.

"So, Ava, any romantic prospects lately?"

I choke on my coffee.

Ryan snorts. "Smooth, man."

"What?" Nate shrugs. "Just checking in on her love life. She's been very secretive lately."