Hunt was terribly afraid of graveyards.

It started when he was seven. He'd been in front of his grandparents' television set watching the MTV eighties countdown. His pop had fallen asleep with the remote in his hand just as Thriller started.

Hunt hadn't been able to sleep with the lights off for a month afterwards.

Then there was the ouija board incident. He'd warned Vanessa and her friends that it wasn't a good idea to mess with the dead when they'd asked him to drive them to the local cemetery in year twelve. But they'd all been drinking. And they never listened to him anyway.

Hunt had shrieked like a wild bird when a shadow fell over them, positive it was one of the zombies from the music video that scarred him all those years ago.

It was a caretaker. Still, he looked skeletal enough that Hunt had barked out another shout, and Vanessa and her friends had cackled about it all the way home. And the next day at school. And on schoolies later that year.

Yes, Hunt was terribly afraid of graveyards.

Which was why it was strange, he thought, that he was having such a good time in one now.

Maybe good wasn't the right word. But Laia and Kenji had already set up the picnic by the time that Daisy and Hunt caught up with them at the cemetery, and Lai's picnic was nothing like Hunt's had been at his and Daisy's Commitment Ceremony. The blanket groaned under plates of dolma, beef manti, baklava and, of course, a giant serving of vanilla slice with tiny markings on top in memory of twenty-six birthday candles.

Vanilla slice had been Nic's favourite, Kenji had told him.

Hunt leaned over to pop a fallen carnation back in the vase by Nic's headstone. His eyes ran over the glimmering epitaph.

Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend. Gone too soon, loved for a lifetime.

Sunlight winked off something golden in the corner of Hunt's eye, dragging his attention from the stone.

Daisy was whispering to Laia on the other side of the checked blanket, both of them holding plastic cups to their mouths to cover twin smiles. Daisy jerked her face behind her hair to hide a soft giggle at something Lai said, causing the sun to glance off her necklace again.

Hunt lifted his last bite of vanilla slice to his mouth, lounging back on his palms while he eyed her, arching a brow.

She only giggled again. Lai rolled her eyes.

"Ready?" Daisy had asked when Hunt had slipped out of the bathroom, his hair still a little damp from the shower.

He'd nodded, pulling a clean shirt over his head. She'd grabbed her purse and aimed for the door, but Hunt's gaze had snagged on something on her vanity.

"Wait."

She'd complied without question when he'd motioned for her to turn around. When he'd strung her golden necklace around her throat, she'd whirled, blue eyes wide.

"I don't have to ..." She'd shaken her head. "I already decided not to wear it around—" She'd cut herself short, but he'd received the message.

Around you.

He didn't like that. Not one bit.

"It's his birthday, Dais." He'd combed a hand through her hair, lowering the chain. "If you want to wear it today—if you want to wear it any day—you wear it, baby."

"But ..." Again, she'd trailed off, and he'd read her expression. Is that appropriate? Would you be mad? Would it make you upset?

Hunt had sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her onto his lap. They'd been running late, but that conversation was important.

"I want you," he'd told her. "All of you. I want your heart. All of it. I don't want you to filter yourself around me, or to feel like you can't share things. If you want to wear the necklace, Daisy, please, wear it. If you want to talk to me about Nic, then talk to me about him. He's a part of you." He'd lifted her hand to the pendant, closing her fingers around it, then brought her fist to his lips and kissed it. "And I want every part."

She'd done an amazing job of swallowing her tears as he'd pulled the rest of her hair through the chain. It was only when they'd gotten to the door and he'd reached out to straighten the ballet slippers that she started to quietly cry.

"I'm sorry," she'd said as Hunt pulled a tissue out of his pocket.

"You have nothing to apologise for. It's hard." He'd dabbed underneath her waterline, careful not to mess up her makeup. "A hard day."

"It's not that. It's not that at all." She'd gripped his wrists, staring up at him with wide, glassy eyes that gleamed like aquamarine. "You're perfect. You're everything to me. I need you to know that."

One thousand different emotions had surged through his chest. And he'd known. He'd known the same thing he was thinking again now. The same thing he'd always known, like it was as inevitable as the sun rising and the stars burning.

Strangely, he thought back to the first time he'd seen Daisy dance. He'd been guiding Drew out of the theatre after his friend had stupidly snuck those beers backstage. Hunt had wrestled them from his drunken hands, resulting in them spilling on poor, wide-eyed Daisy and soiling her twinkling costume. Hunt had been halfway out the back door and into the alley when a force higher than himself told him to turn, to peek through the curtain and onto the stage.

There was nothing romantic about the way Hunt had fallen victim to her then, his breath bated as he watched Daisy jump and spin; she was fourteen, and he'd been with Vanessa. It was awe that tethered him, innocent and consuming. It was one artist nodding their head to another, giving them a moment of silence as they weaved a tapestry out of jetés and arabesques and notes and chords.

No, there was nothing romantic about it. But it was like his soul had known, even then. This one is special. This one will change you. This one will make you a better artist. A better man.

Daisy and Laia giggled again, framed by manicured gardens flecked with gravestones. Hunt finished the last of his vanilla slice, dusting the buttery crumbs from his fingers while Kenji told him about the best ways to get around Brisbane. Daisy leaned back to offer the last of her vanilla slice to a curious Willie wagtail, looking at Hunt with adorably wide eyes when the bird took it right from her hand. Her cheeks turned a rosy pink, her smile blinding.

His pulse quickened. His whole body felt light and airy, like a balloon that was drifting high above the clouds.

Yes—inevitable. The sun rose. The stars burned.

And Hunt was falling in love with that girl.

But love didn't feel like falling, he realised. It felt like flying.

That's how he knew; he'd never been in love with Vanessa. He'd cared about her. Wanted the best for her. Wanted her to be happy. She'd become a habit he was too afraid to break—afraid that if he did, he'd never find anything else.

But he'd said he loved her in an effort to make her smile when everything else had fallen flat. He'd thrown himself in mud when she walked over him, just so she could keep her heels clean while they punctured his heart. He'd battered his dreams and sold himself out to convince her that he was good enough. And, still, it had never felt this.

Love was hard. It was a minefield. Hell, it was scary—giving someone your heart. But it wasn't something you could bargain for, or negotiate, or sell pieces of your soul to win. Love was like a symphony; the artists could play different instruments, but if they shared the same score, they could create a masterpiece worthy of dancing to.

Daisy chose that moment to grin broadly at something Kenji had said, and although Hunt hadn't heard the joke, he found himself smiling, too. He felt like a saxophone stuffed with too much air—so warm, so full.

Yeah.

He was falling in love with Daisy.

And for as long as she let him, he was going to spend his life showing her what that meant.

Kenji and Hunt packed up their lunch while the girls went to the bathroom. They swapped; the girls loaded the cars while the guys used the men's room. Hunt slipped out first, telling Kenji to go ahead.

Tentatively, Hunt crouched in front of Nic's grave.

His mind emptied out. His tongue felt heavy. What could he say to him—to Daisy's first love? Hunt ran a hand over the epitaph, over the word Friend, knowing that it was more than that.

There was no jealousy like there had been with Joshua. There was only understanding. Because if something happened to Hunt, if the universe found a way to pry him from Daisy, he'd want to know that she could find the strength to love again. The courage to be loved. It was what she deserved.

On his knees, he placed a hand on the stone. "I'll love her," Hunt vowed. "I'll keep her safe. I'll do everything I can to make her dance."

Something glowed in his chest, as though he'd lit a candle at church. It was a sacred vow from one love to another. One Hunt intended to take to his grave.

He stood. Turned.

With one hand on her swelling belly, the other smothering her quivering mouth, Laia blinked up at him with teary eyes.

Hunt stepped forward. "Hey, Squirt—"

She broke.

Laia's sobs were ripped from somewhere deep inside of her, rattling her very being until she was trembling. The cries of a sister. Not just Nic's, but Daisy's, too.

"It's the hormones," she explained as Hunt swept her up in a hug.

"I know."

She cried a bit more, her tears seeping into his shirt in little puddles of black mascara. Luckily, he had that pocket full of tissues he'd brought for Daisy. When Lai's breathing evened out, her olive cheeks free of streaky shadow, Hunt jerked his head up the cobblestone path.

"Come on, Squirt." He peered down at her belly. "Little Squirt."

Laia's laugh was a shaky, tearful thing. That's what he used to call me, Lai had told Hunt shortly after Daisy had told him the truth about Nic. Hunt had grimaced guiltily, asking whether Laia wanted him to stop using the term.

She'd threatened to gut him like a fish if he did.

"Mum was asking about you," Laia said as their cars came into view. He knew she was just grappling for a subject change. He indulged it. "I think she's in love with you. Dad said she's yours if you want her."

Hunt snorted a laugh. He'd met Laia's parents by accident; he'd been surprising Daisy on Valentine's Day when he strolled into her kitchen, greeted by a tall Latina telling her broad-shouldered husband that if he didn't slow down on the quesadillas, he was going to grow a gut and force her into having an affair with a young swimsuit model.

Preferably Armenian, but she'd settle for Turkish.

"Don't make me break my vows, mi cielo." Lai's mum had plucked the cheesy tortilla from her husband's mouth, replacing it with a stick of celery. "I did not suffer through eight years of Sunday school just to go to hell for sinning in my fifties—Dios mío, quién es él?"

Hunt had barely blinked before the tornado of long black hair and Dior perfume was cupping his face between her hands, jerking him down to get a better look at his eyes.

Hunt chuckled at the memory. "Your mother would eat me alive."

Laia huffed a laugh that made Hunt think it wouldn't be too far from the truth. "Still. You're not getting rid of us now, Tarzan. Dad's already invited you to golf with him and Kenji next Saturday." She lowered her voice as they crested the hill and her fiance came into earshot. "And dad didn't invite him until a year after we started dating."

"Well." Hunt grinned. "That's because I'm very charming."

Laia poked him in the ribs, and he yelped. Daisy turned at the sound. She raised an eyebrow, her blue eyes darting between them like a teacher who'd caught two students throwing spitballs in the back row.

One look at her face. That's all it took. In Hunt's chest, that golden sun burned.

"What?" Daisy asked, shuffling under the weight of his stare.

He rose to full height, shaking himself off. "You have a little something ..." He sauntered forward, plucking an invisible crumb from the corner of her mouth.

Then just leaned down and kissed her instead.

"Disgusting." Laia groaned, fishing her keys out of her purse and rushing to her car. "You two are repulsive."

"A taste of your own medicine," Daisy teased, grabbing Hunt by his collar and pulling him down to deepen their kiss.

Hunt was more than happy to oblige her. Laia muttered a mixture of Spanish and Armenian under her breath—all of it absolutely filthy, Hunt guessed. He only hoped that he'd be able to work his charm on Daisy's parents when they drove down from Noosa for Laia's baby shower.

And that, by then, Daisy would be introducing Hunt as her boyfriend.

Daisy hated surprises.

It was Nic's fault. He'd appeared on her doorstep the night before her sixteenth birthday, offering to escort her and Laia to dinner.

"Dress code?" she'd asked.

He'd scratched his head. "Something ... comfortable?"

Daisy should have known that something more was brewing when Laia joined them in a candy-cane striped dress, Kenji close behind in a bright red jacket that Daisy suspected he stole from a marching band storeroom. Or Buckingham Palace.

And that was how Daisy wound up wearing jeans and a crop top to her Nutcracker-themed surprise party.

"You're still the prettiest one here," Nic had offered when she'd berated him about it.

She'd hit him with her purse.

"And the meanest," he'd grumbled, rubbing his arm.

But then he'd danced with her to track twelve. And thirteen. Through to the final waltz. Needless to say, all had been forgiven, and Daisy had dreamed about his hands on her lower back for weeks.

Okay, months.

Sipping on a raspberry vodka in Cobain, a grungy bar in Fortitude Valley with dark walls suffocated by Nirvana posters, Daisy was starting to rethink her stance on surprises. When Hunt had shown up at her apartment that afternoon, she'd been halfway through decorating his sorry excuse of a welcome-home cake. Her nail polish was chipped. Her foundation was splotchy from her battle with the broken sink that morning. She'd been wearing her old sports shorts that had a hole in the hem. It was all a far cry from how Daisy had planned to look picking Hunt up from the airport the next day—and the khaki lingerie she'd planned to wear underneath.

But it had felt so right.

And call her naïve, but when Hunt had called her beautiful, Daisy believed him.

It was why she sat back and watched him slip away from their table now. He chewed on a grin that spelled out trouble, stepping out of the red light of the bar and into the shadows.

He was up to something. Daisy didn't know what. But for the first time in her life, she was looking forward to being surprised.

"Narcissistic jerk," Honey muttered into her wine.

It was strange to see Honey drinking again; she'd sworn off everything that wasn't water when she married Matthew. Sworn off cursing, too. Sworn off fun, Laia had once joked. Daisy disagreed; watching Honey's nostrils flare as she sorted through her head for a Bible-approved insult had been as fun as spending an evening at the ballet. But Daisy was glad to have her friend back—colourful insults and all.

Daisy followed her friend's frosty stare. Ice queen, the guys from high school used to call her, all because Honey rejected every one of their advances. Sure enough, it was a man at the root of Honey's irritation; Adam was leaning against the bar, his shoulder-length blonde hair swept into a low knot at the base of his neck. Two girls—fresh out of high school, by the looks of it—gazed at him with hearts in their eyes as he signed their napkins, then took a quick photo with them.

Honey muttered something into her wine about meathead athletes, then slammed her glass on the table with impressive force.

Daisy widened her eyes. Wherever Honey and Adam had snuck off to while she and Hunt had been reuniting had left her new roomie in a terribly foul mood. She'd been sour-faced all night. Though Daisy did catch her lips twitch into a smirk when Adam had stumbled on the last step coming down to the bar.

Daisy opened her mouth to prod her. Closed it.

Best to leave Honey alone, she thought.

"Has Hunt said anything about Vanessa?" Laia asked suddenly.

Daisy flinched at the name. A trigger warning would have been nice.

She swirled her straw in her drink. "Why would he?"

Lai, Honey, and Belle exchanged a look.

"Have you even been listening to us?" Lai asked.

Daisy nodded. "Totally."

Her friends cocked their eyebrows at her. Because Daisy was twisting her hair.

Releasing the lock, she sighed. "Not really. No."

Lai's grin was a slice of fond amusement as she turned her phone around. StarCrossed—Brisbane's one-stop news outlet for trashy celebrity gossip—was pulled up on the screen. So was a photo of Vanessa—cosying up to someone who wasn't Zaid.

"Looks like she's moved on from musicians," Laia mused dryly, tapping a red nail on the screen. "Football players are where it's at, it seems."

Daisy's jaw dropped. "She's engaged to Louis Froy?" The Lions' ​​centre half-forward was an Australian heartthrob—and a notorious playboy, if previous StarCrossed articles were to be believed. Yet not a single one of his flings had managed to put a ring on his finger.

Needless to say, he was quite the catch.

"Poor Zaid." Belle shook her head sadly, her chocolate curls swaying gently with the movement. "He was so smitten with her."

"It won't last," Laia remarked dryly. "Rumour has it that Froy's being replaced next season. It'll be like Hunt and Zaid being dropped from their labels all over again. Without the fame"—Laia shrugged—"what do those men have to offer her?"

A twinge of pain shot through Daisy's heart. No. Not pain.

Pity.

"I hope it does," she said. "Last, I mean."

Laia almost fell off her seat. Even Belle looked at Daisy like she'd lost the plot. Honey was distracted. She was glaring at Adam again.

But Daisy meant it. Because there was something interesting, she thought, about prim and proper Vanessa Barinov chasing the wild cards—chasing musicians and AFL players—when Daisy knew that her family expected her to settle down with a doctor or lawyer or the next Rupert Murdoch. Hell, Daisy expected her to be the next Mrs Murdoch; who else owned as many argyle vests as Vanessa did?

But maybe this was Vanessa's way of rebelling. Of chasing a sliver of the danger she so obviously craved outside of her perfect posture and baby pink cardigans. It wasn't just interesting, Daisy realised, but horribly sad—that Vanessa felt as though her family wouldn't approve of the sort of life she wanted to lead. And that their approval meant more than her own happiness.

So, yes, Daisy meant it. Meant it again when she said, "I hope she can be happy now."

Laia stared at her, flabbergasted. She raised her glass of sparkling water