Page 43 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I bite down on the smooth curve of her shoulder, muffling my own groan as she comes apart, her body pulsing around me in waves that drag me right over the edge with her. She gasps, her teeth catching my lip hard enough to draw blood, but I don’t care—I kiss her through it, through the aftershocks, through the way we’re both still trembling when she finally collapses against my chest, boneless and spent.

Her forehead presses to mine, our breaths mingling, ragged and uneven in the quiet aftermath. The earthy scent of her—warm skin, salt, and something sweet like summer—fills my lungs.

"So," she pants, lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark with satisfaction and something softer, something that makes my chest tighten. "Still think running’s the better option?"

I laugh, breathless and light in a way I haven’t felt in years, and kiss her again, slow and lingering this time. "Not a chance, sweetheart."

27

BALEIGH

Rome tastes like rosemary and cooling stone tonight.

Amos chose a spot near the Trastevere, a terrace tucked so high above the narrow streets that the roar of Vespas fades into a rhythmic hum. He’s in his element, holding a bottle of crisp Frascati like a wizard’s wand, filling glasses before they hit the halfway mark. Across from me, Max dissects the architecture of the Janiculum Hill with the same precision he uses on his pasta, but his eyes keep drifting to mine. Atticus sits to my left, his thigh brushing against mine under the table, a secret anchored in the dark.

“Try the artichokes, Leigh,” Amos says, sliding a plate toward me. “Best in the city. If I ever go missing, check the back kitchen here.”

“You’d be the only missing person who gains ten pounds while in hiding,” Max counters, though his smile is soft. He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from my shoulder. The touch is brief, but it radiates.

Laughter ripples through us, easy and practiced. We’ve become a unit, a strange, four-headed creature navigating the cobbles and the crowds. We share bread, we finish each other’sjokes about the program director’s temper, and we lean into the warmth of the evening. But underneath the clink of silverware, a clock is ticking. I can feel the seconds dripping away like the condensation on my wine glass.

As the restaurant clears and the waiters retreat to the shadows near the bar, the air changes. The city lights stretch out below us, a carpet of amber and flickering gold. The church bells of San Pietro in Montorio begin to toll, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates in my chest.

I look at Amos’s calloused hands, then at Max’s thoughtful frown, then at the sharp line of Atticus’s jaw. The silence stops being comfortable. It grows heavy, saturated with the things we haven’t said because saying them makes the end real.

“A few weeks left,” I whisper. The words feel like lead on my tongue. I haven't been back to North Carolina in my mind for a good minute, but suddenly, the image of my small bedroom and the quiet, pre-mapped life waiting for me feels like a cage closing in.

Amos sets his glass down. The humor has drained from his face, replaced by a raw, quiet intensity. Max stops tracing the rim of his glass. Atticus’s hand finds mine under the table, his grip tight, almost desperate.

“Baleigh,” Max starts, his voice low and steady. “We aren't letting you go back to that.”

The air on the terrace turns too thin to breathe. I look from Max’s steady gaze to Amos’s uncharacteristic stillness, then finally to Atticus, who watches me like a storm front rolling in. The truth has been a knot in my throat for weeks, growing tighter with every shared sunset and every midnight conversation.

“I can’t choose,” I say. The words are small, nearly lost to the Rome breeze, but they feel like an avalanche. “I’ve tried to rank you in my head. I’ve tried to find the one who makes the othersfade, but it doesn’t work that way. It’s not a competition where someone loses. It's driving me crazy—-I've never been in a place like this before.”

I reach out, taking Amos’s hand while Atticus still holds my other. I look at Max, needing him to see the honesty in my face.

“I love you,” I say, and the world doesn’t end. “I love Max for the way he makes the world feel vast and significant. I love Amos for the way he makes me feel like I’m finally brave enough to laugh. And I love Atticus for showing me the hidden corners of the world and myself.”

Speaking it aloud is a physical release, like dropping a heavy pack after a long hike. My chest expands, the shame of my indecision dissolving into the warm Italian night. But the liberation is followed quickly by a cold, sharp panic. It’s one thing to admit the love; it’s another to survive the reality of it.

“But I’m terrified,” I admit, my voice trembling. “Back home, love is a two-person house with a picket fence. If I choose this—whatever this is—I’m letting everyone down. My mother, my sister... they’ll think I’ve lost my mind. They’ll think I’m being reckless.”

I look around at the three of them, these men who have become my entire world.

“And what happens when the program ends? I’m scared that as soon as I step on a plane, I’ll start to shrink back into the girl who plays it safe. I’m scared I’ll lose the Baleigh who eats dinner on rooftops and says what she feels.” I squeeze their hands, my knuckles tight. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be the reason you three stop looking at each other like friends. This doesn't have a map, and I've never been good at navigating without one.”

Max pulls his hand back, not to create distance, but to fold his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed in that professorialway that usually precedes a lecture. But his voice isn't authoritative. It’s thin.

"Sustainability is the ghost in the room, Baleigh," Max says, his gaze fixed on the empty wine bottles. "I have a tenure track at a university that expects me back in the fall. I have a mortgage on a house in a city where the winters are grey. It isn’t just about love; it’s about the logistics of four lives that are currently tethered only by a temporary contract in Italy. How do we keep the light on when the scenery changes?"

The weight of his words settles over us, heavy and grounded. It’s the practical reality I've been running from.

Amos let out a sharp, jagged sigh. He leans back, his chair creaking against the stone floor. The easy, mischievous coordinator is gone; the man who hides behind humor has finally stepped into the light.

"I'm not worried about the logistics," Amos says, looking at me with eyes that seem older than thirty-six. "I’m worried about the momentum. We’re in a bubble. Here, it’s easy to be the best versions of ourselves because the sun is always out and the wine is cheap. My biggest fear is that once that plane touches down back home, the person who made me feel like I finally had a home will just... turn back into a memory. I’m scared we’re all just vacation versions of ourselves."

Atticus shifts beside me. I feel the tension in his leg, a coiled spring ready to snap. He stares out at the dome of St. Peter’s, his jaw tight.