Tears prick at my eyes before I even realize they’re there. My vision blurs, the lights melting into a hazy shimmer. I can feel his voice under my skin, a vibration that settles deep inside the hollow places that used to belong to fear.
This—this is love too.
Not soft or easy.
But wild. Fierce. Unapologetic.
The bridge hits, drums crashing like thunder, and Trey steps away from the mic, letting the guitar strap slide over his shoulder. His fingers fly over the strings, every movement sure andfluid. His body sways with the rhythm, his head thrown back as he loses himself in it.
The crowd loses its mind.
Mac’s cheering beside me, clapping and shouting his name, but I can’t join her. I’m too full. Too overwhelmed by the beauty of him—of this moment.
When he finally steps back up to the mic for the last verse, his gaze finds mine again, and the world stops moving.
So here I am, still learning how to breathe,
loving you the only way I know — completely.
Your eyes are something I fall in.
So, baby, you should know that I’m already all in.
Silence falls for a heartbeat.
Then the arena explodes.
Applause. Screams. Whistles.
Trey stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes still on me.
He doesn’t smile.
He just looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
It’s in this moment, I know.
Whatever comes next, whatever waits outside these walls…
he’s mine.
And I’m his.
The last chords of the final song linger in the air, shimmering like snowflakes caught in the spotlight. The crowd roars, cheering and clapping, and I can feel every ounce of energy from Trey vibrating through the studio floor. They’ve been killing it for sixty minutes—each song sharper, fiercer, more alive than the last. My chest is tight, my heart hammering as I watch him command the stage like he owns the universe, but every glance, every movement seems to echo back to me.
Then, it’s over. The announcer’s voice blares over the PA, congratulating Burnt Ashes for an unforgettable set and wishing them a Happy Holiday. But I don’t hear any of it. I barely hear the crowd.
Because my eyes are locked on him.
He steps off the stage, hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging in all the right places, and he doesn’t glance at anyone else. Not Mac, not the cameras, not the crowd. He’s coming straight for me.
My stomach tightens, breath catching. The studio seems to shrink until it’s just us, his strides closing the distance, his eyes blazing with something I can’t name but feel deep in my bones.
When he reaches me, he pulls me close, hips pressed together, chest to chest, and I can feel his every heartbeat against mine. His hands slide up my sides, lingering at my ribs before tracing the curve of my back, sending shivers down my spine.
“You’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” he mutters against my temple, lips brushing my hair. “It’s dangerous. Makes me wanna drag you to a backroom.”
I smirk, but my pulse is wild, and my fingers find his forearm, leaning into the warmth of him. He leans in further, nippingat the side of my neck, and my breath hitches. Every move feels stolen, secretive, as though the world is still watching, yet we’re the only two in it.
