There's a reason nights are dangerous.
They make you honest.
10:47 p.m. – Lights Low, Walls Lower
The apartment is quiet in the way only expensive places get quiet—no neighbors yelling, no traffic horns, just the hum of the city pretending not to watch us.
The camera should be off.
It mostly is.
Mostly.
A small red dot blinks in the corner of the screen, forgotten, ignored, underestimated.
🔴 LIVE (UNINTENTIONAL)
Viewers: 186K and climbing
I'm sitting on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled to my chest. The day has been long. The comments louder. My chest feels tight in that annoying, inconvenient way emotions like to show up.
Darian is in the kitchen, rinsing a mug.
"You don't have to do everything alone," he says without turning around.
"I know," I reply. "I just… prefer it."
"That's not the same thing."
I sigh. "You always correct things."
"It's a habit."
"So is pretending I'm fine."
He turns then. Really turns. He sets the mug down carefully, like the sound might break me.
11:02 p.m. – The Truth Slips
He sits beside me on the floor, leaving a careful inch of space. Respectful. Too respectful.
"You were brave today," he says softly.
I laugh under my breath. "I cried over a comment that called me a PR parasite."
"They were wrong."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he says. No hesitation. "Because I see you."
That sentence lands harder than any headline.
I stare at the carpet. "This was never supposed to be… this."
"What was it supposed to be?" he asks.
"Temporary," I whisper. "Transactional. Safe."
He nods slowly. "And now?"
"Now it feels like I'm standing on the edge of something and pretending I'm not scared."
Silence stretches. The city breathes.
11:19 p.m. – The Almost
Darian shifts closer. Not touching. Just… there.
"I didn't plan to fall for you," he says, voice low, almost to himself. "I planned to survive."
My heart stumbles.
"You're not allowed to say that," I murmur.
"I know."
"Because if you finish that sentence—"
"I won't," he promises. "Not tonight."
I look up. Our eyes meet. The space between us feels charged, alive, like the pause before a storm.
The red dot blinks.
The viewer count spikes.
LIVE VIEWERS: 1.2 MILLION
The comments are whispering now, reverent.
@IsThisReal: THEY DON'T KNOW WE'RE HERE
@QuietHours: THIS FEELS PRIVATE
@PleaseStop: END THE LIVE
11:31 p.m. – The Rule Break
My voice cracks. "I don't want to be a performance anymore."
He reaches out—then stops himself halfway.
"I won't touch you unless you want me to," he says.
I nod, swallowing. "Thank you."
We sit there, shoulder to shoulder now, heat without contact.
"I don't regret choosing you," he adds quietly. "Even when it hurt."
The sentence hangs. Dangerous. Tender.
My breath catches.
I stand abruptly. "The camera."
He looks up—sees it.
"Oh."
He reaches for the phone.
11:33 p.m. – The Cut
🔴 LIVE ENDED
Too late.
Clips are already spreading. The internet has tasted the truth and wants more.
We stand there, hearts racing, the silence roaring back.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"For what?"
"For making it hard to pretend."
I meet his eyes. "Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Being honest."
He almost smiles. Almost.
"Goodnight, Lyra."
"Goodnight, Darian."
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, heart loud in my ears.
Tomorrow, the world will wake up to whispers and edits and theories.
And we'll wake up pretending we didn't almost cross a line we can't uncross.