Last night had been shockingly tame for a bunch of hormone-charged teenagers with a free mansion and an engagement headline hotter than a Kardashian divorce. Instead of MTV Spring Break, Madison just wanted to curl up on the couch, her head on my chest, like she'd discovered Netflix's hidden category called Domestic Bliss: Limited Series.
Tommy and Mia? They were off in the game room discovering Madison's vintage arcade machines, proving that yes, even romance can look like two nerds playing Street Fighter and making out between rounds like an awkward eSports promo.
"I don't need a wild party," Madison whispered against my neck. "I just need this. You. Us. Real."
Real. God, the way she said it. Like she was auditioning for The Bachelor: Existential Edition. And I ate it up—because nothing turns me on more than being someone's entire religion.
So we give her "real."
