“Yes,” I whisper.No idea if it’s true.We make it through, breath shaky, adrenaline humming.And that’s when I see her.Different than I thought, but recognizable by the press badge she’s got clipped to her camera strap.
She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts, a dark t-shirt that’s seen better days, and black combat boots.Her brown hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and a Nikon hangs from her neck.She’s younger than I expected, maybe in her late twenties.But it’s her eyes I notice.Eyes that say she’s already unimpressed with this world.
Dean’s there, leaning against a road case, arms crossed, smirk already locked and loaded, staring her down like she’s a challenge he wants to unwrap.
“I don’t do fluff pieces,” she’s saying as we approach.
Dean snorts.“Relax, sweetheart.Nobody asked you to.”
A single brow arches.“Sweetheart?”
I don’t know her yet, but I think I already love her.And also, maybe slightly fear her.
“You journalists always show up acting like you’re saving rock ’n’ roll,” Dean drawls.“Pretty sure we’ve been doing just fine without your moral compass.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she shoots back, voice like ice that could scald.“I don’t plan to waste any time on morality here.”
Dean blinks.Then grins like she just handed him a dare.
Luc leans down, lips brushing my ear.“Incoming hurricane.”
“Dean or her?”I whisper.
“Both.”
Luc is called over to gear up.He touches my hip, looks into my eyes for one beat longer than necessary.The kind of look that fills my lungs and steals my breath at the same time.
“Stay close,” he murmurs.
I nod.Watch him go.Then let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.My brain is cycling betweenthis is fineandwhat the hell am I doing here.
Except… Iamhere.I chose to be.And for the first time today, beneath the nerves and the adrenaline and the roar of a waiting crowd, it hits me, maybe I’m allowed to belong here too.I’m here for him.And maybe, maybe I’m here for me too.
And suddenly, I realize I’m standing beside the world’s most chaotic budding hate-relationship duo.The reporter is still staring Dean down like she could set him on fire with sheer will, when her gaze flicks to me.In an instant her expression shifts.
The heat is gone, steel softening, like her brain just switched files.“You must be Lily,” she says, and her tone surprises me.Warm.Normal.Human.Not sharp or postured like she was two seconds ago.
I blink.“I- yeah.Hi.”
Up close she’s not intimidating, or, okay, she totally still is, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes I recognize.She’s someone who has walked into rooms full of louder voices and refused to shrink.
She extends her hand.“Sadie Brooks.I promise I don’t bite.”She shifts her gaze momentarily to Dean.“Unless you’re a lead guitarist with a God complex.”
Dean snorts.“Journalists with superiority issues are my favorite species, thanks.”
I shake her hand before I can overthink it.“I’m not entirely sure what’s happening right now,” I admit.
Sadie smiles.A real one, not a reporter kind of fake smile.“Trust me, neither is he.”
Dean opens his mouth.Probably to say something cocky and inappropriate.We both ignore him.
“You’re staying on the tour?”Sadie asks, eyes flicking to my backstage pass, then to the direction Luc disappeared in.
“I- trying to,” I say, honest because lying feels pointless.“If I don’t have a panic attack first.”
She doesn’t laugh.Doesn’t brush it off.She nods like she gets it, like she’s had her own version of that thought every time she walked into a new arena with her notebook and her spine made of steel.
“If you need air later, come find me.”She offers quietly.“I know all the good hiding spots around here.”
