A/N: For those of you who don't know, I am releasing every single chapter of this story right now! The book is complete and the full story is yours. Also Chapter Three of the Madelyn Cline story is published!

𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

The soft glow of the early morning sun filters through my bedroom curtains, casting warm, golden streaks across the sheets. The house is quiet, except for the occasional creak of the walls settling and the faint hum of the city beyond my window.

I shift slightly, stretching beneath the covers, and the movement beside me makes me pause. Y/n is still asleep, her face buried in my pillow, one arm slung lazily over my waist.

Her breathing is soft and steady, her lips slightly parted. She looks peaceful like this—completely at ease, as if she belongs here.

And maybe she does.

I let my fingers trace gently over the curve of her bare shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin under my touch. It still feels surreal, waking up like this, with her beside me—no more unspoken tension, no more blurred lines. Just us.

A sleepy mumble escapes her lips, and she shifts, nestling closer. "Mmm, stop staring at me, weirdo."

I laugh softly. "I wasn't staring."

"Liar," she mutters, her voice thick with sleep. "You do that a lot. I can feel it."

I roll my eyes, but my smile lingers. "Maybe I like looking at you."

Y/n cracks one eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips. "Yeah? What's so fascinating?"

I run a hand through her slightly messy hair, pushing a strand away from her face. "The way your nose scrunches when you're dreaming. The little pout you do when you sleep. The fact that you drool—"

"Oh, shut up," she groans, burying her face in the pillow as I laugh. "I do not drool."

"Mm-hmm," I hum, biting back a grin. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

She groans dramatically and rolls onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling. "God, you're annoying."

Y/n turns her head, shoving her face into the pillow, a lopsided smile on her face as I giggled.

The moment lingers, charged but soft. I don't think I'll ever get used to this—the quiet intimacy, the playful teasing, the way she looks at me like I'm something worth holding onto.

Before either of us can say anything else, a loud, enthusiastic voice echoes from down the hall.

"Mommy!"

Y/n and I both jolt upright at the same time, eyes wide.

"Shit," she whispers, glancing around for her shirt before quickly pulling it over her head.

I barely have time to laugh before my bedroom door flies open, and Rose bounds in, her hair still messy from sleep. She stops abruptly at the sight of Y/n, blinking up at her with sleepy curiosity.

"Morning, baby," I say, trying to sound casual as I sit up against the pillows. "What's up?"

Rose's eyes dart between us, and then, instead of questioning anything, she just climbs onto the bed like she does every morning.

"I had a dream about a unicorn," she announces, settling herself comfortably between me and Y/n. "It had sparkly wings, and it could shoot ice from its horn."

"Whoa," Y/n says, eyes wide in exaggerated amazement. "That's way cooler than my dreams. Mine are just about boring stuff like... taxes."

Rose giggles. "Taxes?"

"Yeah," Y/n sighs dramatically. "Sometimes I dream about paying them. It's terrifying."

Rose giggles even harder, curling into my side. "You're funny."

Y/n grins, and something warm spreads in my chest as I watch them interact.

"Where's Cosmo?" I ask, brushing Rose's hair back.

She shrugs. "Still sleeping. Can we make pancakes?"

I glance at Y/n, and she gives me a subtle, knowing smile. "Yeah, let's make pancakes."

Rose immediately perks up and scrambles out of bed. "Okay! But I get to stir the batter!"

She takes off down the hall before I can protest.

Y/n lets out a chuckle and rubs a hand over her face. "Well. That wasn't awkward at all."

"You already know she likes you," I say, watching her closely.

"Yeah?" Y/n glances at me, something soft in her expression.

I nod. "Yeah."

There's a pause before she leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead. "Good," she murmurs.

I smile against her lips before pulling back. "Come on. Before she sets the kitchen on fire."

Y/n groans, swinging her legs out of bed. "I am not awake enough for that level of chaos."

"You better wake up fast," I tease. "Because if this was any indication, it means she's gonna want to do everything with you now."

Y/n freezes mid-step. "Oh, shit."

I just laugh, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the bathroom so we could get our day started. "Welcome to my world."

. . .

Yesterday, Y/N and I spent the whole day with my kids, Rose and Cosmo didn't let Y/n leave last night which, I also didn't mind.

I never thought I'd be the type of person to sit on a hard plastic chair in a warehouse-turned-photo-studio at 9 a.m. just to watch someone else work.

Yet, here I am—elbows on my knees, chin resting in my palm, watching Y/n with what is probably the dopiest smile I've ever had on my face.

She was standing in front of a massive white backdrop, dressed in an effortlessly cool all-black outfit—a fitted t-shirt tucked into tailored trousers, chunky sneakers, and a silver chain peeking from under her shirt collar.

Her hair was styled to perfection, a few stray strands falling into her face as she listens intently to the photographer's direction.

It's a brand collaboration shoot for a high-end fashion campaign, and honestly? She looks like she was made for this.

"Alright, Y/n, give me something relaxed, natural," the photographer calls out.

Without missing a beat, Y/n slouches slightly, shoving her hands in her pockets with an exaggerated, almost smug look—like she's caught someone checking her out at a party.

"Oh, come on," I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes as a few of the stylists near me let out small, delighted sighs.

She's too good at this.

"Perfect, perfect! Love it!" The photographer grins, snapping several shots. "Now, let's do something more intense. Give me that 'I could steal your girl' energy."

Y/n immediately tilts her head, narrowing her eyes in that lazy, self-assured way that makes my stomach do a ridiculous little flip. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip just slightly, and it's so subtle, but I know exactly what she's doing.

I narrow my eyes.

This little shit.

"Oh my God," I mutter, shaking my head as I cross my arms.

"Right?" One of the stylists sighs dreamily. "She just has that thing, you know?"

Yeah, I know. And I have the unfortunate problem of being ridiculously into it.

Y/n's eyes flick to me between shots, and when she catches my unimpressed expression, her smirk widens. I swear, if we weren't in public, I'd wipe that cocky grin right off her face.

A few minutes later, the photographer calls for a break, and Y/n strolls over like she has all the time in the world. "Hey," she greets, taking a seat next to me and grabbing a water bottle from the table. "You enjoying the show?"

I tilt my head. "Oh, you mean the performance you're putting on? The one where you're purposely making every woman in this room fall in love with you?"

She takes a slow sip of water, raising an eyebrow. "Is it working?"

"Obviously," I deadpan. "You're a menace."

She laughs, bumping her knee against mine. "I noticed you weren't looking away, though."

I scoff. "You're impossible."

"Mm." She leans in, voice dropping slightly. "But you like it."

I glare at her, but I can't fight the small smile pulling at my lips. "You're lucky you're cute."

She winks. "So I've heard."

I groan dramatically, but before I can make a retort, the makeup artist approaches. "Hey, Y/n, you're needed for touch-ups."

Y/n stands, stretching her arms over her head, and I pointedly look away because I refuse to give her the satisfaction of catching me staring.

She leans down before walking off, brushing her fingers lightly against my knee. "Be good while I'm gone."

I huff. "No promises."

As she walks back onto the set, I catch one of the stylists watching me with an amused smirk.

"You two are cute," she comments.

I blink. "We're—" I pause, realizing there's no point in denying it. Instead, I just shake my head with a small smile. "Thanks."

And maybe for the first time, it feels good to admit it, I want people to know we're a thing. After her posts, people already put it together.

. . .

𝐘/𝐍'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

By the time we stepped out of the studio, the afternoon sun is dipping low, casting a golden glow over the city. I shove my hands in my pockets, sunglasses perched on my nose, walking a step behind Scarlett as we head toward her car.

Today's been good—better than good. Waking up with her, making pancakes with Rose, watching her watch me during my shoot (and trying so hard to act unimpressed).

It's the kind of day that makes me feel like this thing between us isn't just some fleeting moment but something real.

Something I don't want to lose.

Scarlett reaches for my hand absentmindedly as we cross the street, her fingers curling around mine like she doesn't even have to think about it. And I don't think—I just squeeze back, grinning slightly to myself.

But the moment is cut short.

The second we round the corner, I hear it before I see it—the click, click, click of cameras, the low murmur of voices.

Paparazzi.

"Scarlett, over here!"

I stiffen instinctively, my grip on Scarlett's hand tightening.

She barely reacts, just exhales softly, like she's already used to this, already expecting it. "Just keep walking," she murmurs, voice calm but firm.

I nod, but it's easier said than done.

The flashes are relentless, blinding even behind my sunglasses. I can hear the distant whoosh of traffic, the low hum of city life, but mostly, I hear them—dozens of voices, shouting, pushing, throwing questions at us like they have any right to answers.

Scarlett keeps her head down, focused on getting to the car, but I catch glimpses—cameras shoved in our faces, people stepping way too close. My jaw clenches.

One of them calls out, "Y/n! Is she just another fling, or are you in it for the long haul?"

I stop walking.

Scarlett immediately tugs at my hand, her voice low and urgent. "Don't. It's not worth it."

I turn my head, sunglasses slipping slightly down my nose, just enough to meet the guy's eyes. "You got something you wanna say to me?"

The guy—a middle-aged man with a camera strapped around his neck—doesn't back down. "Just asking a question. Fans wanna know—"

"Fans don't need to know shit about my personal life," I say, voice even but firm.

Scarlett squeezes my hand. "Y/n, come on."

I take a slow breath, forcing myself to let it go, to remember that this is her world, and losing my temper won't do anything but make this worse. So, I exhale, step back, and follow her lead.

By the time we reach the car, Scarlett unlocks it quickly, and we slide in. The moment the doors shut, the outside noise dulls to a distant murmur.

Scarlett turns to me, lips parted like she's about to say something, but she hesitates.

I lean my head back against the seat, inhaling deeply. "How do you do this all the time?"

She sighs, shifting to face me. "I've had practice."

"That doesn't make it any less shitty."

"No," she admits, watching me closely. "But you can't let them get to you."

I scoff. "That's easy for you to say. You don't hear the shit they say about me online."

Her eyes soften, and she reaches for my hand again, this time intertwining our fingers like she's trying to ground me. "I don't care what they say."

I glance at her. "Maybe you don't. But I do."

She studies me for a long moment, like she's searching for the right thing to say. Then, finally, she squeezes my hand. "We'll figure it out," she murmurs.

There's something in the way she says it—so sure, so steady—that makes my chest tighten just a little.

I nod, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. We will."

She smiles, small but warm, then reaches up to push my sunglasses back up my nose. "Come on, brooding hero. Let's go home."

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, yeah."

As she starts the car, the noise outside fades into the background. And even with all the chaos, the questions, the flashing lights—I find myself looking at her and thinking that maybe, just maybe, this is worth it.

All of it.