𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒: 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐀𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

             ╔─━━━━━━░★░━━━━━━─╗                     ╚─━━━━━━░★░━━━━━━─╝

                  Date: October 8, 2017                   Place: Venice Beach, California 

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Gloria's Hairstyle, Makeup, Outfit, & Nails

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It was a Sunday in Venice Beach, the kind where the sun wasn't beating down but instead casting everything in a soft golden light, like the world was inside one big photo filter. Glo had on a cropped vintage Lakers tee, cutoff denim shorts, and her signature Nike GLO 1s—purple and yellow limited editions, naturally. Her curls were tucked under a Yankees cap, and a smoothie was in her hand, halfway gone. Alton wore a mesh tank top, some loose white pants that fluttered when he walked, and designer sunglasses that made him look like a superstar even when he was laughing about fries.

They strolled past the skateboarders and artists and psychic tents, just blending in like a regular couple, even though both of them were definitely not regular.

"So you mean to tell me," Glo said through a laugh, "you've never had a Popeyes biscuit without water?"

"I value my life," Alton said with a dramatic shake of his head. "Them biscuits are a trap. Delicious, but a trap."

She doubled over, laughing, almost spilling her smoothie.

"Nah, you're wrong for that," she said. "A trap?"

"Yes! They should serve them with an oxygen mask or something. Like: 'Here's your biscuit, sir. And your defibrillator.'"

She slapped his arm playfully and they both kept walking, arms brushing together every now and then. The energy between them was light, easy. No tension. Just sunshine, jokes, and them being young and in the moment.

People recognized them occasionally—Glo got a "Yo, that's the girl from the Olympics!" and Alton got a "You were in Paris Fashion Week, right?"—but they smiled and kept it moving, used to being in the public eye.

They stopped near one of the murals painted on the wall—bright oranges and blues, palm trees twisting up the sides—and Glo asked a stranger to take a photo of them. In the picture, Alton stood behind her with his arms around her waist, both of them grinning wide. She looked genuinely happy.

"You gonna post that?" he asked as they walked off.

"Maybe. You tryna go Insta-official again?" she teased.

He smirked. "I mean... am I not already?"

"Oh, excuse me," she said, flipping her curls over her shoulder. "Somebody's feeling confident."

"Somebody just knows what he's got."

That made her quiet for a second—not in a bad way, just thoughtful. She liked this part of their relationship. The comfort. The steady. He made her laugh, but he also made her feel like she could breathe.

They sat down later at a tucked-away vegan café near Abbot Kinney. She played with a fork while waiting for their food, her phone buzzing nonstop from people tagging her in throwbacks to the Olympics again. Her Nike shoes were still trending, and Mattel was teasing another limited-edition GLO Barbie for the holidays. Everything about her life felt so big and public—and yet here she was, chillin' in a booth with her man, sipping cucumber water.

"You know," Alton said, scrolling through his phone, "GQ wants us to do a spread together."

"Really?"

He nodded. "They said 'the future of Black excellence and style.' Their words."

Glo leaned back and smirked. "They not wrong."

"Never are," Alton replied with a wink.

She laughed, but part of her felt that little twist inside—where fame and regular life kept bumping into each other. She loved this life, but sometimes she wondered what it would've been like to just be a normal seventeen-year-old with a crush on the cute guy from geometry class.

But then again, normal had never been part of her journey.

And honestly? She wouldn't have it any other way.

As the sun dipped behind the palm trees and cast long shadows across the sidewalk, Alton took her hand.

"Next stop," he said, "you and me in Tokyo for your birthday. No cameras. Just vibes."

She smiled. "You're coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

She didn't say anything, but the way she leaned her head on his shoulder said enough.

Glo Miller was seventeen, wildly successful, deeply loved, and still figuring it all out. But today? She was good.

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The sun was high and merciless over the Deco-blue courts of the Miami Tennis Center. The stands were full—packed with fans wearing GLO t-shirts, waving signs that said "GLO-NATION RISES" and "THE QUEEN RETURNS." Vendors were selling commemorative Glo Miller visors and knock-off versions of her Nike sneakers.

Her face was on banners, on lanyards, on bottles of vitamin water. You couldn't walk five steps without seeing her. This was her home turf.

And everyone knew it.

Inside the locker room, it was quiet. Glo sat on the bench, her white and gold tennis outfit crisp and fitted to perfection. Her curly hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she had her AirPods in, humming along to Beyoncé's "I Was Here." Her racquet rested across her knees, gripped tight in her hands.

Her dad and coach, David Miller, leaned against the wall in his tracksuit, arms crossed, watching her like a hawk.

"You ready?" he asked, voice low but full of certainty.

She looked up and nodded once. "Let's eat."

David smiled. "That's my girl."

She stood, rolled her shoulders back, and walked out the tunnel as the announcer's voice boomed across the stadium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome—your 2016 Olympic gold medalist, the pride of Florida, and the youngest ever to win the Grand Slam on debut—Gloria 'Glo' Miller!"

The crowd erupted.

Phones flew into the air. Confetti poppers went off. A chant began to rise—"GLO! GLO! GLO!"—and she gave a wave, just a subtle one, with her usual focused expression. Not cocky. Not shy. Just hungry.

Across the court was her opponent, a top-seeded European player named Ivana Petrović—strong, seasoned, and known for her sharp baseline attacks. The two met at the net, tapped racquets, and exchanged polite nods.

Then it began.

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First Set

From the start, Glo was all speed and instinct. She was light on her feet, darting across the baseline, chasing every ball with sniper accuracy. She pulled Ivana into a rhythm, then snapped it with a perfectly timed drop shot.

Her serve was nasty—fast, deep, and always changing spin.

"Game, Miller. 3–1."

In the stands, her mom Lauren clapped with both hands, while Alton, in a silk button-up and dark glasses, leaned forward in his seat, murmuring "Let's go, baby" under his breath.

Shawn Mendes, quietly seated a few rows back, watched from behind a ball cap and hoodie, chewing gum with a clenched jaw.

By the end of the first set, it was 6–4, Miller.

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Second Set

Ivana came back swinging. Hard.

The rhythm shifted. Suddenly Glo was fighting off bullets—fast, deep drives to the corners, hard volleys to her backhand. She started sweating harder, her white visor stained, legs burning as she chased everything down.

"C'mon!" Ivana shouted after breaking Glo's serve.

Glo bounced the ball. Her eyes narrowed. She didn't say much—she never did on court. But her body language said watch this.

She won the next game clean, with an ace that whistled past Ivana's ear.

5–5.

The crowd was going crazy now. Half were standing. Kids with painted faces screamed, "LET'S GLOOO!"

At 6–6, they entered a tiebreaker.

That's when she locked in.

Rallies went 20, 30 strokes long. Grunts echoed. Sneakers squeaked. The night lights came on as the sun dipped below the horizon.

At match point, Glo served wide, and Ivana stretched—but hit the net.

The umpire's voice cut through the chaos.

"Game, set, match—Miller."

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Glo fell to her knees on the court, tears immediately welling up in her eyes. It wasn't the Olympics. It wasn't her first pro tourney. But something about this win felt more personal. More earned.

She'd been through the fire—expectations, jealousy, pressure, fame. But out here? She was just a girl and her racquet.

David ran down from the coaching box and pulled her into a hug.

"That's how you answer," he whispered.

Later, with a trophy in her hand, her Nike jacket around her shoulders, and confetti drifting again—this time red and gold—Glo looked up into the stands.

Her mom waved. Alton blew her a kiss. Shawn clapped slowly, his expression unreadable.

The "GLO Era" wasn't just real.

It was unstoppable.

And this? This was just the beginning.

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The Forum was electric that night.

Crowds filled every seat, the air buzzing with excitement as Shawn Mendes' Illuminate World Tour made its final U.S. stop in L.A. Outside, fans wrapped around the venue screaming his name, clutching posters, phones, and little paper hearts. Inside, the stage lights dimmed, and the arena went wild.

Backstage, Glo adjusted the cropped leather jacket over her black tank top, her curly hair brushed out and glowing under the neon light. Tori was next to her in ripped jeans and a GLO Era varsity jacket, bouncing a little on her toes with excitement.

"I haven't seen him live since like... forever ago," Tori whispered. "We really doing this?"

"We really doing this," Glo smirked, applying a bit of gloss. She looked calm, but inside, her nerves were humming. Not bad nerves—just curious ones.

They followed the VIP pass route to the private section beside the stage. Already there, surrounded by a small group of influencers and friends of Shawn, was Hailey Baldwin. She wore an oversized denim jacket, black shades, and a slick ponytail.

Their eyes met.

Glo gave a small smile. Hailey nodded once, kind of surprised—but not rude.

"Hey," Hailey said after a second, stepping closer. "Nice to finally meet you."

"You too," Glo replied. "I've heard you're killing it with your modeling stuff."

"You're the one with the Barbie and a sold-out shoe deal," Hailey grinned, and they both laughed lightly.

It wasn't fake. It wasn't warm either. Just... neutral.

Tori glanced between them like she was watching an episode of a teen drama.

Soon, the lights dropped—and the crowd exploded.

Shawn walked onto the stage with his guitar slung across his shoulder, light beams cutting across him like golden silk. His voice was crisp, raw, and powerful as he opened with "There's Nothing Holdin' Me Back."

Glo felt a chill run through her spine when his eyes flickered over to the VIP pit—and landed right on her.

He did a tiny double take. His lips curved slightly between a note. But he didn't break.

Through the night, the energy only got higher. He played "Ruin" with that aching rasp, "Treat You Better" with his signature passion, and even brought out a guest performer for "Mercy."

But when he sat down at the piano to play "Three Empty Words", the vibe changed.

His fingers brushed the keys. Soft. Measured.

He glanced at her again.

And she felt it.

She didn't say anything to Tori, but Tori glanced at her with raised brows. Even Hailey seemed a bit still, sipping water and looking at the stage like she was picking apart something unspoken.

After the show, there was a small afterparty vibe backstage—nothing crazy. A few catered trays, low lights, drinks, and quiet music playing.

Glo leaned against a wall near a speaker, sipping on sparkling water, laughing with Tori.

Shawn appeared, guitar gone, in a fresh white t-shirt and black jeans. He was all smiles.

"Yo," he said, walking up to her. "You came."

"Of course I came," Glo smiled, teasing. "You're kinda talented."

He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Means a lot, Glo. Seriously."

Hailey appeared a second later, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey babe, I'm gonna head out early. Long shoot tomorrow."

He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "Text me when you get home."

She gave a nod to Glo and Tori and left.

After that, the energy shifted.

Just him and Glo again.

Like before.

They ended up tucked in a corner couch, her legs crisscrossed, his head slightly tilted toward her.

"I saw you," he said softly, voice low under the music. "During the set."

"Yea?"

He nodded. "I thought about you the whole time I played Three Empty Words."

She looked at him, her heart knocking a little harder than she wanted it to. "Shawn..."

"I know," he said quickly, not wanting to push. "I'm with someone. You're with someone. It's just... it's different when you're around."

She didn't say anything for a second. Then softly: "Yeah. It is."

And for a second, it was quiet—just them in the noise.

Tension, history, maybe something that was never finished.

But tonight?

It just was.

He gave her a smile. She gave it back.

And that was enough—for now.

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The night settled over Los Angeles like a silk curtain, warm and a little electric—still humming from the concert energy. After Tori left to meet up with some friends, Shawn and Glo stood on the sidewalk outside the venue in that lazy limbo where neither wanted to go home.

"You hungry?" he asked, hands in his pockets, hair messy from the show.

Glo shrugged with a grin. "I could eat. Or..." She paused, tilting her head. "Wanna catch a movie?"

Shawn's eyes lit up, boyish and easy. "You already know the answer to that."

The movies had always been their thing—even back when they were still figuring out what they were. Popcorn, soda, oversized hoodies. It was the one space that felt normal for two people whose lives were anything but.

They snuck into a late showing at an upscale theater in West Hollywood—one of those quiet, lowkey ones with plush seats, low lighting, and hardly any crowd. Glo wore a black zip-up jacket and leggings, her curls pulled into a puff. Shawn had his hoodie up and sunglasses on like a low-effort disguise.

They picked a row near the back and slid into the recliners.

The movie didn't really matter. It was some thriller with a little comedy and a lot of plot holes. They whispered jokes between sips of cherry Icee and dug into the giant tub of buttered popcorn balanced between them.

Midway through the film, as the lead actor dodged an explosion on screen, their hands brushed.

First barely.

Then again—this time lingering.

Glo looked down, and so did Shawn. Both their fingers were still lightly dusted in salt and butter.

He didn't say anything.

And she didn't pull away.

She just smiled—shy, quiet, that kind of smile that made her dimples pop and her eyes look like warm caramel in the dark.

Shawn looked at her, his own smile lazy and soft. For a second, neither of them watched the screen. The sounds of the movie faded into the background as the space between them narrowed without either of them moving an inch.

And in that hushed theater, under flickering light and a too-loud surround sound, it wasn't about fame or relationships or whatever mess they had tiptoed around for months.

It was just Glo and Shawn.

Hands touching in a bucket of popcorn.

He leaned slightly closer and whispered, "Still your favorite theater snack?"

She nodded, eyes still on their hands. "Always."

"Me too."

And with that, they just sat—fingers slowly, secretly laced together, like maybe they were both tired of pretending this didn't still feel like something.

The credits rolled.

Neither moved.

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It was supposed to be the perfect birthday.

Tokyo was buzzing with that dreamy, neon-lit chaos that only made Gloria's heart beat faster. She had turned eighteen just days before and wanted something far from cameras, courts, and pressure. Japan was her escape—a place to get lost in vending machines, cherry blossom scented air, ramen steam, and late-night karaoke bars.

Alton was with her—stylish, mellow, and always down to match her energy. Tori flew out for the first few days but had to leave early for a campaign shoot. That night, they were supposed to meet some friends in Shibuya for food and drinks.

But Glo wasn't feeling it.

The mood had shifted earlier in the day. It started with her phone lighting up with the alert: Shawn Mendes & Hailey Baldwin have reportedly called it quits after nearly a year of dating.

She hadn't even processed the headline before her phone buzzed again.

Shawn

HeyJust wanted you to hear it from me before TMZ or whatever. We broke up.

She stared at the message for a minute before typing back.

Glo

Why now? On my birthday trip?Why would you do that?

Shawn

It wasn't about youBut maybe part of me realized I was holding onto something that wasn't rightYou deserve the truthHappy Birthday, Glo

She didn't answer. Instead, she put her phone down and let it buzz until it stopped.

Later that night, while getting ready to head out, Alton noticed something was off.

"You okay?" he asked as she stood in the mirror, lip gloss wand frozen mid-air.

"I'm fine."

But her voice was sharp. Distant. Not her.

Alton sighed. "Let me guess... Mendes?"

That set her off. "Don't—don't say it like that. He didn't do anything."

"You're acting like he did."

"Can we not do this tonight?" she snapped, tossing the lip gloss onto the vanity.

Alton raised his brows. "You want space, Glo? Take it."

He left the room without another word.

By the time the door clicked shut, her phone buzzed again.

Shawn

I can come to Japan. I'm in Europe right now.A couple hours away.If you want me to. Just say the word.

She didn't answer right away.

She stared at the phone for a minute, emotions flipping in her stomach like a storm tide.

Then she typed one word.

Glo

Come.

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He landed that night.

No security. No grand entrance. Just Shawn in a beanie, hoodie, and those worn Nikes she remembered from 2016.

He met her outside a tiny sake bar in Shinjuku where the cherry blossoms still stubbornly bloomed in the alleyways.

She saw him and didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

They just... hugged.

No words.

Just tight, arms wrapped, breathing in each other like time hadn't passed.

The next few hours were a blur. The two of them went to a bustling street market and tried octopus balls, karaage chicken, and sweet melon soda. They got dragged into a loud, glittery karaoke room by two college girls who didn't recognize them and just thought they looked fun. Shawn sang The Weeknd's "I Feel It Coming," and Glo belted Whitney Houston with that raspy laugh she couldn't hide when she sang too hard.

Afterward, they stumbled through the city with soju in their system—laughing too loud, getting lost on purpose, dodging tourists and neon signs.

They ended up in a dim, artsy club in Harajuku. The kind with low ceilings, fog machines, and 2000s R&B playing like it was the only genre that mattered.

Shawn pulled her onto the dance floor, spinning her like it was something they used to do all the time.

Their bodies moved easily, naturally, like two notes on the same melody.

And then it happened.

Her laugh faded.

The lights pulsed red and blue as the song shifted into something slower, sweatier.

Shawn's hand came up—gently cupping her face like he was scared to break her.

Glo froze.

But didn't back away.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone.

Their faces were close now. Too close. She could smell him—soap, leather, and something warm that made her chest ache.

His lips were just... right there.

Her eyes flicked to them.

And then—

She stepped back.

One heartbeat. Two.

"I can't," she whispered.

Shawn swallowed. Nodded slowly. He didn't push. "Okay."

The music kept playing.

But the moment lingered between them like smoke.

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They didn't kiss that night, but somehow... it still felt intimate. Like something had quietly bloomed between them and now they were both too afraid—and too drawn in—to name it.

After the club, they wandered the quiet streets of Tokyo, the kind that felt like a Studio Ghibli film—soft-lit, hushed, just vending machines humming and the occasional hum of a passing bike.

Shawn slid his hotel key card through the door and they both entered the suite.

Neither one said much. They were both buzzed—off the liquor, off the night, off each other.

Glo kicked off her sneakers and dropped onto the plush bed while Shawn clicked the remote. "I've got an idea," he said, voice still low from the club music. "What if we watch something stupid? Like '80s stupid."

"Sixteen Candles?" she grinned.

"Literally what I was thinking," he chuckled. "Of course you'd say that."

They laid side by side on the bed, watching the movie on a small screen with hotel sound turned low. Glo rested her chin on her arm, still dressed in the oversized denim jacket she borrowed from Shawn after the wind picked up outside.

When Jake Ryan showed up at the church and Sam looked up all hopeful, Shawn said softly, "That's you."

She turned her head slowly toward him. "What do you mean?"

"You're like... the real-life version of that girl people make songs and movies about."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She just smiled a little. "That's dramatic."

"I'm dramatic," he said, grinning. "And I'm serious."

Then it went quiet again.

Until she whispered, "What if we made something?"

He turned his head too. "Like what?"

"A song. You always talk about how it's therapy, right?"

He sat up slowly. "You wanna try writing something right now?"

"Why not?"

So he pulled his phone out, opened Notes, then eventually grabbed his guitar from its travel case in the corner.

She chewed on her bottom lip. "Call it 'Lost in Japan.'"

He paused mid-tune. "That's fire."

And the two of them wrote it right there—sitting on the edge of the bed, giggling when rhymes didn't land, whispering lyrics as they formed them. Glo even sang a few melody ideas, nervous at first but growing bolder with Shawn hyping her up.

They started with:

All it'd take is one flightWe'd be in the same time zone...

She tilted her head. "That's kind of what just happened, huh?"

Shawn nodded, eyes soft. "Exactly."

As the lyrics unfolded, Glo's laughter faded into focused silence. She could hear it now—what it sounded like when feelings turned into verses. That soft ache in the chest. That rush when you say something real.

Do you got plans tonight?I'm a couple hundred miles from Japan, and I...

Her cheeks flushed hearing it.

When they finished the last line, Shawn leaned back, exhausted but glowing.

"That's your first songwriting credit," he said proudly. "And it's already perfect."

Glo smiled, then turned to him with a little seriousness behind her eyes.

"Don't tell anyone it's about me."

He blinked. "Why not?"

"Because..." She hesitated. "It's ours. Not theirs. Not the internet's. Not the fans'. I'm not ready for that."

Shawn nodded slowly, taking it in. "Okay. It's ours."

He closed his Notes app and gently pressed the lock button on his phone. The screen went black.

They sat in the quiet, the last lines of Sixteen Candles playing in the background, and even though no one said it out loud...

They both knew:

This night would be burned into the song, and into them, forever.

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The lights of Tokyo still faintly glowed behind the curtains, painting soft gold streaks across the hotel room. After writing "Lost in Japan" and finishing Sixteen Candles, they both climbed under the covers — not with a plan, just with that sleepy post-creative haze hanging between them.

Shawn didn't make a move. He just curled up behind her, one arm around her waist like it had always been meant to fit there. And Glo... she didn't pull away.

It wasn't about anything physical — it was about the way her body felt calm for once, her breath syncing with his. She hadn't slept like that in weeks.

When morning came, light filtered in softer than expected. She stirred a little, turning onto her back. Shawn was already half-awake, his arm still draped across her stomach, blinking up at the ceiling.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, her voice a little raspy. "What time is it?"

"Still early. Like 6:30."

She nodded. Silence. For a second, just the distant hum of Tokyo traffic below.

Then he said it. Quiet. Too careful.

"Do you love him?"

She froze. She didn't have to ask who.

Glo looked over her shoulder at him, the morning light catching the slight mess of his hair. "Alton?"

He nodded.

She didn't answer right away. Just pulled her knees to her chest and looked down at her chipped pink nail polish.

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "I like him. A lot. He's been good to me. He believes in me." She paused. "But... I don't know."

Shawn sat up a bit, leaning on his elbow.

"I shouldn't have asked," he said. "That was selfish."

But then he did something selfish anyway.

He reached out and touched her hand — gently, like he was asking for permission without words.

She didn't pull away.

Then he leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Like he wanted her to remember how he tasted in the morning, how he felt when nothing was rushed.

And Glo...

She let him.

Because in that moment — wrapped in borrowed sheets, in a Tokyo hotel room that didn't belong to either of them — nothing else existed. Not the past, not the future, not Alton. Not Hailey. Just the warmth. The knowing.

It was one of those kisses that answered questions they were too afraid to say out loud.

And when it ended, she didn't say anything at all.

She just rested her forehead against his and breathed him in like a secret.

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They sat there, foreheads pressed together, suspended in a kind of stillness that only happens when everything you've been holding back finally slips out — not through words, but through closeness, breath, skin.

Shawn whispered, "I'm sorry."

Glo pulled back just a little, eyes searching his. "Why?"

"I don't want to complicate things for you. I know you've got your world... and Alton's a part of it."

Her chest rose and fell slowly. "And what are you?"

He blinked. "I don't know. I'm still figuring that out. But whatever I am... I don't want to lose you."

Glo laid back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling now. Her curls spread like a halo, her expression unreadable.

"It's not that simple," she murmured. "You had Hailey. You moved on. I did too. We weren't supposed to circle back like this."

Shawn turned on his side to face her. "But we did."

And she didn't deny it. Because they had.

After a few minutes of silence, she got up and slipped into one of his hoodies lying at the foot of the bed. It swallowed her — the sleeves too long, the scent so him. She walked to the window and pulled the curtains open wider. Tokyo blinked back at her, alive and bright even this early.

"I'm still going to Kyoto today," she said softly. "Me and Tori have a temple tour booked. And Alton and I were going out tonight."

The words hung between them.

Shawn nodded, slowly rising from the bed. "Okay."

He didn't try to change her plans. He didn't plead.

But just as she turned to grab her phone off the desk, he crossed the room and gently took her hand again.

"Just one thing before you go."

She looked up at him.

He pulled her in close and rested his chin on her shoulder. "That song we wrote... it's ours, no matter what happens."

Her heart thudded a little harder, her eyes stinging slightly — not from sadness, just from the weight of it all. She nodded into his hoodie.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It is."

And that morning, she left the hotel with a head full of questions, a hoodie that wasn't hers, and a memory she wasn't ready to name just yet.

But what she did know was this: something had shifted. Not everything was meant to be defined right away.

And when Lost in Japan would drop months later — fans would swoon, rumors would swirl, but only two people on earth would ever really know what that song meant.

And neither of them were ready to tell.

╔─━━━━━━░★░━━━━━━─╗ ╚─━━━━━━░★░━━━━━━─╝

The next morning in Japan was misty and soft — the kind of overcast that made everything feel a little dreamier, like the world hadn't quite woken up yet.

Glo sat in the back of a sleek black car with Tori beside her, headed toward the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove in Kyoto. She had her sunglasses on, headphones in, and her hood pulled up over her braids, Shawn's hoodie still draped over her shoulders like armor. She hadn't told Tori everything — just enough for her to raise an eyebrow and go, "So y'all wrote a song, huh?"

Glo just sipped her iced matcha and gave a small, unreadable smile. "Yep."

"Right," Tori said, lips pursed. "That's what we're calling it now."

They spent the day wandering temple grounds, snapping Polaroids under bright orange torii gates, and feeding the deer in Nara. Glo laughed freely, letting herself be fully present, but there was still something distant in her eyes. Like a record playing quietly in the background that she couldn't stop hearing.

By the time sunset dipped over the Kyoto hills, her phone buzzed. A simple text.

Alton: Hey. You still want sushi tonight?

Glo stared at the message for a moment before replying:Glo: Yeah. Meet me at the place in Shibuya at 8.

Later that night, she and Alton sat across from each other at a tiny, dimly-lit sushi spot. He was animated, telling her about the Milan runway he just closed for Prada, gesturing with chopsticks, that signature model energy radiating off him. But he noticed something was off.

"You good?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Yeah," she said too fast, picking at a piece of sashimi. "Just tired."

He reached for her hand. "You sure?"

She looked up at him. Alton was sweet. Charming. Gorgeous. And he genuinely cared about her. But something had shifted since yesterday — and she couldn't unshift it.

"Yeah," she said again, softer this time. "Just... a lot on my mind."

He nodded, squeezing her fingers gently.

After dinner, they walked through Shibuya Crossing — neon lights everywhere, the city buzzing like it never slept. Alton pulled her in close as fans tried to sneak photos, and she smiled for the cameras like nothing was wrong. But inside, there was a low thrum. A feeling.

Back at the hotel that night, she was curled up in bed with Alton beside her, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. Her finger hovered for a second over Shawn's profile pic before she clicked out. Then, a text buzzed in.

Shawn: Hope you're okay. I didn't mean to mess things up.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then tucked her phone under the pillow, rolled over, and closed her eyes.

But sleep didn't come easy that night.

And somehow, she knew deep down... this wasn't the end of whatever was starting between her and Shawn. Not even close.

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When Glo touched back down in L.A., it was almost midnight. The November air was cooler than she remembered, brushing against her cheeks like a soft wake-up call. Her team met her at the airport — all smiles, full of "Welcome back, champ," and "You were killin' it in Japan, girl" — but her mind felt split between time zones.

Alton had taken a flight to New York for a campaign shoot, and Glo rode back to her house in silence, head leaned against the window. The streets of L.A. blurred by, familiar and overwhelming at the same time. Her phone buzzed with dozens of unread messages — Nike, Mattel, ESPN, interview requests — and one message from Shawn:

Shawn: Let me know when you get back safe.

She didn't reply right away.

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A few days later, she was back in her element — on the court, practicing with her coach, media appearances lined up back to back. She was gracing the cover of Teen Vogue's December issue, and Mattel was already working on a second edition of the Glo Barbie — this one with her Japan trip fit and a tiny little tennis racket accessory. The original doll had sold out in under 4 minutes, and it was official: Gloria "Glo" Miller was a phenomenon.

But even with all the wins... her heart still felt messy.

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It was a Wednesday night when she and Shawn finally saw each other again.

They met up lowkey at her favorite studio in Echo Park — the same one they always used to chill at when they were younger. Glo wore an oversized hoodie, Nike leggings, and her hair pulled up in a slick bun. Shawn had on a black beanie, flannel, and his guitar slung across his chest like it was part of his DNA.

"Hey," he said when she walked in, eyes lighting up just a little too much.

"Hey," she said back, soft.

They sat side by side on the old studio couch, talking about everything and nothing. He asked about Japan, the food, the clubs. She asked about his tour, how it felt to be single again.

There was a beat of silence between them.

And then he said, "Do you regret it?"

She looked at him, confused. "Regret what?"

"That night. The kiss. Writing the song. Everything."

Glo hesitated. "No," she whispered. "I just... don't know what to do about it."

Shawn leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I broke up with Hailey because I realized I wasn't in it anymore. And I wasn't in it because of you."

She stayed quiet, heart thudding loud in her chest.

"I'm not trying to pressure you," he said. "I just needed you to know."

Glo looked at him, eyes glossy but unreadable. "I need time."

He nodded. "I'll wait."

They ended up playing around with chords again, laughing, slipping back into that old rhythm. It was comfortable. Safe. Familiar.

But underneath it all, there was this tension — like something had already begun and neither of them could fully rewind it.

As she left the studio later that night, Shawn called out, "You still wanna get lost in Japan again one day?"

Glo smiled over her shoulder. "Yeah... but this time, not just in the song."

And then she was gone.

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By the time December rolled around, Los Angeles was draped in holiday lights and mild winter air — just enough to wear a hoodie but still get away with sneakers and bare ankles. Glo had been back from Japan for almost a month, and everything looked the same... but felt different.

She hadn't seen Alton much since she got back. He'd been flying coast to coast for fashion week preps, campaign shoots, and a capsule collection that was supposed to drop in spring. They FaceTimed here and there, texted when they could, but the vibe was off. Faded.

And Glo felt it more every day.

She'd been quiet about Japan. Quiet about Shawn. Quiet about the way her head spun whenever Lost in Japan played and she remembered singing the chorus in his hotel bed with popcorn between them. But the guilt? It lingered.

On December 19th, Glo invited Alton over to her house. No glam. No cameras. Just them, in the living room with her cat walking between their legs and soft R&B humming from the speakers.

She sat on the edge of the couch, fingers laced tightly.

"Alton..." she started, eyes searching his. "I don't think this is working anymore."

He blinked. "What?"

She swallowed hard. "I think we've been holding onto something that doesn't really fit either of us anymore. Like we care about each other, but it's not growing. It's... just here."

Alton's face stayed still for a second. Then he nodded slowly, his jaw tightening a bit. "Is this about him?"

Her silence was enough of an answer.

He sighed, leaned back, rubbed his hands together. "Damn, Glo. I knew something shifted after Japan. I could feel it."

"I didn't cheat," she said quickly. "I would never."

"I didn't say you did," he replied, voice calm but tired. "But I also know when someone else is in the room with us even if he's not actually in the room."

Glo blinked back a tear. "I'm sorry."

Alton nodded again, standing up. "I still think you're amazing. I just wish I got to keep seeing you become it."

And just like that, he hugged her — tight, sincere — then left, closing the door gently behind him.

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That night, Glo sat in her bed scrolling through old photos: her and Alton backstage at shows, on the beach in Malibu, trying on sunglasses at flea markets. It wasn't fake — none of it — but she couldn't pretend her heart was where it used to be.

A message popped up on her phone:

Shawn: You okay?

She stared at the screen for a second... then typed:

Glo: I will be.

But she didn't hit send.

Not yet.

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A few days after the breakup, Glo was curled up in sweats, hair tied up, watching reruns of A Different World and picking at a box of pizza when her phone buzzed.

Shawn: You ever been to Canada for New Year's?

She blinked.

Glo: Nope. Never been to Canada period lol

Shawn: You should come up. Bring in the new year right. I'll show you around 🇨🇦

At first, she hesitated. Everything still felt so fresh. But something in her heart said go. Maybe it was the way Shawn made her feel — free, understood, calm. Or maybe it was the fact that she'd spent so much of her life training and competing, she barely gave herself time to just be.

So, she said yes.

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December 30, 2017 — Toronto, Canada

Glo stepped off the plane bundled in the biggest cream-colored shearling coat she owned, a beanie low over her edges, and sunglasses even though it was practically snowing. She met Shawn at arrivals, where he was waiting with a goofy sign that said:

"Welcome to the 6, Miss Gold Medal."

She burst out laughing. "You're such a dork."

"Proudly," he grinned, pulling her into a hug that lingered just a second longer than necessary.

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December 31st — Ice Skating at Nathan Phillips Square

"Okay so... you've never done this?" Shawn asked, lacing up her skates for her as she held onto his shoulder dramatically.

"I grew up in Florida and trained in California. Ice skating was not in the itinerary," she said, already panicking at the thought of standing up.

He laughed. "Alright, just trust me."

The second she tried to stand, she slipped right back down on the bench.

"See! This is ghetto!"

Shawn was dying. "Okay, okay, hold my hands."

Once on the ice, she clung to him like her life depended on it. The two of them were wobbling like baby deer, her screeching every few seconds while he held her waist and tried to keep them upright.

People watched. Cameras flashed. But Glo didn't care. Her laugh echoed off the rink walls as she finally got her footing — well, sort of — and glided a couple feet on her own before falling dramatically into Shawn's arms.

When they took a break, sipping hot cocoa under strings of fairy lights, Glo leaned against him, cheeks pink from the cold and laughing so hard her ribs hurt.

"This was actually fun," she admitted. "Humiliating, but fun."

"You were iconic," he said, bumping her shoulder. "Ten outta ten. Would wobble again."

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As midnight approached, they stood out on a balcony overlooking downtown Toronto. Fireworks sparkled in the sky, and the crowd roared below. Glo wrapped herself tighter in Shawn's coat and looked up at him.

"Thanks for this. For real," she said.

"I wouldn't wanna spend it with anyone else."

They didn't kiss, but they held hands as the clock struck twelve — fingers laced, hearts racing, the snow falling gently around them like the beginning of something new.

And maybe... just maybe... it was.

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A few days into the new year — the snow still fresh, the skies soft and gray — Shawn took Glo on a real tour of Canada, like he'd promised.

They bundled up in thick layers and hit up all his favorite local spots in Toronto:

• a cozy café called Hale's Brew where he used to write lyrics during downtime,

• a tucked-away record shop with creaky floors and vintage Michael Jackson vinyls,

• and his favorite Jamaican takeout joint that had oxtail so good Glo lowkey moaned after the first bite.

"Okay, you win," she mumbled, still chewing. "Canada got some heat."

"Told you," he grinned, watching her eat like he was watching something sacred.

They caught a Raptors game that night, courtside — and she wore one of his flannels over her turtleneck and jeans. When they were up on the jumbotron, Glo waved and flashed her gold medal smile. Shawn just leaned over and said, "You're a star, you know that?"

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Two days later — in his apartment, wrapped in throws and surrounded by snow outside

Glo was flipping through a notebook, legs crossed on the couch, while Shawn strummed a slow chord progression on his guitar. The vibe was mellow, safe. Then out of nowhere, she set the notebook down and looked over at him.

"I forgot to tell you..." she said softly.

He stopped playing. "What's up?"

"So, I've been thinking. And now that I'm officially 18... I'm moving. Like, for real this time."

He sat up a little straighter. "Wait, moving? Where?"

"California. LA," she smiled, a little unsure. "I love Florida, but... I need to be on my own, you know? Be where things are happening."

A pause. Then Shawn smiled wide — not fake or performative, just genuinely excited.

"Yo, that's fire. You serious?"

"Dead serious. I've been talking to my mom and my team, and they're cool with it. I already have a spot lined up — it's small, but I love it. Close to the training center, and it's mine."

"Glo, that's huge." He grinned, standing up and doing a little dance. "We're gonna be neighbors!"

She laughed. "Okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"No, I'm serious! I'm in LA all the time. Studios, shoots, sessions. And now I got another reason to be there."

Their eyes met for a second longer than either of them expected. No words. Just the sound of a soft guitar string still ringing from earlier.

"You're proud of me?" she asked.

"Proud? Glo... I'm obsessed with you," he said without thinking.

She blinked. He blinked.

"...Like, in a good way," he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

She smirked. "Yeah. I know what you meant."

And just like that, she leaned her head against his shoulder, both of them staring out the window as snowflakes danced in the streetlights.

A new year.

A new chapter.

And maybe — a new beginning between them.