Chapter 1

The neon sign for "The Rusty Anchor" flickered overhead, casting a rhythmic, sickly blue light over the scarred wood of our table. I didn’t look at the screen of Sam’s phone. I couldn't. Instead, I watched his thumb—the way it moved with a soft, practiced affection as he swiped through photos of *her*. It was a small, traitorous movement.

"She’s great, Leo. Really," Sam said, his voice pitched in that hopeful, slightly desperate frequency he used when he wanted my approval. "I think you’d actually like her if you gave it a chance."

I reached for my drink, the condensation on the glass slick against my palm. I didn't take a sip. I just held it, feeling the cold seep into my skin. "I’ve heard this before, Sam. Six months ago with Chloe. Eight months before that with Sarah. You always think they're 'the one' until they realize how much work you actually are."

Sam’s smile faltered, just a fraction. He pulled the phone back toward his chest, the glow of the screen illuminating the doubt I had just planted. "This is different. It feels different."

"They all feel different in the first three weeks," I said, my voice dropping to a low, soothing hum. "But I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces when they leave because you’re 'too much' or 'too needy.' Remember the night Chloe blocked you? Who was sitting on your floor until 4:00 a.m.?"

Sam looked down at the table, his finger tracing a ring of moisture. "You were. I know. I appreciate it, man, I do."

"I’m just looking out for you," I said. I shifted closer, the vinyl of the booth creaking. The bar was loud—heavy bass from the jukebox and the raucous laughter of strangers—but in our corner, the world felt like it was shrinking. "I’m the only one who actually sees you. The messy parts. The parts she’s going to find 'weird' in a month."

Sam laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound that didn't reach his eyes. "C’mon, Leo. Don't be like that. Let’s just have a drink."

He reached for the bowl of pretzels, but I moved faster. I didn't grab the food. I reached across the table and clamped my hand over his wrist. My grip was firm, unyielding. I felt the jump of his pulse against my fingertips—fast, like a trapped bird.

"Leo?" he whispered, his eyes darting around to see if anyone was watching. No one was. We were invisible in the dark.

"She doesn’t know you like I do, Sam," I said, leaning in until I could smell the faint scent of his laundry detergent. "She sees the version of you that’s fun at dinner. She doesn’t see the hollow. When she finds out, she’ll leave. They always leave."

Sam tried to pull back, a reflex of discomfort, but I tightened my hold until my knuckles turned white. The physical pressure was a promise. I wasn't just holding his arm; I was anchoring him.

"You're hurting me a little," Sam said, though he didn't fight. That was the beauty of Sam—he was soft. He was built to be held.

"I'm the only one who stays," I whispered, my voice a jagged edge of devotion. "Everyone else is just passing through. You know that, right? Tell me you know that."

Sam’s shoulders slumped. The light in his eyes, that bright, annoying spark he’d had when he walked in, finally went out. He stopped pulling away. His arm went limp in my hand, surrendering to the weight of my "loyalty."

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice hollow. "I know."

His phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with a notification: a heart emoji and a text that started with *Can't wait to see...* I didn't let go of his wrist. With my free hand, I reached over and flipped the phone face-down on the sticky wood. The silence that followed was the heaviest thing in the room.

"Ignore it," I said, the corners of my mouth twitching into a dark, satisfied smile. "It’s just us tonight. Like it’s supposed to be."

Sam didn't look up. He sat there, trapped in the booth, trapped in the blue light, trapped in the terrifying safety of being known by no one but me.