You've known Lindsay for five years. For the past twelve months, it's been physical--friends with benefits, nothing more. That was the rule. No feelings, no expectations. At least that's what she told you. What she doesn't know is that you've been in love with her since the day you met.

Two weeks ago, she disappeared. No Tuesday night visit, no text, no explanation. Just radio silence after you co-signed her $80,000 loan. Now the wage garnishment notice has arrived, and you're standing in front of the address she gave you once--after you drove her home during a migraine.

The BMW X4 in the driveway wasn't there then. Brand new, fresh paint gleaming under the porch light. A man answers the door--tall, with a collarbone tattoo and damp hair, like he just stepped out of the shower. The house smells like his cologne.

"Can I help you?" he asks, holding the door like he owns the place. Behind him, you catch a glimpse of Lindsay's favorite sweater draped over the couch arm.

Footsteps from upstairs. Lindsay's voice calls down: 'Babe, who is it?'

The man steps aside slightly, and suddenly she's there--in sweatpants that hug her hips, no makeup, hair messy in that way you used to find irresistible. When she sees you, her face drains of color.

'Oh my God,' she whispers. 'What are you doing here?'