In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

THREE

I lie there, eyes wide open, watching Brad sleep next to me. His chest rises and falls like he's got nothing to worry about in the world. Meanwhile, my mind? Racing. It's 3 a.m., and my phone's lighting up with notifications from the Insta story I just posted – a picture of Brad, shirtless, looking like a damn dream with his back to the camera. The caption? Straight-up bait. My finger hovers over the screen, second-guessing the whole thing.

Dinner tonight? That shit was unreal. Fancy-ass restaurant, champagne flowing like we're royalty. Braden's good at that—being all smooth and treating me like I'm the only girl on the planet. But somewhere in that mess of affection, I felt it. That possessive vibe, like he was staking a claim, wanting to lock things down. Make us exclusive.

And here I am, lying next to him, already doubting it. Brad's a great guy, but is he the guy? Every time he talks about "our future," my stomach twists. Like, I'm not trying to rush into a picket fence fantasy, ya know? Slow it down. But Brad? I know what he wants. And I'm not sure if I'm ready for that.

The phone lights up again. I squint at the screen, trying not to wake Brad. UNKNOWN NUMBER.

I feel my pulse spike. I already know who it is. He doesn't even have the balls to save his own number in my phone anymore. I slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the bathroom, heart pounding like I'm in some goddamn soap opera.

"Thank god you picked up." Jack's voice slams into my ear the second I answer. He sounds like he's been drinking, slurring a little, but still sharp enough to make me tense. I knew this call was coming eventually.

"Did you go out tonight, Morgan?" he asks, like he's got any right to.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, Jack, I went out. Had dinner with Brad."

There's a pause, and I can practically feel the irritation coming through the line. "Yeah? Well, I hit the club with Trevor and a few others... it was fucking wild." He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. The kind of laugh you give when you're pretending everything's fine but it's clearly not.

I sigh, looking at myself in the mirror, barely lit by the glow of my phone screen. "You sound like you've had about five drinks too many. Where are you right now?"

"Me and Zegras just called an Uber. Party's fucking over. Shit was dead anyway."

Of course. I swear, every time Jack gets trashed, he decides it's the perfect time to drag me into his mess. But why tonight? Why now?

"Listen," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "I don't know why you're calling me at 3 a.m., but you really need to delete my number and go home." My words feel like a slap, but damn, he needs it.

He's quiet for a beat, then his voice turns bitter. "I saw your story. The one with Brad. What the fuck, Morgan? You're better than that. That guy? Fucking loser. You know it."

My heart skips, anger bubbling up, but I keep it in check. "Are you serious right now? You're calling me drunk to talk shit about Brad?"

"You're wasting your time on him, Morgan," he says, voice sharp. "Think about it. You don't actually like him like that. He's just a safe bet. You're afraid to be with someone who could actually make you feel something."

There it is. The fucking truth, right? He's always gotta cut deeper, hit me where it stings the most.

"You're drunk, Jack. Quit drinking and get home. This conversation is over." I can't let him get to me. Not again. Not tonight.

"No, I fucking mean it. You knew it was me calling, and you still answered," Jack snaps, and yeah—he's right. Of course I knew it was him. I could've let it go to voicemail, could've just ignored it. But I didn't.