Chapter 13
It was too damn early for this.
The coffee hadn’t kicked in. My sweatshirt was on inside out. My manager had begged, and I — idiot that I was — had said yes before realizing I’d have to deliver a book to a random rental all the way across town before the sun had even finished rising.
And for what?
Because someone from the production team offered double what Figments usually charged for a courier? Fine. Whatever. I’d drop the book, get back in my car, and forget this ever happened.
The address was stupidly nice. One of those barely lived-in hills houses with glass walls and drought-resistant plants and a driveway made of some fancy fake cobblestone.
I didn’t even knock. Just rang the bell and shifted from foot to foot, holding the bag as though it was something fragile instead of just a signed first edition and a handwritten note from the director saying, ‘Read this before you ruin the rest of the shoot.’
I was halfway through a yawn when the door opened. And the world — stopped. He was standing there barefoot. Hoodie tugged on crooked. Hair, a sleep-mussed mess. Eyes half-lidded and then — wide, sharp, awake in an instant the second he saw me. “Juniper?”
My mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.
” A pause. “I didn’t know it was for you,” I said quickly, holding the package out like it burned.
“It was a delivery order. Someone from your production called last night and paid a stupid amount of money to have it on your doorstep by nine. Guess what shift I pulled.”
He took it from me slowly. Gently. Like he was afraid I might vanish if he moved too fast. “Right,” I muttered, already turning away. “Anyway. It’s here. It’s done. I’ll go.” But of course he said my name. Soft and low and familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
“Juniper—”
“Nope.” I didn’t let him finish. I couldn’t. I kept walking. The gravel crunched under my boots. The wind picked up.
But I’d barely made it to the gate before I heard the door creak open again.
“Wait — would you just — Juniper, wait.”
I stopped. Of course I did. But I didn’t turn around.
“I’m not here for you,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I’m only here because someone paid extra.”
A beat. Then —
“I didn’t know they’d send you.”
I turned then. He was standing barefoot in the doorway, one hand still on the edge, as if he needed something to hold on to.
“I didn’t know they were sending anyone,” he added, as if that made it better. “But since you’re here…”
He trailed off. His jaw worked, chewing on words he didn’t quite know how to spit out.
“…do you want to come in?”
The silence that followed was heavy.
I could see it in his face — the uncertainty, the hope, the tiny, flickering please. Not a grand gesture. Not a speech. Just a door, open. A chance to step through it.
And maybe that’s what scared me the most.
“I can’t,” I said, because it was true. Even if I wanted to. Even if every cell in my body screamed otherwise.
His hand dropped. He didn’t argue.
I turned back around and walked out the gate. Didn’t slam it. Didn’t run. Just walked, slow and deliberate, pretending it didn’t matter. Like my heart wasn’t trying to tear its way out of my chest.
Back in the car, I gripped the wheel with both hands. Stared straight ahead.
I hated that I’d worn the stupid Figments sweatshirt. I hated that I’d checked my reflection in the mirror before I left. I hated that I still knew how he took his coffee and that some part of me had wondered — hoped — he’d ask me to stay.
And I really hated that he did.
But I think what I hated most was that I couldn’t drive away. Tears burned in my eyes and threatened to stain my cheeks as I clenched the steering wheel.
God.
This was so fucking embarrassing.
One drunken night, and we didn’t even do anything.
One stupid convention where he pretended to kiss me.
And a handful of Instagram DMs.
Fuck.
A yelp punched out of my mouth as a loud ‘rap’ came from my window. Ansel was standing there, looking perhaps even more shaken up than I felt. He lifted a brow, a quiet plea for me to acknowledge him.
I cracked the window.
“Can you please talk to me?” There was a hint of desperation tugging at the end of his words, a plea.
“I have to get back to work.” I couldn’t meet his eyes, still beating myself up for my stupid bleeding heart and my stupid aching soul.
“I’ll have the production team call and give Figments a donation. Fuck — I’ll send in the donation, June. Please just talk to me.”
“Why, Ansel?” I finally managed through gritted teeth. “I’m—” I let out a groan — louder than I had anticipated.
“I like being around you, kid.” He leaned against my car, palms pressed against the frame.
My stupid cheeks betrayed me as a flush licked up my spine. “I won’t be a fucking stepping stone, not again.” I could feel the tears sticking in the back of my throat.
“How about a friend, Juniper?” He ducked his head, trying to meet my gaze — the gaze I was absolutely avoiding. “I’m in town for several months, filming a role that I know you are connected to.”
“Stalker.” The word came out of my mouth before I could stop it, and the laugh that came from him settled warm in my chest.
“Everyone in my life holds me at arm’s distance, Haddock. Kellogg, my director, is convinced I can’t act for shit. The rest of the world thinks I can’t act for shit. Maybe I can’t.” He stopped, and I stole a glance at him.
Rookie mistake.
A smile spread across his face, soft but bright. Something twisted up in my heart. “I could use a friend, and… I get the feeling you could too?”
Goddammit.
I looked away. Stared down at my hands clenched on the steering wheel praying they could anchor me.
He wasn’t wrong. But… I didn’t know how to let him be right.
So I said nothing. Just let the silence stretch between us, taut and buzzing and full of all the things I didn’t trust myself to say.
He didn’t push. Didn’t plead.
Just waited.
And that — somehow — made it worse.
I blew out a breath. Loud. Sharp. Groaned again. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I said, mostly to myself. Then, cracked the window a little more. “There’s a café down the street. Corner booth in the back. I’ll be there for fifteen minutes.”
He blinked as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right.
I kept my eyes forward. “If you show up, we’re talking as friends. That’s it. No weird looks. No… reminiscing. No sad, soulful gazes.”
He had the audacity to laugh. “Understood.”
“I’m not kidding, Ansel.”
“I know.”
“I’ll leave if you get all — whatever. Romantic.”
“God forbid.”
“I mean it.”
He lifted his hands, stepping back from the window as if he was surrendering. “Fifteen minutes. Corner booth. Totally normal, totally platonic breakfast.”
I threw the car into reverse.
“And bring your own coffee,” I added, rolling the window back up. “I’m not paying for it.”
His smile didn’t fade as I pulled away, but I didn’t look at it. Couldn’t.
This wasn’t a yes.
It was a boundary.
It was a test I was sure he’d fail. Maybe one that I would too.
But still — I turned toward the café.