Rain battered the station windows, tracing trembling paths down the glass, as Veyra hunched alone over her soundboard. Even here, in the dimmed hush of her booth, the storm outside felt close, as if thunder could shake her bones loose. She pressed her headphones tighter, controlling the music, controlling every frequency except the one in her chest—the ache that wanted to break her cool exterior. Ivo’s reflection moved behind her in the glass, tall, broad-shouldered, intense, his presence always disquieting. He’d come in quietly, watching her work, until now.

“You ever get tired of hiding?” His voice was low, a challenge and a lifeline.

She froze, her pulse suddenly wild. “Someone has to keep this circus broadcast running.” The chill in her tone didn’t fool him, or herself, anymore. Ivo stepped closer, the heat of his body narrowing the world.

The sound of rain softened further as the power flickered—the generator humming, the booth lights golden and uncertain. Ivo’s hand brushed her wrist. “I want to hear what’s under the static, Veyra.” She wanted to pull away, should have, but she let him turn her to face him. His shirt was already half-undone, hair messy, a man coming undone from the inside out.

For a heartbeat, neither moved—then she crashed into him, mouth greedy, fingers fisted in the fabric at his chest. He tasted like coffee and adrenaline. Ivo cupped her jaw, dragging her with him as he stumbled back into the padded wall, her bare thighs parting around his hips as she climbed him in the shadowed studio. His fingers tangled in her rain-soaked hair. She gasped—half pain, half relief—her pulse thunder.

She confessed, breathless and shaking. “I almost killed someone, back in Detroit. On air. I lost control—there was screaming—”

He kissed the sentence out of her mouth, soft, desperate, promising silence. “You’re not broken.”

The storm raged louder as she rode him in the dark booth, each movement raw and aching, her body arching against his, their moans barely muffled. She sobbed, letting herself break open in his arms, trusting he wouldn’t let her drown. It was frantic, half-clothed, everything they’d both run from now burning through their skin.

After, she slumped against him, sweat and tears slick between them, both catching their breath. He kissed her temple, gentle now—something trembling, apologetic in it—as if he’d given up a piece of himself for good.

At the same hour, in the diner’s neon glow, Mairen scrawled notes for her next show, her lipstick smudged and voice ragged from laughter. The prank she’d set up—a fake “cheater confession” segment—had been meant to shock the town, put her at the heart of every whispered story. It backfired spectacularly. The wrong tape aired: her own drunken ramble, all raw need and reckless confessions, sabotaged by nerves and vodka.

Solan hovered, clearing plates, cheeks flushed as he overheard Mairen berating herself, head in her hands. His heart pounded with an ache he never voiced.

He tried to comfort her with a clumsy joke, but she was raw and sharp, pushing him away. “You wouldn’t get it. You’re still… clean.”

“Try me,” he said, so gently she almost laughed.

She caught his hand, squeezed it hard, eyes glinting with tears she refused to show. “Why are you nice to me, Solan?”

He shrugged, blushing scarlet, voice almost a whisper. “Because I see you.”

The tension hung, breathless. She leaned in, brushing her lips over his. The kiss was tentative, searching—not desire, but need. Her fingers lingered at his jaw, trembling, fighting the urge to keep going, before she pulled back, regret sharp in her voice. “Go home, Solan.”

He watched her, hope flickering, then nodded and left, heart heavy but not quite broken.

After midnight, the bell above the diner rang—and Solan’s online “love,” the woman he’d sent hundreds of dollars and confessions to, walked in from the storm. Her hair was limp, roots showing, eyeliner running crookedly. She wore a hoodie and a sly, measuring smile.

Solan’s chest seized. “It’s you?” His voice was small.

She slid onto a stool, shrugged. “You got a coffee?” Her eyes flicked past him, bored already. He stared, shattered, realizing every fantasy had been a lie. He handed her coffee in silence, then turned away to hide his tears.

The rain slackened toward dawn as Veyra, still wrapped in Ivo’s arms, stared into the gloom past the studio window. “You can go,” she said quietly.

He almost did. Instead, he tucked her hair behind her ear, kissing away salt and regret.

Down at the pier, Solan sat alone, phone glowing in his palm. He deleted each message from his catfish, fingertip trembling, pain kept private. He didn’t hear the steady footsteps until Mairen appeared, coat slick with rain, eyes unreadable.

She didn’t speak. She sat beside him, knees brushing, both staring out at nothing. Solan wanted her to say something—anything—that might put him back together. Instead, she reached for his hand, squeezing.

Before he could speak, a siren tore through the dark, red lights flashing at the edge of the breakwater. Both their heads snapped up as a police car skidded to a stop by the lighthouse.

Inside the beam’s sweep, someone staggered—clutching a bloodied jacket.

Solan’s breath caught. Mairen’s hand tightened on his.

To be continued...