Chapter Text
Oh, I thought the world of you
I thought nothing could go wrong
But I was wrong, I was wrong
- Linger, The Cranberries.
Of all the places on planet Earth, the last Dayse ever wanted to live in was New York.
It wasn't just that she just didn't like this city.
She hated it.
She had nothing against people who loved New York, or people who dreamed of living there. Everyone had their own appetite for chaos. She had been born and raised in a big city herself—well… New Yorkers would probably laugh at it and call it a silly small town—but even then, she had always dreamed of living somewhere quieter. Smaller. Somewhere the air didn't feel constantly disturbed, as if it were never allowed to settle.
It was ten minutes to nine at night, and the city sounded like it was waking up instead of winding down. Cars honked below, sharp and impatient. Sirens cut through the air like knives. Somewhere far away, bass vibrated through concrete and steel. The noise didn't blend—it stacked, layer upon layer.
Her skin felt too tight for her body.
In moments like that, Dayse seriously asked herself if she has autism. She absolutely hated noise.
"This is going to be hell," she muttered.
"Then leave, for fuck's sake!" Lara shot back from the kitchen.
That was Lara. One of her best friends. A Manhattanite now—was that even a word?—but still Brazilian, still Northeastern, still very much herself. They had met in college, back when they were both engineering students. Back when Lara hated everything that involved calculations, equations, and industrial plants, and still tried to convince herself she could survive that life. Her dream had always been acting and Lara had arrived in New York with two hundred dollars and slept on a camping bed in the apartment of actors she didn't even know. Five years later, she was starring in major Broadway productions and working as an assistant director in serious theater and film projects.
For Dayse, Lara was living proof that if you had a dream—no matter how impractical, insane, or statistically unlikely—it deserved a real fight.
But Lara had always wanted New York.
Dayse hadn't.
"I was so happy thinking I'd finally have my best friend here," Lara continued, pouring herself a drink, "and all you do is complain. It's exhausting."
Dayse sighed and shrugged, staring at the massive windows in front of her. The penthouse was absurd. Floor-to-ceiling glass, polished concrete floors, minimalist furniture that probably cost more than her car back home. Outside, the city glowed—angry, beautiful, relentless. Tribeca at night looked like money and ambition had learned how to reflect light.
"I think I miss home," she said quietly. "I miss my dad."
Her father would never live here. Not in the United States, and definitely not in New York. His dream was a farm in the middle of nowhere. A garden. Silence. A life measured by seasons instead of deadlines. Dayse took after him. The problem was that idyllic dreams weren't sustainable. He was sixty-four—still young, still strong—but time had a way of collecting debts. One day, he would need her.
And Dayse would be there.
"Your dad will be fine," Lara said, softer now.
Yeah. But I miss him. Dayse thought.
Noticing her silence, Lara put her glass down and walked toward her, sitting beside her on the couch. "Listen," she said, nudging Dayse's knee with hers, "if this place makes you miserable, go back. You can't live somewhere that makes you cry."
It hadn't even been twenty-four hours. And the weight in her chest wasn't fear—it was resistance. The kind you feel when life pushes you somewhere you didn't choose, but still need to go.
"I have to be here," Dayse said. "Regina is doing her PhD, she needs me. She brought me in as her master's researcher. Columbia. This isn't small."
Regina was her boss. They were conducting research on condensate gas volatility during petroleum prospecting.
Dayse paused, choosing her words carefully. "Our company transferred us here to integrate the research with operational improvements. This study can actually change how they deal with instability and recovery during leaks. It can change my whole career."
Lara raised an eyebrow. "You talk about hydrocarbons like some people talk about love."
"I respect hydrocarbons," Dayse said dryly. "They don't lie."
Lara laughed. "God, you're impossible." She stood up suddenly, clapping her hands. "Enough wallowing. Get dressed."
"For what?"
"For living," Lara said. "There's a party tonight. You're coming."
"I don't do parties."
"You're in New York now. You'll learn to do them."
An hour later, Dayse stood in front of the mirror, adjusting a black dress that hugged her body like it worship her. Clean lines. Sharp tailoring. Lara leaned against the doorframe, smiling like a proud menace.
"You know," Lara said, "you're neighbors with JFK Jr."
Dayse blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Same building. Same floor, I think. There’re only two penthouses here, I guess. Yours and his."
“It’s not mine, it’s corporate housing.”
"That's it?" Lara asked. "No reaction? No gasp?"
"Why would I gasp?"
"Because he's basically American royalty."
Dayse shrugged. "Why would I care?"
Lara rolled her eyes. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm an engineer, Lara. Not a historian."
Lara laughed all the way to the elevator.
The party was in a place that smelled like money, perfume, and ambition. Low lights. Heavy bass. Conversations layered in multiple languages. People who looked like they belonged on magazine covers pretending they weren't aware of it. Dayse hated it instantly.
Lara, of course, thrived. She dragged Dayse toward the bar. "Drink," she ordered.
"I don't need alcohol."
"Yes, you do."
That's when Dayse met Brad Paul. He stood beside them, impeccably dressed, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. He watched people the way engineers watched systems—looking for patterns, flaws, flow.
"You look like someone who wants to be anywhere else," he said to her.
Dayse smiled despite herself. "I am."
He extended his hand. "Brad."
"Dayse," she replied.
"Engineer," Lara added proudly.
"Fashion," he countered, equally proud.
Brad's grip was firm but brief. Confident without trying to dominate. That alone told her something about him. Dayse raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous combination."
He grinned. "Only if you're afraid of change."
And just like that, something clicked.
"Engineer," he repeated, scanning her from head to toe with open curiosity. Not invasive. Analytical. "No. I don't buy that."
Lara laughed instantly. Loud. Proud. Almost theatrical. "Oh, she is. Tragically so."
"So are you, traitor!" Dayse shot back. Lara wasn't an active engineer but she had gotten her degree.
Brad tilted his head, squinting like he was recalculating a model that didn't quite close. "You're too… polished."
"Is that an insult?" Dayse asked.
"It's a diagnosis," he said calmly. "Engineers usually look like they're one coffee away from a breakdown. You look like you could fire a CEO and then go to dinner."
Dayse smirked. "I've fired a drilling contractor once."
His eyes lit up. "See? And yet—" he gestured vaguely at her "—tailored dress, perfect hair, posture like you were raised in some European finishing school."
"I was raised by a very judgmental Brazilian woman and a father who believed silence was a virtue," she replied. "It shows."
Brad grinned wider. "God, I like her already."
Lara leaned against the bar, sipping her drink, eyes dancing. "Told you. She's not only smart, she's emotionally unavailable and judgmental. A delight."
"Explains the outfit," Brad said. "Defense mechanism."
"Excuse me?" Dayse shot back.
"Sharp lines. Neutral palette. No excess. It says 'don't touch unless you have a reason.'"
Dayse stared at him for a second longer than necessary. "Okay," she said finally. "That was uncomfortably accurate. But I actually enjoy more color… but it depends of my mood."
He raised his glass. "Fashion is applied psychology."
"And engineering is applied disappointment," she replied.
Lara burst out laughing. "I missed this. You two are going to get along just fine."
Brad turned to her. "So how did you end up knowing this intimidating woman?"
"We survived thermodynamics together," Lara said solemnly. "Trauma bonding."
Dayse shook her head. "She abandoned engineering for theater."
"And look at me now," Lara said, spreading her arms dramatically. "Broadway, baby."
Brad clapped once. "Of course you're Broadway."
"And he's fashion," Lara continued, pointing at Brad. "Started as Junior designer at Ralph Lauren but then Ralph decided to invest in him… he’s about to make it everyone else's problem."
Brad rolled his eyes. "Please. I just dress rich women who are afraid of color."
"And women like me?" Dayse asked.
He smiled, softer this time. "Women like you don't need my help."
Brad was so gay. And she loved it. No undercurrent. Just appreciation. The kind that feels clean. Safe. Rare. "So," Brad said, leaning closer so she could hear him over the music, "what brings an engineer who hates noise, crowds, and joy to a place like this?"
"I lost a bet," Dayse said.
Lara gasped. "She moved countries for research."
"See?" Dayse added. "I hate losing."
Brad studied her again, this time with something closer to respect. "Oil and gas?"
"Condensate gas," she replied. "Volatility, instability, recovery strategies during operational leaks."
His eyebrows rose. "You just said something incredibly complex in the sexiest way possible."
"I don't need to be sexy," she said. "I need to be right."
Lara placed a hand over her heart. "She says things like that and wonders why men are intimidated."
Brad snorted. "Oh, honey. Men are intimidated because she's competent. The outfit just confirms it."
Dayse exhaled slowly, realizing she'd been holding her breath. For the first time since arriving in New York, she didn't feel like she was performing survival. She was just… there.
"So," Brad continued casually, "where are you staying?"
"Tribeca," Lara answered before she could. "Penthouse."
Brad's eyes widened. "Of course she is."
"It's corporate housing," Dayse said defensively to Lara. Again.
"And," Lara added like it was a secret she was about to share, "she's neighbors with JFK Jr."
Dayse groaned instantly. "Why do you do this?"
Brad blinked. Once. Twice. "Wait," he said slowly. "JFK Jr.?"
"Yes," Lara said. "That one. The walking American myth."
Brad turned to Dayse, eyes sparkling. "And you didn't lead with that?"
"Why would I?"
"Because some people would sell a kidney for that proximity."
"I just want decent water pressure and silence."
Lara laughed. "She met him and didn't even care."
"I didn't meet him," Dayse corrected. "I know he exists in the building. That's it."
Brad shook his head in disbelief. "You are wasted on this city."
"Tell me about it."
The music pulsed harder. The room felt warmer. People brushed past them, leaving traces of perfume, sweat, expensive cologne. She should have been overwhelmed. Instead, she felt oddly grounded.
Brad leaned closer to Lara, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "She's dangerous."
Lara nodded. "I know."
"Not because she's beautiful," he continued. "But because she doesn't need anyone's approval."
Brad straightened and smiled at her. "Stick with us tonight. I'll make sure no one boring talks to you."
"And if someone does?"
"I'll rescue you with aggressive honesty. I'm gay. It's my civic duty."
Dayse laughed. Really laughed. "Deal," she said.
And in that moment—standing in a room she hated, in a city she resented, between a friend who chased dreams and (a potential new) one who shaped them—she realized something quietly unsettling. Maybe New York wasn't trying to swallow her whole. Maybe it was just… waiting.
Hours later, the world tilted the moment the elevator doors closed. Not dramatically. Not violently. Just enough to remind her that tequila had opinions. Strong ones.
“Merda!”
She leaned back against the mirrored wall, blinking slowly, trying to convince the reflection to stay still. It didn't. The reflection looked suspiciously like a woman who had made several questionable life choices in the last three hours.
The elevator stopped. Shit, I didn’t pressed the penthouse button! But wasn't this a dedicated elevator?
The doors opened again. And then—oh. Oh.
He stepped in like he belonged there. Like gravity had adjusted itself in his favor. Tall, relaxed, effortless in that infuriating way men only achieve when they don't try. He wore dark jeans, a jacket thrown on with careless precision, and the kind of face that didn't need good lighting to work. The doors closed behind him. Silence.
She stared. Not subtly. Not politely. She stared the way drunk people stare when their brain is buffering. He glanced at her, amused already, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Good evening."
She squinted harder. "No," she said slowly, decisively. "You're him."
He raised an eyebrow. "I am?"
"Yes," she nodded, pointing vaguely at his face. "The… the American prince or some shit."
His smile widened. "The shit is a new one."
"Oh my God," she whispered, leaning closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing classified information. "You're John Kennedy Junior."
He laughed. Out loud. A real laugh, surprised and warm. "I am definitely guilty of that."
"Everyone," she continued, waving her hand in the air, "has been obsessed with the fact that I live next to you. Like—" she made air quotes aggressively, almost lost her balance, corrected herself by gripping the railing. "—'Oh my God, Day, you're neighbors with JFK Jr.' Over and over. Exhausting."
He crossed his arms, clearly entertained. "Sounds exhausting."
"I don't even care," she added firmly. "Like, at all."
"I'm relieved," he said. "That would've been awkward."
"You can call me Day," she announced. "Everyone does."
"John," he replied easily. "You can just call me John."
She frowned. "I don't know… John Kennedy Junior feels more… formal."
He chuckled. "Trust me. John is fine."
The elevator hummed upward. Her feet started to hurt. Actually—no. Her feet were staging a rebellion.
"I hate bras," she said suddenly.
John blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I hate them," she repeated, already reaching behind her back. "They're lies. Tiny cages of oppression."
Before he could respond, she slipped her shoes off, one by one, letting the heels clatter onto the marble floor.
"I admire your commitment," he said, eyes firmly fixed on the numbers above the door, his smile unmistakable.
She wriggled her shoulders, tugging the bra down under her dress with the determination of someone solving a mechanical problem. "Why does society expect us to endure this nonsense all night? Using a bra, I mean."
"I genuinely don't know," he said. "I'll write a letter."
Finally, victory! She pulled the bra free and held it up triumphantly. "Freedom," she sighed, then tossed it on top of her shoes.
John laughed again, shaking his head. "You're… fascinating."
"That's what my therapist says," she replied seriously.
The elevator slowed. Their floor. The doors opened.
She stepped out first, barefoot, victorious, swaying only slightly. John followed, still smiling like he couldn't quite believe this was real. He picked up her bra and shoes like a true gentleman he was.
"Do you want help getting to your apartment?" he asked gently.
She turned around, pointing at him with mock severity. "Nope. I am a very capable adult woman."
"I see that."
"I work with flammable," she added. "This hallway doesn't stand a chance."
He laughed softly. "Alright then."
She took her shoes and bra from him and started toward her door, then paused, turning back. "You're not that special, you know," she told him. "But you're funny."
"I'll take that," he said.
She nodded once, decisively, like a business deal had been closed. "Goodnight, John Kennedy Junior."
He watched her disappear into her apartment, still smiling as the door shut with a soft, definitive click.
John stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, the quiet settling around him like a held breath finally released. The carpet muted the city beyond the walls; the building exhaled its late-night calm. Somewhere far below, New York still roared—but up here, on this floor, the noise thinned into a distant memory.
He smiled. He couldn’t help it.
It wasn’t the alcohol on her breath that lingered—he barely noticed that. It was the way she had looked at him as if he were a curious detail, not a headline. The way she spoke with the kind of honesty that didn’t ask permission. The way she laughed at her own declarations, then declared them anyway. Sweet and sharp at the same time. Romantic without trying. Acid humor wrapped in softness.
Fascinating, he had said. And meant it.
He didn’t even know her name.
John walked the rest of the hallway to his own apartment, unlocked the door, stepped inside. The place greeted him with familiar stillness: clean lines, dark wood, the faint citrus of a candle someone else had lit earlier and forgotten to blow out. He set his keys down, shrugged off his jacket, and leaned against the kitchen counter, replaying the elevator in his mind with a bemused shake of his head.
She hadn’t cared. Not about the name. Not about the mythology. She had called him John Kennedy Junior like it was an administrative label, then proceeded to free herself from a bra in the most unapologetic way he’d ever seen.
He laughed quietly to himself.
Most people performed around him. Adjusted their posture. Softened or sharpened their voices. She had adjusted nothing—except her lingerie.
John slept well that night.
And morning came bright and clean, sunlight slicing through the city like a promise. He showered, dressed simply, and stepped outside with sunglasses on, jaw set in that calm, practiced way he had learned over a lifetime of attention.
The photographers found him anyway. Seagulls of the worst kind.
They always did.
Cameras clicked. Names were called. Questions floated toward him, unanswered, like kites without strings. He offered the same easy half-smile, the one that gave them something without giving them access. Glamour followed him like a second shadow.
He ducked into Balthazar, the smell of strong coffee and warm bread wrapping around him instantly. Familiar. Grounding. He ordered two coffees without thinking—dark, unapologetically strong—then paused, amused by his own instinct.
Two.
He carried them back through the streets, the lids warm against his palms, curiosity tapping at him with growing insistence. By the time he reached the building again, concern had joined it. She had been very drunk. And very alone.
The elevator ride felt longer this time.
Standing in front of her door, he hesitated. He shouldn’t intrude. He knew the rules—his own, carefully constructed. Boundaries mattered. Privacy mattered.
But curiosity won.
He rang the bell.
Nothing.
He rang it again.
Nothing. And again. And again.
A muffled sound from inside. Shuffling. Then a voice—low, thick with sleep.
“Who is it?”
John laughed softly, unable to stop himself. “It’s John.”
Silence.
“…John who?”
“The guy from the elevator. Last night.”
A pause. Then the door flew open.
She stood there barefoot, hair tousled, eyes wide and impossibly clear for someone who had been as drunk as she’d been. She grabbed him by the shoulders, staring up at him like he might disappear if she blinked.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Did I say something horrible to you while I was drunk?”
John grinned, genuinely delighted. She didn’t look hungover. She looked… alert. Soft. Dangerous in a domestic way he hadn’t expected.
“No,” he said. “Nothing horrible.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You hesitated.”
“I’m savoring the moment.”
“That wasn’t the question,” she said. “Did I embarrass myself?”
He shook his head. “Not even a little. I just wanted to check on you.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands. “Is that coffee?”
“Very strong coffee.”
Her face softened instantly. “Come in.”
She stepped aside, releasing him, already turning toward the kitchen as if this were the most natural progression in the world. He followed, amused, intrigued, a little stunned.
“How are you not dying?” he asked, setting the cups down.
She shrugged. “Unfair tolerance. Alcohol, painkillers, life in general.”
The kitchen was warm, lived-in despite its perfection. Something was already heating on the stove. Butter, maybe. He inhaled.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.
She took one of the coffees from his hand and nodded toward the counter. “Sit. You’re about to have a proper Brazilian breakfast.”
He obeyed without question.
“Tapioca,” she said over her shoulder. “Ever had it?”
John shook his head, smiling to himself, watching her move—sure, graceful, entirely unconcerned with who he was supposed to be.
“No,” he said.
The world pause for John as he sat on the cool stone edge of the kitchen island, the city muted behind glass and altitude, watching Dayse move.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t perform. She moved with the calm efficiency of someone who trusted her own body—hips brushing the counter, bare feet grounded, hair still carrying the soft rebellion of sleep. There was something intimate about witnessing a morning routine you hadn’t earned yet. Something almost dangerous.
The smell in the kitchen shifted as she worked. Butter melting. Something grainy and warm—cassava, maybe—turning nutty as it heated. Coffee steam rose between them, bitter and comforting, cutting through the lingering trace of last night’s perfume.
“This,” she said, sliding a plate toward him, “is tapioca. It looks innocent. It is not.”
He smiled, lifting his cup. “I like things that look innocent and aren’t.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes bright. “Careful. That sentence has ruined lives.”
He laughed, a low sound that surprised him with how easily it came. He took a bite. The texture was unexpected—soft, elastic, warm—filled with cheese that stretched slightly when he pulled away.
“Okay,” he admitted. “This is… excellent.”
She leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching his reaction with quiet satisfaction. “I know.”
There it was again—that confidence without arrogance. Sweet, but not apologetic. Romantic in the way she cared about details, not declarations.
They ate in companionable silence for a moment. The city hummed faintly beyond the glass, but up here the only sounds were forks against plates and the soft rhythm of her breathing.
“So,” John said carefully, “what do you do when you’re not terrifying elevators?”
She smiled into her coffee. “I try not to die.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Try?”
She nodded, like this was perfectly reasonable. “Drilling Engineer.”
Then she looked at him, really looked at him, as if deciding whether to let him in on something real. “I almost did once,” she said lightly. “Die, I mean.”
The tone didn’t match the words. It never did with people who had actually been close to the edge.
John didn’t interrupt.
“Offshore accident,” she continued, turning back to the stove, more out of instinct than necessity. “Off the coast of Brazil. Deep Atlantic Ocean. Night shift. Everything was calm—too calm, which is always suspicious.”
She grabbed a spoon and tapped it against the counter. Clink. Clink.
“That sound,” she said, mimicking it, “is what a pressure alarm makes when it’s about to ruin your life.”
She straightened suddenly, eyes wide, voice louder. “Then—boom.”
She clapped her hands together, sharp and sudden. John flinched, then laughed despite himself.
“Explosion,” she said, nodding, holding his eyes with hers. “Not the cinematic kind. More like the universe clearing its throat aggressively.”
She paced the kitchen now, embodying the story. “Lights go out. Everything smells like burning metal and fear. People start running, which is useless because where exactly are you running on a floating industrial death trap?”
John watched her, utterly captivated. She wasn’t dramatizing for effect. She was reliving it—processing it through motion and humor, like someone who had learned that stillness could be dangerous.
“I remember thinking,” she said, stopping abruptly, “This is it. This is such a stupid way to die. My father is going to kill me.”
John laughed, startled. “That was your thought?”
“Absolutely. Not heaven. Not hell. My dad.”
She continued, lowering her voice, imitating a panicked coworker. “Dayse, the pressure’s unstable! And I’m like—” she threw her hands up, “‘Yes, Paulo, I noticed when the platform tried to explode.’”
John laughed harder now, the sound filling the kitchen, bouncing off steel and glass.
“And then,” she said, pointing dramatically at an imaginary control panel, “someone trips the emergency venting system. Pshhhhhhh. Like a giant soda can opening.”
She mimed it, sound effects and all.
“I get thrown against a railing,” she added, tapping her hip. “Cracked two ribs. Lost my helmet. And somehow—somehow—my radio still worked.”
She held an invisible device to her mouth. “‘Control, this is Dayse. Platform’s on fire. Please advise.’”
John had to set his coffee down, laughing openly now.
“They told us to evacuate,” she finished, calmer again. “Helicopter came late. Too much smoke. Too much heat. I remember thinking how quiet it got right before we lifted off.”
She shrugged, like she was talking about missing a flight.
“Turns out,” she said, softer now, “when you don’t die, you stop being afraid of a lot of things.”
John studied her in that moment—the intelligence in her eyes, the scars she didn’t show, the way humor wrapped around trauma like armor.
“That explains the elevator,” he said gently.
She smiled. Not big. Not small. Honest.
“Bras, explosions, expectations,” she replied. “All uncomfortable. All removable, if you’re brave enough.”
He laughed again, but something warm settled in his chest. Something steady.
This wasn’t a woman who dazzled herself by little things. This was a woman who had stood in fire and chosen to keep moving.
John took another bite of the ‘tapioca’, another sip of coffee, and thought—quietly, clearly—that curiosity had officially become interest. And interest, he knew from experience, was never harmless.
But before he could ask her for dinner the door burst open. Not gently. Not cautiously.
It flew open with the confidence of someone who had never once considered knocking a necessary social skill.
“Moning, gorgeous. Lara gave me your door passwords. She’s such a nau—oh—HI.”
The voice arrived before the person fully did, words tumbling over one another, laughter still clinging to them like static. The door banged softly against the wall. Shopping bags rustled. Fabric whispered.
John looked up.
The man standing just inside the apartment froze.
Completely.
Silence fell in a way that felt almost ceremonial.
The newcomer—tall, well-dressed, unmistakably fashionable even in motion—stared at John with open, unfiltered shock. His mouth parted slightly. His brain, clearly, had short-circuited.
John had seen that look before. Awe mixed with disbelief. It usually came with cameras.
This time, it came with huge shopping-sized bags and a very expressive face.
Dayse turned, following the sudden absence of sound.
“Oh,” she said calmly. “Brad. You’re here.”
Brad blinked. Once. Twice.
Then he exhaled, long and slow, as if oxygen had just been reintroduced to the room.
“…Wow,” he said faintly.
John suppressed a smile.
“I—okay—wow,” Brad repeated, then straightened, smoothing his jacket like professionalism might still be salvageable. He extended a hand toward John, eyes sparkling with equal parts embarrassment and curiosity.
“Hi. I’m Brad. Dayse’s new gay best friend. Apparently. It’s very official.”
John stood and shook his hand, amused by the earnestness. “John.”
Brad nodded too quickly. “Yes. I know!”
Dayse sighed. “Lara gave you the door code.”
“That is not the point,” Brad said, finally tearing his eyes away from John. “The point is—I walked into a very unexpected breakfast.”
“You’re welcome to join,” Dayse said, already reaching for another cup. “We’re carbo-loading emotionally.”
Brad laughed, relief flooding his posture. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He set the bags down and sat, still glancing at John like he was making sure he hadn’t imagined him.
“What’s in the bags?” John asked.
Brad gestured vaguely. “Clothes. Dreams. Fabric with opinions.”
Dayse smiled. “He used to work at Ralph Lauren.”
Brad corrected gently, “Still do. Technically. Ralph is… investing. In me.”
John glanced at Dayse. “That’s impressive.”
“She refuses to see it,” Brad said. “Which is why I’m here.”
Dayse stiffened slightly. “Brad—”
“I want her to wear my pieces,” he said simply. “For photos.”
Her cheeks colored instantly. “You must have models. Actual models. Tall, ethereal creatures who don’t almost die on oil platforms.”
Brad blinked.
“I am stunning,” she said quickly, defensively. “I know that. But I’m not a model.”
John looked at her then—really looked. The way the morning light softened her edges. The intelligence in her eyes. The ease with which she inhabited her body.
“You’re breathtaking woman,” he said, voice steady, certain. “And you don’t apologize for existing. That’s rare.”
Brad grinned, delighted. “Exactly. She’s everything I want to dress. Smart. Successful. Completely unapologetic.”
John nodded. “She seems to be.”
Dayse blinked at them both, then laughed. “Fine. I’ll do it. But nothing gets posted.”
Brad gasped dramatically. “Privacy addict?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
The three of them laughed, the sound warm and unforced, lingering in the kitchen like something earned.
John glanced at his watch, regret settling quietly in his chest.
“I should go,” he said. “Thank you. For the breakfast. And the conversation.”
She followed him to the door. “Come back,” she said, casual but sincere. “I desperately need new friends here.”
The word landed softly. Friends.
John masked the brief flicker of disappointment with a smile. “I will.”
The silence lasted exactly half a second.
Then Brad screamed.
Not a scream of fear—of revelation.
“OH. MY. GOD.”
Dayse barely flinched.
Brad spun in a tight circle in the middle of the kitchen, hands in his hair, pacing like a man who had just seen a deity casually butter toast.
“DAYSE,” he hissed, then shouted again, “THAT WAS JOHN. F. KENNEDY. JUNIOR.”
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with open amusement. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Brad stopped dead, staring at her. “YES?! He was sitting. On your counter. Drinking coffee. Breathing air. Smiling at you. Eating you with his very gorgeous sexy dangerous eyes!!!”
She shrugged. “He likes strong coffee.”
Brad slapped his own chest. “I need a moment. I need several moments. I need therapy.”
“You’re dramatic,” she said gently.
“You treated him like a neighbor who borrowed sugar,” Brad continued, voice climbing. “Do you understand how offensively calm you were?”
“I was hungover-adjacent,” she replied. “I had priorities.”
Brad let out a strangled laugh, then dropped onto a stool. “He’s… unfairly beautiful.”
She smiled, softer now. “He is.”
“And kind,” Brad added. “And funny. And tall. And—God—he smiled at me.”
Dayse walked over and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him easily, grounding him. “Breathe.”
He hugged her back, still half-shaking. “You are unreal.”
She laughed into his shoulder. “Welcome to my life.”