Candace isn’t trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t need to. She sings with the purity of someone who’s never been heard before.
And now? No one will ever forget. The song ends, and the silence that follows is louder than any applause. Then, just like that, she steps back.
No bow. No smile. Just walks off the tiny stage like she hasn’t just destroyed every man, woman, and ghost in the damn room.
And I know. I know right then, I’m so fucking gone for her. Because that voice? It isn’t just beautiful. It’s a battle cry disguised as a hymn. And I’ll go to war just to hear it again.
The second she walks off that stage, shoulders squared, spine tall, my body moves before my brain does. Beer forgotten. Breath shallow. Heart pacing like it has somewhere more important to be.
She cuts through the crowd with that quiet defiance she always wears for armor, ignoring the stunned looks, the murmurs. Ruby reaches for her, probably to say something, but Candace shakes her head, keeps moving. Out the side door. Into the night.
I follow.
Don’t care who sees. Don’t care that my chest is still raw, or that her voice is still echoing through my bones like a ghost I’ll never shake. I just know I can’t let her walk away from this pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending she doesn’t matter.
The cool air slaps me in the face as I step outside. The fairy lights overhead flicker with the weight of something sacred. She’s standing at the fringe of the yard, back to me, arms crossed tight against her chest in a way that says she’s holding herself together by instinct. I see the way her fingers dig into her sides,the way her jaw moves like she’s biting down on whatever’s trying to crawl out of her throat.
“You just gonna stare,” she says, voice rough, “or you gonna say something?”
I take a few steps closer. Not too close. Not yet. “You were incredible.”
She laughs, sharp, bitter. “Don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.” She turns then, eyes dark and guarded, and I feel the blow of it. “Don’t feed me lines, Malachi. I know what I am.”
I swallow. “What you are,” I say carefully, “is the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
That catches her. She blinks, a hitch in the armor.
“I grew up with a man who told me I’m useless,” she says, quiet now, barely a whisper. “Said no one would ever wanna hear my voice. That I’m just like my mom. All looks and empty noise.”
I step closer. “He was wrong.”
“You didn’t hear him.” Her voice cracks. “Every time I tried to be something, he reminded me I’ll never be enough. So I stopped trying.”
I shake my head, fierce now. “Candace, I’ve seen you fight harder just to survive than most people ever do to live. I’ve seen you take hit after hit and get up every damn time. And tonight?” I step in close enough for her to feel it. “Tonight you sang like a fucking warrior. Like someone who’s lived through hell and came back with fire in her throat.”
Her lips part, but no words come.
“Don’t tell me you’re nothing. Don’t tell me you’re noise. Because if that’s true…” I reach out, brush her knuckles with mine, “then I’ve never heard anything worth listening to.”
She stares at me. And something in her gives. Not a collapse. A release. The pressure finally cracking through.
“You make it hard to walk away,” she whispers, voice gravel-rough.
“Good,” I breathe. “Because wanting you stopped being a choice a long time ago.”
She doesn’t move. Or speak. Just stares at me with all that ache, doubt, and heat swimming behind her eyes.
Then she kisses me. It isn’t gentle. Isn’t clean or practiced. It’s messy, trembling, desperate. Like she’s been drowning in her silence for years and finally comes up gasping. I catch her with both arms and hold tight because I’m not letting go. Not this time.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine, breath warm and unsteady.
“You still scare the shit out of me,” she murmurs.
“Good,” I say again, smiling against her mouth. “Means we’re even.”
