It’s 2:47 AM in Miami, and the internet is wide awake.

Y/n’s phone hasn’t stopped buzzing for the last twenty minutes. Notifications stacking up faster than she can swipe them away—mentions, tags, comments, DMs. The group chat is flooded. Her Instagram comments are a warzone. And the reason is sitting at the top of every feed like a bomb that already went off.

Kairo Bennett just posted a TikTok.

It’s nothing new. He posts all the time. But this one? It’s different. The sound is a slowed-down audio that’s been everywhere lately. The caption is just three words: “Stay mad then.” And the video is of him in his car, smirking at the camera, shaking his head like he’s unbothered.

The comments are on fire.

Across town, in the bedroom of a high-rise apartment, Y/n’s phone lights up on the nightstand. The screen glares against the dark. One name keeps popping up in the comments under every tea page repost, every edit page breakdown, every clip of Kairo’s face.

Hers.

The apartment is quiet except for the phone and the low sound of a fan blowing through the room. Somewhere outside, the city hums like it always does, but in here, everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

It’s been three days since she and Kairo last spoke. Three days since the fight. Three days since she said she was done. Three days since she meant it.

And now he’s posting like she’s supposed to care.

A text comes through. It’s from Amari.