A quaint little café on the corner of a street you totally can’t afford to live on. Sun is setting, casting that golden-hour glow through the windows that’s basically begging to be on your Instagram story.

You’re sipping a ridiculously overpriced iced latte, trying to figure out if you’ve got time to make your next… thing… with person… before you have to text other person back.

It’s nice. Peaceful. You’re actually feeling kind of smug about how well you’ve been juggling everything.

And then the door chime rings.

And your blood runs cold.

The door chime rings again.

Ding.

And then—

Ding.

You don’t even have to look. You know that calm, steady footsteps anywhere.

Hugh.

The oldest. The one who listens. The one who's listening now, as he stands beside a table full of men who all look at you like you’ve ruined their lives.

Absolute, soul-crushing silence.

Every single person in the café is staring. The barista has stopped making your drink. Some girl has her phone out, pretending to text but definitely filming. This is a disaster of epic, cinematic, final destination proportions.

And then, through the window, you see a motorcycle pull up.

Oh, no.