Summer's POV
They had promised each other quiet.
They had promised to keep a few days for themselves, to breathe, to relearn simple things like making toast without cameras.
Then a ping on her phone cut through the soft morning like a brittle sound. She frowned when she saw the alert—someone on a local feed had posted a new image from the harbor. She tapped it open before she could stop herself.
It was a grainy shot: two figures on a small pier, shoulders nearly touching, backs to the camera as they watched the water. Nothing dramatic—no faces, no staged posture—just a simple capture of a moment. Yet the caption below was anything but simple:
> "Spotted: The Mystery Pair — Could this be them?"
Her heart did a small, traitorous jump. She turned the phone toward Ethan, sitting nearby sipping tea.
He scanned the image and let out a slow breath. "They found us," he said, voice flat.
"You said we'd have a few more days," she whispered.
"I know." He set his cup down carefully, as if the porcelain might crack. "I'm sorry. I thought the town would be small enough."
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to blame the feed, the diner, the clueless bystander who'd snapped a photo for likes. Instead, she felt a low, steady frustration—not for the image, but for the way the world kept reaching in to narrate what was theirs.
"What do you want to do?" she asked.
He looked at her, and for the first time in days, his expression hardened in a way she recognized—the look he wore when he planned a scene, only now it was for real life. "We go back. We face it, together."
She blinked. "Go back? Now?"
"Yeah." He folded his hands, steady. "No hiding. No more running." He hesitated. "If they want a story, let's give them truth. On our terms."
She thought of the harbor photo. It had been quiet; it had been theirs. Turning it into a headline felt like handing someone else a key. But the idea of choosing their own moment—deciding the words, the timing—felt like reclaiming something. She nodded.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go home."
---
Ethan's POV
He hated the way he'd felt when he saw the notification—like a trap had closed. He'd come here to find a corner of the world where no one knew his name, where he could breathe without expectation. The picture shattered that illusion in a single click.
Still, something in him liked the directness of it. If the world was going to be noisy, he preferred noise with clarity. He didn't want more guessing; he wanted a line drawn.
He called his publicist on the drive back, short and to the point. "We're coming in. No statements yet. We will coordinate, but we're going to speak for ourselves." The voice on the other end balked at first—procedures, legal, sponsor concerns—but he kept his tone firm. "We'll handle it."
When they reached the city, a different kind of quiet waited for them: the press lot, the cameras parked like predatory birds, the murmuring crowd. Reporters called out questions the minute they stepped into view. Ethan kept his expression composed; Summer's hand found his, firm and sure. The simple contact steadied him more than any practiced line could.
They were ushered into a small conference room away from the crowd. Phones still chimed, but the noise was farther now, muffled. Chloe arrived in a flurry—relief and worry in equal measure.
"The board wanted us to put out a statement before you walked in," she said, tugging at her jacket. "They wanted denial. But that felt wrong." She paused, looking between them. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Ethan looked at Summer. The moment felt heavy with choices: deny and control the narrative, confirm and surrender privacy, or speak honestly and risk anything. He tightened his grip on Summer's hand and met Chloe's eyes.
"We'll say the truth," he said. "Short, clear, ours."
Chloe blinked, then nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll set it up."
They stepped out onto a small balcony for a short, live clip—no long interviews, no drawn-out sit-down. Ethan's publicist fed them a suggested line, the brand managers hovered, but he cut the text with one look.
Summer spoke first. Her voice was steady. "We took some time away to remember what matters. We're not a production prop or a publicity tool."
Ethan added, simple and sure, "We're two people. We chose this pause because it felt right. We'll do interviews later, but for now—please respect that."
The clip lasted less than a minute. It wasn't a showy confession or a denial. It was small, honest, and theirs.
Outside, the feeds lit up with reactions. Some cheered them for honesty; others accused them of orchestrated messaging. The world would always have its verdict.
But the important thing, as he watched Summer breathe out in relief beside him, was that their words had been chosen by them. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder—no spectacle, only quiet reassurance.
They had faced the photo and, in doing so, decided not to let the next one decide for them.