Page 201

I finally manage to cobble together something sharp enough to cut:“Stop messaging me. You’re both insufferable. I don’t care about your milkshake rankings, Silas. And Elias, if you ever send me another shirtless selfie captioned ‘Ur move, Daddy,’ I will find a way to hex your mirror.”
Satisfied, I hit send.
The phone dings before it even finishes the message animation.
Waffles4LIFE:“Too late. Already sent a second one. Ur welcome.”
A picture follows. It’s Elias with bedhead, middle finger up, eyes half-lidded in what can only be described ascalculated lethargy. His chest is bare. I don’t ask why.
Another ping. This one from Silas.
Waffles4LIFE:“Eli says he’s sexier when he’s sleepy. I told him he’s just crusty. Ambrose, pls confirm.”
Another ping.
BigMeatEnergy:“Also Ambrose, we’re planning your outfit for the play. I’m thinking sheer. Vengeful. Open-chest moment. Thoughts?”
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
I attempt to respond, but they’re faster. Another notification lights up before I even reach the keyboard.
Waffles4LIFE:“WAIT. Can we match? Me, you, and Elias in sheer outfits? Triad energy. The crowd won’t survive.”
BigMeatEnergy:“Don’t fight it. Just say yes. Let the slay happen.”
I turn the phone toward Luna, who has the gall to be laughing silently, her mouth pressed into the side of her hand like that’s going to make it less obvious.
“This is harassment,” I tell her.
She shrugs, unbothered. “This is friendship. And unfortunately, you're part of it now.”
I should shut it off. I should toss it off the balcony and pretend it never existed. But the screen dings again, and my thumb—traitorous bastard that it is—taps the message open.
BigMeatEnergy:“Ambrose. Do u think I’m pretty. U have to answer. This is the law.”
Waffles4LIFE:“BE honest. I curled my hair.”
Gods.
I stare out the window, wondering when exactly I lost the war. Probably the moment I agreed to let Luna explain how the camera works. Or maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was the first time she looked at me like I wasn’t just something dangerous—but something worth saving.
Another ding.
Waffles4LIFE:“If you don’t respond in 30 seconds, I’m sending Riven the nudes meant for you.”
I start typing again.
Gods help them. Because I won’t.
The typing field mocks me. A blinking cursor and my inability to keep pace with two absolute menaces who seem to have weaponized the concept of messaging. My thumbs are too methodical. My irritation too steady. I try again—If you send me nude photos of yourself…—but the words vanish into a storm of notifications before I can hit send.
The screen pings again. And again. And again.
Waffles4LIFE:“I shaved. Just for you.”
BigMeatEnergy:“His legs are smooth like silk, Ambrose. I’ve touched them. You should too.”
Another message blinks through before I can recoil properly.