“Linus, there you are.” Liam nods at me from where he’s pacing. “Connor, this is our manager.”
Manager.
Not boyfriend. Not partner.
Not the man Liam kissed three hours ago behind the amps, gripping the back of my neck like he couldn’t get close enough.
Not the man he bent over right in this fucking dressing room after sound check.
Just…manager.
The word cracks something in me, even though I knew it was coming.
We agreed to keep it quiet in our families. Until we figure out how to make it work without blowing up the band. So, I get it. I do.
Hearing me reduced to a title burns. The distance in his voice, like none of us ever happened. Like I’m here to carry gear and cut checks.
I stay quiet. Swallow it. The truth is, I’d do anything for him. For all of them. Even if it means pretending I’m not the one who gets to see the real Liam when the lights go down.
Connor stands, offers his hand. “Heard good things. Cheers.”
I take it. “Pleasure. Congrats on joining the encore.”
Connor shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s pride in his posture. He looks from me to Liam and back again, eyes narrowing like he’s connecting dots I’m not sure he wants laid bare.
Before I can say more, the door swings open again and Felicity breezes in, all eyes and attitude.
Her dress clings in ways beyond comprehension. Navy satin draped low on her back, lips painted the color of bruises. She heads straight for the mirror and blots her lipstick with practiced disdain.
“C’mon,” she coos. “Can’t we splurge on champagne for the last night of tour?”
She’s not talking to me. She never talks to me when there’s someone more important in the room.
Padraig doesn’t flinch. “Felicity. If you want to get fucked up, we have the next few weeks off. Do it on your own time.”
“For Christ’s sake,” she scoffs. “For a bunch of Irish guys, you’re no fun. Too fucking wholesome.”
Connor raises his eyebrows. Liam’s silent.
I sense it before it hits. The shift in energy.
Connor gives her a polite nod. “Hey, love, mind giving us a minute, yeah? Family stuff.”
“Me?” She blinks at him in mock confusion. “Oh, don’t worry about me. Ibelonghere. Go about your business.”
Her eyes flick over me, lingering a fraction too long.
Liam growls, “Jesus Christ. Take a fuckin’ hint.”
His words give her the opening she’s been waiting for.
She straightens intentionally, every motion rehearsed. “For the record. This ismyband too. I’ve been part of every show. Every mile on the road. Every song. I’m sick of being treated like an outsider.”
I see it then. The crack in her mask. Not hurt—calculation.
Padraig tries to soften it. “Felicity, c’mon. We haven’t seen our brother in over a year. This isn’t band shit, its family, okay?”
She scoffs. Grabs her bag. Flips her hair.
