Not just with them.
To them.
The backstage areahas mostly cleared out, the earlier buzz of excitement fading into a calm lull. The guys are scattered, handling post-show routines or chatting with crew members, but Xayden is still here, leaning against the edge of a folding table, idly spinning one of his drumsticks in his fingers.
I linger near the door, unsure why I haven’t left yet. It isn’t like there is anyone here to take pictures of me hanging around. But their earlier words keep me here.
Xayden’s eyes flick to mine, catching me staring. He grins, that usual spark of mischief lighting up his face. “You waiting for an autograph or something?”
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. “Do you ever turn it off?”
He chuckles, pushing off the table and walking toward me, his grin fading into something that feels… different. Genuine. “What, my charm? Nah. That’s all-natural, baby.”
“Right,” I say, but my voice wavers just slightly, and I hate how he notices. His steps slow, and the distance between us shrinks until he’s standing right in front of me.
For once, there’s no teasing, no cocky smirk. Just Xayden. My Xayden. He radiates heat, his shirt still hanging open to reveal his toned chest. My fingers itch to touch him, but I curl them into themselves instead.
“Did you like it?” he asks, his voice quieter now, as if he’s afraid of the answer. “The show? The song?”
My throat tightens, and I nod. “Yeah. I… I loved it.”
Something shifts in his expression, the usual playfulness giving way to something gentler, something I don’t quite know how to handle. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because we meant every word.”
I don’t know what to say to that. My chest feels tight; everything presses down on me.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low, grounding. His hand reaches out, his fingers brushing against my arm, just enough to make me look up at him.
And there it is.
No pretense. No jokes. Just him looking at me like I’m something worth holding onto.
“Xayden,” I whisper, my voice catching on his name.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hand shifting slightly, his thumb brushing against my skin in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I admit, my voice barely audible. “With any of this.”
“You don’t have to know,” he says quietly. “You just have to… be.”
Before I can think, before I can stop myself, I step closer, my breath hitching as the space between us disappears.
His hand moves to my cheek, his touch featherlight, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t. I can’t.
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft, barely there at first, like he’s testing the waters. But when I don’t pull back, his lips press more firmly against mine, warm and unhurried, like he’s pouring every unspoken word into that single moment.
I lean into him, my hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as the world fades away. It’s not hurried or desperate—it’s tender, steady, like he’s saying,We have time.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“See?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You’re doing just fine.”
I inhale deeply, his musk wrapping around me like a warm, comforting hug I’ve been missing for too long. It’s grounding and intoxicating all at once, a reminder of everything I’ve been holding at arm’s length.
And in that moment, I know without a shred of doubt—if this is fake, if this all blows up in my face—I’ll never recover.
But right now? I don’t care.
