“Right,” I whisper, stepping back. I can still feel her warmth lingering on my arm. We exit together, the tiny door clicking shut on what almost happened.
For a heartbeat, the room falls away. Her eyes lock on mine, raw, unguarded, and I feel a pull, like I’m teetering toward her, unable to resist.
Then her phone erupts in her pocket. The spell shatters. Sadie jerks back as though slapped, fumbling for the device. The color bleeds from her cheeks before she even glances at the screen.
“Sadie?” I whisper.
She shoves the phone away, hands trembling. “I’m fine,” she blurts, her gaze darting past me. “We should… get back out there.”
“Everything okay?” I press gently.
“I said I’m fine.” Her tone cuts off any warmth; she’s barricading herself behind a wall of duty. “We’ve got a show.”
I give her space, watching her inhale like she’s trying to calm a storm inside her. Fear flickers in her eyes. It isn’t annoyance or surprise but rather something darker.
“Alright,” I say lightly, grabbing the bin of cups. “Can’t keep my adoring public waiting. I’ve been polishing my rock star moves all week.”
I air–riff an over–the–top guitar solo. She cracks, a tiny, reluctant smile, but her shoulders stay tight.
“I’ll grab the ice,” I add, hefting the bucket. “Lead the way, boss.”
She nods, a fragile reset, and steers us back toward the café floor. I trail behind, careful not to crowd her, yet acutely aware of how her gaze keeps flicking around the room.
The café buzzes now. Every seat is claimed, and clusters of patrons press against the walls. Rowan stands at the mic, welcoming the crowd and outlining the lineup. I place ice and cups behind the counter, then collect my guitar case from its hiding spot.
“Next up,” Rowan calls, glancing at her list, “Axel Slade with ‘…something good.’”
Laughter ripples through the audience. A grin tugs at my mouth as I stride to the makeshift stage, settle on the stool, and raise the mic. As I tune, my eyes seek Sadie’s. She’s leaning on the counter, every muscle alert, but her gaze is open, curious.
“Evening, everyone,” comes out quiet but steady. “This one’s by John Mayer, ‘In the Blood.’”
The first chords slice through the chatter. For a moment I close my eyes, letting the melody center me, then I start to sing. The words, questions about who we are, where we come from, whether we can rewrite our story, flow naturally.
Halfway through the second verse, my gaze lifts. Sadie has stopped pretending to work; she’s utterly still, eyes locked on me. Her lips part slightly, as if she’s hearing something she needed to. In that glance, I know she feels every line I’m singing.
For those few measures, the crowded café vanishes. It’s just us: me, pouring out the song, and her, drinking it in. Thetension between us softens, charged with something tender and unspoken.
The final chord lingers as I let it ring out, then I release it gently. Silence hangs for a heartbeat, then the room erupts in applause. Head dipping, I’m stunned back into the moment.
Once I step offstage, well-wishers swarm me with pats on the back, but my gaze is already searching for her. Behind the counter, I spot Sadie, eyes bright, a newfound warmth in her expression.
“That was amazing,” she says when I reach her. Her voice sounds steady now, sincere. “I didn’t know…”
I grin, trying to play it cool. “There’s more to me than the jokes, apparently.”
“No,” she insists, tone soft. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Heat pricks at the back of my eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”
We stand close, the counter between us, that electric charge humming again. But I step back, giving her space.
“I should help clean up,” I offer, nodding toward the next act setting up. “Only if you want me to.”
She hesitates, then offers a small, genuine smile. “Okay.”
As she turns to help a customer, her hand drifts to her pocket, as if seeking reassurance from her phone. Her shoulders remain rigid, eyes flicking toward the door. Whatever scared her earlier hasn’t left her mind.
From my seat, I watch her, unsettled. The source of whatever’s haunting her stays out of reach, but something in me stirs, a protective instinct I can’t ignore.
