Page 12 of Gap Control

I watched that three-second pause three more times before I closed the tab.

He wasn't the only one tired of playing a role.

Chapter three

TJ

Isat in my car for a full five minutes after pulling into the Colisée lot. Engine off. Heat still running. Phone balanced on my knee, hoping it might give me a script for the day.

I refreshed Insta again. I knew I shouldn't, but my thumb had other ideas. The top post was a new edit of the hug photo, with falling snowflakes and swirly lettering that said "Frozen Hearts, Warm Hugs." What did that even mean?

Below that, a fan account had created a timeline:Rykson: A Love Story in Three Parts.

The hug.

"The look."

My so-called public proposal—aka that dumb line I threw at Jen Walsh because I panicked and defaulted to funny.

There was even a screenshot of me mid-smile with a caption: "The moment he knew."

I ran both hands through my hair and tried to collect myself.

"You've got this," I muttered to the empty car. "Go in, be cool, play it down, and don't touch anything unless you're one hundred percent sure it won't make it worse."

I checked the time—twenty minutes early. Weird. I was rarely early for anything, but I'd launched myself out of bed like it was game day. I didn't even remember brushing my teeth. I hoped I had.

And the thing was... I kept thinking about that moment. The hug. Not the photo of it, or the memes and sparkle filters, but thefeelof it.

How solid he was. How easy it was to breathe when he leaned in.

Mason was objectively attractive—like, annoying-level attractive. He sported a chiseled jawline and better-than-average stubble. It was a should-not-be-allowed-to-smirk-in-public level of attractiveness.

It was worse up close. His eyes weren't merely blue; they were that washed-out, stormy kind of blue that made you say things you weren't planning to say. His hair always looked like he'd just run a hand through it, even when freshly cut.

And he was tall. Damn, six-three, I'd looked it up. I'm five-eleven on a good day with generous socks. Hugging him was like standing in front of a campfire—warm, slightly overwhelming, and hard to walk away for fear I might miss something.

Which… yeah. That kind of presence did things to a person.

I wasn't in love. Obviously.

I wasn't blind either.

My phone buzzed again—incoming text.

Brady:Smile pretty. Management's watching.

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