The heavy scent of melted cheese and warm tomato sauce greets me the second I step inside Pizza Hut. My stomach rumbles loudly—reminder that I've barely eaten since morning. After the gut-punch of seeing Morgan in that video with Lana, the house felt suffocating. I needed air, noise, something normal. Pizza seemed harmless enough.
The line moves fast. I order my usual: medium pepperoni, extra cheese, the same greasy comfort I've leaned on since dorm-room days. The cashier slides my receipt across the counter with a printed number. I turn to scan the dining area for a quiet booth.
And there she is.
Morgan occupies a corner table alone, auburn hair spilling over one shoulder while her fingers fly across a laptop keyboard. My pulse trips over itself—half sprint, half freeze. What are the actual odds in a town this size?
I debate turning around. Grab the pizza to go. Sit on the far side where she won't notice. Pretend I never saw her.
Too late.
Her gaze lifts, locks onto mine with eerie accuracy, like she felt my stare before I even processed it. A tiny crease forms between her brows; then her lips curve into a surprised, welcoming smile. She raises a hand in a small wave, beckoning me over.
No escape now.
I cross the room on legs that feel bolted together. "Hey," I say, stopping awkwardly beside her table. "Small world."
"Adam." That same low, husky tone from Starbucks—and now forever linked to the video still looping in my head. "Sit. I'm just on a break."
I slide into the opposite seat, setting my receipt face-down like it might protect me. "Working?"
"Scriptwriting," she answers smoothly.
I can't stop the edge that slips into my voice. "You following me or something?"
Her fingers pause mid-keystroke. She looks genuinely startled, maybe even stung. "Following you?" She glances around the half-full restaurant as if checking her bearings. "Adam, I was already here when you walked in."
Heat floods my face. She's right. Small town. Two sightings in a week isn't conspiracy; it's geography. I'm just rattled.
"Sorry," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. "Rough day. I'm jumpy."
Her expression softens instantly. She closes the laptop with deliberate care, giving me her undivided attention. "Want to talk about it? Sometimes saying it out loud helps."
I study her—those sharp green eyes, calm and focused—and feel the truth clawing its way up my throat.
I exhale long and slow, shoulders dropping.
"I know you work with my girlfriend," I say quietly, barely above the background chatter.
Morgan's brow knits. "I don't do marketing, Adam. I'm not sure what you—"
"Lana Blake," I cut in, leaning closer so the words stay between us. "She's my girlfriend."
For the briefest instant something flashes across her face—satisfaction, almost, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Then it's gone, replaced by wide-eyed surprise.
"Oh wow," she breathes, hand rising to cover her mouth. "What are the chances?" Her gaze sharpens playfully. "So you're the fanfiction guy. The one Lana's always bragging about."
My ears burn. "She talks about me? At work?"
"All the time." Morgan leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "She's proud. Keeps showing people snippets of your stories on her phone. Says her boyfriend's got real talent."
I duck my head, mortified and strangely warmed at the same time. "I figured maybe I was getting a tiny following or something."
Morgan laughs—soft, melodic, perfectly pitched. "Maybe you are." Then her tone shifts, edges sharpening. "But she also mentioned you promised not to watch her scenes. So… how did you figure out we've worked together?"
Ice floods my veins. My palms go slick. She's cornered me cleanly.
"I, uh—" Words jam in my throat.
She raises a hand, gentle but firm. "Unless you were just watching my videos. By accident." One eyebrow arches, teasing, forgiving, deadly. "Stumbled across me solo, recognized me from Starbucks, and then… surprise, there's Lana."
Relief crashes through me like a breaker. An out. "Yeah," I rush out, nodding too fast. "Exactly that. I had no clue you two knew each other until I saw the scene."
Her lips curve—slow, satisfied. "Fascinating." She lifts her drink, watches me over the rim as she sips. "So you were jerking off to me, then?"
The bluntness hits like a slap. My face ignites.
"I didn't watch many," I hedge, scrambling. "Just… enough to recognize your face."
"Which one caught your eye?" she presses, voice velvet-soft.
I swallow. "The… group one. With Lana."
"Order 74! Medium pepperoni extra cheese!"
Saved by a teenager with a pizza box.
"That's me." I bolt upright. "Be right back."
I practically jog to the counter, grab the steaming box, and consider sprinting straight out the door. But she knows too much already—Lana's name, my stories, where I live by now, probably. Running just delays the inevitable.
I return, set the box between us like a flimsy barricade, and sit.
"Look," I say, keeping my voice low, "this is humiliating. Can we drop it?"
Morgan's smile widens, eyes sparkling with amusement. "You saw me drenched in cum and you're the embarrassed one?"
I wince so hard my teeth ache. "You're a professional. It's different."
She laughs again—that same musical sound that somehow feels rehearsed. "You're sweet, Adam. Adorable, really." Her hand covers mine for a heartbeat—warm, deliberate—then withdraws. "But watching your girlfriend get railed by strangers? That's self-inflicted pain. You don't have to keep doing it to yourself."
I flip open the box, grab a slice, focus on the stretch of cheese like it holds the secrets of the universe. Anything but her gaze.
"Unless…" she starts.
"Don't."
She tilts her head, studying me like a specimen. "Do you like the hurt? The jealousy? Because that's not healthy, Adam. Emotional masochism scars deeper than you think."
"Change the subject," I mutter, taking a too-big bite. The pizza tastes like regret.
She reaches over and plucks a slice for herself, ignoring her untouched salad. She eats with impossible grace, dabs her mouth, then continues.
"Lana loves you. Talks about you like you hung the moon. You deserve better than sitting home wondering who's inside her today." Her voice gentles. "You should ask her to quit. Like I'm doing."
I pause mid-chew. "You're leaving the industry?"
"Retiring," she corrects, small smile curling. "Contract's almost up. Money's made, investments are solid—property, stocks, the works. I can coast forever if I want."
Jealousy twists sharp in my gut. She's walking away rich while I'm mooching off Lana's earnings, degree gathering dust.
"That's… impressive," I manage.
"It is." She twirls a strand of hair absently. "Only thing missing is the right partner to share it with." A playful glint. "No single brothers hiding anywhere?"
I choke on a laugh that's half nerves. "Nope. One of a kind."
"Pity."
I force the next question out. "Lana ever say anything about quitting?"
Morgan's expression shutters slightly. "Not really. Her contract's tight—studio loves her. They don't let top talent walk easily."
She glances at her watch, eyes widening theatrically. "Damn. Gotta run." She starts gathering her things. "Maybe next random run-in we trade numbers."
For a split second her smile stretches—too wide, too bright, almost feverish. Then it's gone, replaced by warm friendliness. Blink and you miss it.
"Wait—" I half-stand as she rises. My hand hovers near her wrist. "Morgan, please…"
She pauses, eyebrow lifted.
I check for eavesdroppers, then force the words out. "Don't tell Lana I've been watching her videos. It would crush her."
Her face cycles through emotions—surprise, amusement, calculation, settling on something close to sympathy.
"Your secret stays with me," she murmurs, leaning down until her breath brushes my ear. "But secrets have a habit of surfacing, Adam. Especially from the people we're supposed to trust most."
She straightens, hips swaying with effortless grace as she walks away. "See you around."
The door swings shut behind her.
I sink back into the booth, suddenly aware of the insistent ache straining against my zipper.
Christ. I was hard the whole damn time.
What the hell is wrong with me?