The bubble held for another twelve hours. We moved through the night like a single organism, navigating the shift from "colleagues" to "poly-amorous biological disaster squad" with surprising ease.
We slept in a pile again. We woke up in a pile.
But the world outside the bus was waking up, too. And the world had questions.
When we rolled into the venue parking lot in Manchester, I could see the press van from the window.
"Gareth," Alfie growled, peering through the blinds. "He’s tipped them off. He’s trying to force a reveal."
"He wants a bond walk," Kit said, standing behind him, cracking his knuckles. "He wants us to parade you out there like a prize."
"Two constraints," I said to the room. I was pulling on a hoodie, Alfie’s this time, the scent of burnt sugar heavy on the fabric.
They all turned to me.
"I’m not hiding in the bus," I said. "But I’m not giving them the headline they want."
"Plan?" Euan asked.
"We walk out," I said. "Formation. But not 'romance' formation. Work formation. I’m the producer. You’re the talent. We go straight to the load-in."
"And if they ask?" Alfie asked.
"Then we tell them the truth," I said, checking my reflection. I looked tired, bruised, and thoroughly claimed, even without the marks on my neck. "Just not the truth they’re looking for."
I grabbed my bag.
"Ready?"
Alfie grinned, that reckless, stage-light grin returning. "Boundaries are punk, yeah?"
"Yeah," I said, opening the bus door. "Let's go teach them a lesson."
The Manchester rain was a different frequency than Seattle’s. Seattle rain was a persistent, grey static that smoothed out the world. Manchester rain was percussive, sharp, cold needles hitting the asphalt of the loading dock in a chaotic rhythm that made my teeth itch.
I tightened the cuffs of Alfie’s hoodie. It swallowed my hands, smelling of burnt sugar and the ghost of the nest we’d just dismantled. It was armor.
"Formation check," Kit rumbled from directly behind me. He wasn't touching me, rule number two of the public rollout, but I could feel the heat of him, a solid wall of espresso and molasses blocking the wind.
"Formation is Work," I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my pulse. "I'm the producer. You're the talent. We're walking to a job, not a wedding."
"Copy that," Alfie said. He was vibrating again, bouncing on the balls of his boots near the bus door. He’d swapped the sweats for his black skinnies and a sheer mesh shirt under the pink faux-fur coat. He looked like a rockstar. He looked like adistraction. "Eyes front. No engagement unless they block the path."
"They're going to block the path," Euan noted, peering through the tint of the bus window. "Gareth has positioned the press pool directly between the vehicle and the stage door. It’s a choke point."
"Then we walk through them," I said.
I verified the Exit Card was in the locked drawer in the back lounge. I didn't need it today. Today, I needed the faders up.
"Open the door, Barry."
The hydraulics hissed. The smell of wet concrete and ozone flooded the stairwell.
We stepped out.
The flashbulbs hit us instantly. It wasn't a steady light; it was a violent strobe, a chaotic assault of white-hot bursts that triggered a synesthetic wash of jagged silver and static across my vision. The noise was worse, shouting, names being thrown like rocks.
"Alfie! Alfie over here!"
