“It does have layers,” Jonas filled in.
They fell back into their easy rhythm, and Emma let out a breath, leaning back in her chair. But for the rest of the interview, she stuck to her practiced answers.
After, she stepped out of the cramped podcast booth and into the bustle of the backstage hallway. The brightness made her blink, her mind still stuck on what she’d said about vulnerability.
When was the last time she’d actually allowed herself that? Bravery, intimacy, surrender. She lived in those themes on the page, but in real life, the risk never seemed worth it.
She’d read once that falling in love was like handing someone a loaded gun aimed at your heart and trusting them not to pull the trigger.
Never handing out a gun in the first place had just always struck her as the more sensible choice.
Maybe that was why she’d buried herself in stories, first as a reader, then as a writer. She could feel everything without consequence. Fall in love safely. The highs without the lows, the wanting without the wound.
It worked for her. Had always been enough.
So why did it suddenly feel . . . hollow?
Leah’s voice from earlier kept echoing:I just want people to see the Emma I see when you let your guard down. Not the one hiding.
The words stuck under her skin. Emma liked to think she was simply wired differently—more careful, more self-contained. But hiding? That wasn’t fair.
Was it?
She exhaled and headed to the cafeteria, where she found Leah pacing mid-phone call, gesturing liberally and speaking in rapid-fire Italian, a language Emma didn’t even know she spoke. Even after months of knowing her, Leah kept surprising.
When Leah caught sight of her, she beckoned her over with a finger, telling the person on the line toaspetta. She fished a narrow strip of paper from her handbag and handed it to Emma.
Emma took it, confused. Then it clicked. A soft gasp escaped her. The strip shimmered faintly in a black metallic foil, with the wordsHall H VIP+ Special Accessprinted in gold across it. She looked up at her PR manager, eyes wide.
“Leah . . . is this—”
“Yes, yes, put it on, for Christ’s sake,” Leah said. She waved her hand impatiently, though a warm gleam shone in her eyes. “The panel starts any minute.”
“Oh my god, thank you,” Emma breathed. She peeled off the tape and fastened the black band around her wrist.
The thin strip of paper was probably one of the most coveted objects in the city right now. Leah must have truly worked some magic to get it. Possibly sacrificing a few goats—or maybe just yelling in Italian until someone caved.
“Go,” Leah mouthed, already diving back into her call.
Emma turned on her heel and made for the nearest staircase, heading down toward the ground level.
Darren Cole would be on stage in ten minutes.
Chapter 7
The man, the myth, the fangirl-bait legend.
Sunlight hit Emma as she stepped outside the building, where white tents marked the front of the Hall H line. Her vision blurred as she blinked into the glare.
Sensory overload and sleep deprivation were catching up with her, and a faint throb pulsed behind her eyes. She breathed through it without slowing down.
Despite the sheer number of people inching forward in the zigzagging queue, the mood was calm and surprisingly polite. Comic-Con visitors, she was learning, were a friendly bunch. There was no VIP entrance in sight, so she headed for a staffer overseeing the process.
Only minutes to the panel now. Her heart fluttered with excitement, clearly having no damn chill. It was ridiculous. This was just about professional curiosity. Seeing someone up close whose work she’d admired. Plus, a Hall H panel was peak Comic-Con. She could hardly pass up a golden ticket to that.
Perfectly good reasons. Nothing whatsoever to do with any silly, irrelevant crushes.
As she approached the line, she rummaged in her tote for the SDCC cap she’d spotted earlier and tugged it low over her brow. One benefit of being a writer was that she was rarely recognized—but this wasn’t your average type of crowd.
