Scarlet

Collision

Logan Nixon

The arcade was exactly what I'd hoped it would be—loud, chaotic, full of the kind of energy that let people forget their real lives for a while.

I watched Noah and Scarlet together, and I understood immediately why he was so f****d. She moved like she owned the space. She laughed like it cost her nothing. She made both of us feel like we were the only people in the room.

"Bumper cars," she declared, pointing across the arcade with the certainty of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.

We suited up. Noah and I exchanged a look—the kind that didn't need words. This was her day. We were here to make sure nothing interrupted it.

The first collision came fast. Scarlet hit someone, and they laughed. Then someone hit her, and she went after them with such aggressive joy that everyone around us was grinning. This was what healing looked like—not pretending the hurt didn't happen, but refusing to let it define her anymore.

Then Noah spun around wrong and the car hit him from the side.

I heard the impact before I saw his face register the pain. His shoulder—the same shoulder he'd injured in college, a sports injury he hadn't quite healed from. He was holding it wrong, trying not to move it.

Scarlet was out of her car before the ride even stopped.

She reached him like she had no choice. Like her body just moved toward him on instinct. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure, immediate care.

"Babe, are you okay?" Her voice cracked with genuine concern.

I pulled up beside them, already assessing. Shoulder injury, fresh one. He was holding it wrong. Deep tissue damage by the look of him. Nothing catastrophic, but something that would need attention.

"Come on," I said, all doctor now. "Let's get you out of the way."

We helped him out of the car and to a bench nearby. Scarlet sat next to him, her hand on his arm, not letting go.

"How bad?" she asked me, and there was fear in her voice. Real fear.

"Not bad," I said, already moving into professional mode. "Just deep tissue. Needs ice and rest." I gently moved his arm, watching him wince. "I've got a medical kit at the hotel. Ice, muscle relaxant. That's all he needs."

"You're a lifesaver," Noah said, and he meant it.

I was just glad to be useful. Glad to have something to do that wasn't just standing around watching them and trying not to want things I couldn't have.

________________________________________

We left the arcade and headed back to the hotel. Noah's arm was around Scarlet's shoulders, and she was tucked against his side like she belonged there. I drove, gave them space, tried not to think about the fact that I was already half in love with her.

Lunch came next—room service, brought to their suite at Scarlet's insistence. She didn't want to be around other people yet. Didn't want to pretend. Just wanted to eat sandwiches and laugh at something Noah said about his terrible bumper car skills.

By two o'clock, Noah was stretched out on the bed with ice on his shoulder, and Scarlet was curled into his side like they'd been doing this for years. They looked peaceful together. Right.

I sat in the chair by the window and tried not to think about what that meant.

"I'm going to arrange something," I said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence.

"What?" Scarlet asked.

"Massage. In-room. You've had a morning. Might as well be nice to yourself before tonight."

She looked like she wanted to argue. Then she looked like she realized I was right.

"What time?" she asked.

"Three o'clock. You've got an hour."

________________________________________

The masseuse was professional and efficient. I stepped outside the room while she worked, giving Scarlet privacy, but staying close enough that I could check on Noah's shoulder. Ice. Compression. He'd be fine by tonight.

When the massage was done, it was 4:30 and Scarlet emerged looking like a new person. Relaxed. Ready. Like she'd shaken off three years of tension in one hour.

I headed back to my own room to get ready—a shower, fresh clothes, the basic armor of looking like I belonged at a wedding rehearsal dinner.

________________________________________

SCARLET

I feel younger. Can a massage make you feel younger? I also feel oily. But mostly I feel... words cannot describe it.

I pull on my newly acquired soft white gown. I'm sure it covers something. I'm here to have fun, and fun I shall have. I walk out of the room into the living room, and the looks on the boys' faces are something else. They're stunned silent.

I switch on the kettle and make coffee. They still haven't said a word.

"I'm going to take a nice hot shower," I call out as I walk back through the living room. "Oh, and you should probably close your mouths before you catch flies." I close the door and lean my back against it. "You have to get ready as well. We have to leave soon," I yell from behind the door.

Hot water is therapeutic in ways I didn't know I needed.

Once I'm out of the shower, I do my hair—big bouncy curls that fall down my back. Soft lilac eyeshadow. Nude lips. And then the part that excites me the most: my dress.

I change into the purple dress slowly, carefully, like I'm putting on armor. When I look at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.

The dress is lilac and silver dreams made tangible. Off-shoulder, with delicate butterfly and floral appliqués scattered across the bodice like they'd landed there by accident. The entire dress shimmers with thousands of hand-sewn beads and crystals, each one catching the light differently. The skirt is layers of flowing tulle that moves like water when I walk, with more butterflies and flowers dancing across the fabric in shades of purple and blue.

I pair it with matching crystal-studded heels—towering, fierce, impossible to ignore.

This isn't the girl who shattered with a champagne glass. This is someone new. Someone powerful.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I can't believe it's me.

________________________________________

NOAH

The shoulder is feeling better. Sore, but manageable. Getting my pants on without too much fuss takes effort, but getting my sore arm into my shirt proves to be a challenge.

"Babe," I call out to Scarlet. Repaying the favour from earlier.

"Yeah?" she says once she steps into view.

"Oh. My. f*****g. God." That's all I can manage.

She wore lilac and silver—an off-shoulder gown adorned with crystalline butterflies and floral details, each bead catching the light like she was covered in starlight. The skirt flowed in layers of ethereal tulle, romantic and dangerous all at once. Crystal heels completed the look: gorgeous, sharp, unapologetic.

She was a vision.

She made a cute curtsy and answered with a "Why thank you, Sir."

"Sir also looks absolutely delicious without a shirt," she says, and I can see the teasing in her eyes.

Heat floods my face. I realize we're in a staring competition.

"Can you please help me into my shirt?" I finally ask.

She helps me out of it first, then says, "Injured arm first," while very carefully helping my sore arm into the shirt and then the other arm. Her touch is gentle, her focus absolute. This is what it looks like when someone cares.

Once I'm dressed, we check the time. We need to get Logan.

"Ready?" Scarlet asks.

"Let's go get him," I say.

We head down the hallway—polished tile beneath our feet, not carpet—toward his suite. The hallway is pristine, elegant. We pass the living area through the open door of his suite: velvet couches in deep jewel tones, a dining table that looks like it belongs in a magazine, everything arranged with the precision of someone who values order and beauty.

At the end of the hallway, beyond Logan's suite, the view is stunning—the city sprawling below us, lights beginning to twinkle as evening approaches.

I knock on his door.

Logan opens it, and he's polished perfection. Upper-class suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. The kind of suit that costs more than most people's monthly rent. His dark hair is styled, his bearing is composed.

Then he sees Scarlet.