“We’ll fight later about who gets the lion’s share of the praise, rock star. For now, let’s soak this in.”
As we take another bow, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of joy and possibility. We’ve created something magical here—not just in our music, but in ourselves. And this? This is just the beginning.
Whatever comes next, I know one thing for certain: with Ana by my side, every day will be an adventure filled with love. And I can’t wait to see where the music takes us next.
Backstage, the noise still echoing, Ana freezes. Her parents stand near the curtain, out of place among the amps and tangled cables. Her mother’s pearls out of place in the glare of the work lights.
Her father clears his throat first. “You were remarkable.” The words sound rusty, like they haven’t been used in years.
Her mother nods, eyes glossy. “We didn’t understand before. We thought you were… running away. But what you’ve built—what you’ve become—it’s extraordinary.”
Ana’s voice wavers, but she holds her ground. “I didn’t expect you to come.”
“We almost didn’t,” her father admits. “But I’m glad we did.” He glances toward me—no judgment there, only the wary curiosity of a man realizing his daughter is happier now.
Her mother reaches out, hesitating before resting a hand on Ana’s arm. “We may not understand this world of yours,” she says softly, “but we’re proud of you.”
Ana’s throat works around a trembling laugh. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
They exchange a brief, awkward hug—small, real, imperfect. The start of something that might one day be easy.
When they leave, Ana exhales a breath she’s been holding for years. I lace my fingers through hers, and she squeezes once, eyes bright with unshed tears. “That was enough,” she whispers. “That was everything.”
The hum of voices fades. Someone calls Ana’s name, but she ignores it and pulls me toward the quiet.
Backstage smells like sweat and roses as the crowd spills into the night like champagne foaming over a rim. Outside the dressing-room side door, the alley air is cool and blessedly quiet.
I lean into the railing, still vibrating with leftover notes. When Ana joins me, moonlight silvers her bare shoulders, stealing my breath. I step in behind her, gathering her hair to one side and pressing my mouth to that spot on her neck guaranteed to make her shiver.
“You were brilliant,” I murmur against her skin. “Like watching a city turn its lights on.”
“And you were the spark that lit it,” she whispers back.
We stand like this for a while—her breath slow and even, my pulse still running on stage tempo—until the world narrows totwo truths: her parents came, and they clapped. It shouldn’t matter as much as it does. It matters less than she feared.
“Thank you for finding me,” she says softly. “Not just my music. Me.”
“Youfound you,” I tell her. “I just held the flashlight.”
Her kiss isn’t a victory lap; it’s a vow—slow, deep, and a little shaky in the best way. Her hands clutch my shirt, and my palms slide along the denim warmth of her thighs until every thought dissolves into rhythm. I taste citrus and adrenaline and the first sweet bite of a future we’ve built note by note.
Cheers from the alley float up like confetti. Someone yells, “We love you, rats forever!” and I laugh into her mouth.
“Encore?” I ask, eyebrows waggling.
“Greedy,” she scolds, though she’s already tugging me back inside.
“Five minutes,” I promise.
“We’ll see.”
We don’t make it five. We make it unforgettable.
Later, she sprawls across the couch, her performance top half-unzipped like a secret, skin still glowing from the stage lights. Reaching for a pen, she scrawls a title across a crumpled program:Dirty Duet: Movements I–III.
“Our story?” I ask.
“Our score,” she murmurs, smiling.
