Bryce lowers his voice so only I can hear.
“Thanks for handling that backstage.”
“You mean threatening someone? Yes. You're welcome.”
“I meant having my back.”
The words hit somewhere I’m not prepared for.
“I wasn’t doing it for you,” I say too quickly. “It was for the team. For PR. For me, too.”
“Sure,” he says. “I must say, though, it was a bit of a turn-on seeing you take charge like that.”
I glare. He smiles in a slow, warm, and annoyingly genuine way.
And my heart does something stupid.
A few minutes later, the night winds down. The last of the wings disappear, the table is littered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins, and everyone looks a mix of exhausted and wired.
Dex stretches like he’s preparing for battle. “Alright, children. Shuttle’s waiting. Let’s get Bryce escorted before he accidentally adopts another scandal on the walk to the parking lot.”
“I don’t adopt scandals,” Bryce mutters.
“You attract them like raccoons attract trash cans,” Colby replies, patting him on the shoulder.
The group heads toward the exit in a slow-moving cluster. I hang back, needing air and space.
A hand brushes mine.
Not grabbing. Not guiding. Just… there.
Bryce.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “We’ll take you to your car.”
It’s not a question. Yet somehow, it doesn’t feel like control. It feels more like concern.
I hate that it matters.
We climb into the shuttle, a sleek black Mercedes van clearly designed for celebrities or transporting highly volatile egos.
Everyone finds a seat.
There is one spot left. Next to him.
Fantastic.
I slide in, deliberately keeping an inch of space between us, which is the emotional equivalent of building a pillow fort.
The shuttle pulls away. The city passes by in streaks of neon and shadow.
No one speaks for a moment. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Then Bryce’s phone buzzes. Again.
He glances at the screen, jaw ticking. Then he turns the phone toward me.
BREAKING: Bryce Blackhorn leaves concert holding hands with mystery woman. Romance confirmed?
