"Clean up," I said, unlocking the stall door. "We have a soundcheck."
I stepped out into the corridor.
Kit and Euan were waiting. They looked at me, calm, composed, hair fixed. Then they looked at the bathroom door, where Alfie was just emerging, looking like he’d been put through a spin cycle.
Kit’s mouth quirked at the corner.
"Everything sorted?" he asked innocently.
"Levels are balanced," I said.
We walked toward the green room.
Rowan was there, waiting with her tablet. She didn't look up as we entered, but I saw the ghost of a smirk on her lips. She handed me a tablet with the press metrics.
And Cal, beautiful, reliable Cal, appeared from the kitchenette. He didn't ask questions. He just placed a steaming mug of tea in my hand and slid a vanilla milkshake toward me across the table.
"You'll need the sugar," Cal said mildly. "Adrenaline crash is a bear."
I took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey. Two sugars.
"Thanks, Cal."
Alfie collapsed onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling, looking dazed and happy.
"She's terrifying," Alfie whispered to the room. "She's absolutely terrifying."
"Get used to it," I said, opening my laptop. "Two minutes to soundcheck. Let's go make some noise."
That night, after the show, after the adrenaline had finally bled out into a dull, aching exhaustion, the bubble of the bus felt tighter. Safer.
The transition from "colleagues" to "pack" wasn't a straight line. It was a series of jagged peaks and valleys. We were navigating the bizarre reality of being professionally public and biologically entangled.
I stood in the kitchenette, staring at a pan of scrambled eggs.
"I can calculate the thermal dynamics of a tube amp," I muttered, poking the rubbery yellow mass with a spatula. "Why can I not apply heat to protein without ruining it?"
"Because you're impatient," Kit’s voice came from the doorway.
He wasn't wearing a shirt. He rarely did on the bus after a show. The tattoos on his torso were a map I was just starting to learn.
"I'm efficient," I countered. "Eggs should know what to do."
"Move," he said gently, stepping in behind me. He took the spatula from my hand. He turned the heat down. "You burned them. Too high, too fast."
"Story of my life," I sighed, leaning back against the counter.
Kit chuckled, a low rumble. He scraped the ruin into the bin and cracked three fresh eggs with one hand.
"Sit," he ordered. "I'll feed you."
I sat at the small booth table. Euan was there, typing on his laptop, headphones around his neck. Alfie was sprawled on the banquette opposite, tossing grapes into the air and trying to catch them. He missed most of them.
It was domestic. It was terrifyingly normal.
Kit plated the eggs, soft, perfectly seasoned, and set them in front of me. He didn't leave. He sat next to me, thigh pressing against mine, arm draped along the back of the seat.
I took a bite. They were perfect.
