He studies me for a beat longer, something unreadable in his eyes. Then the sound of Eli’s laugh cuts through the music—loud, unmissable.
“Rafe!” he shouts across the room, waving an arm. “C’mon, man, we scored a booth!” He offers Ollie an up nod, not showing an ounce of surprise that he’s beside me.
I glance back at Ollie, half expecting him to use it as an excuse to ghost. But he surprises me, glancing toward the others, then back at me with that small, helpless grin.
“Go,” he says.
“Not without you.”
He hesitates, but when I tug gently at his wrist, he lets me. We wind through the press of bodies to the raised section at the back, roped off from the crowd. There’s a low table already loaded with bottles, ice, and gleaming glasses. The waitress appears like she’s been waiting just for us—short dress, sharp smile, eyes fixed on me when she leans in to pour.
“You killed it tonight,” she says, voice sugar-sweet. “That last song—damn. I’m pleased I managed to make it before my shift started.”
I thank her automatically, but she keeps her hand on my shoulder a moment too long. When I glance at Ollie, his jaw’s set, his polite smile paper-thin.
Adorable.
As soon as she steps away, I slide a hand under the table, fingers brushing his thigh. A subtle touch, hidden in the shadows. He startles, then exhales, shoulders loosening as if I’ve just pulled him back into orbit.
“Better?” I murmur.
He smirks, eyes darting down. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously effective,” I say.
Miles lifts a glass, grinning. “To Vegas, baby!”
Eli whoops, Drew bangs the table, and the first round goes down in a blur. Ollie hesitates when the waitress sets another in front of him.
“Rafe, I can’t?—”
I cut him off, grinning. “Give me your phone.”
He frowns. “What?”
“Your phone.” I wiggle my fingers until he rolls his eyes and hands it over. I swipe the screen awake, then wave it in front of his face so he sees me set not one but three alarms—7:30, 8:00, and 8:15.
“There,” I say, handing it back. “You’ll make your flight. Promise.”
He looks at me, half exasperated, half amused. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still here,” I counter.
He stares for a beat, then lifts his glass. “Fine. But if I miss that flight, I’m blaming you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The shot burns down smooth and fast. The music swells again, the kind that makes your blood run louder than your thoughts. Ollie’s laughing now, the sound loose, free in a way I’ve never seen from him. Drew cracks a joke about our gear, Miles counters with something about groupies, and Eli starts doing a mock victory speech with his Red Bull can as a mic.
Through it all, Ollie leans just close enough that our knees brush under the table and our shoulders press when we laugh. It’s nothing that anyone would notice, not here. But I feel every point of contact like a live wire.
I look at him, at this man who risked his image, his curfew, and his damn flight just to be here tonight. The man who doesn’t know I’ve written half a record about him.
He catches me looking and tilts his head. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, smiling slow. “Just thinking it’s going to be a hell of a night.”
And it is. Because for the first time, I’m not just celebrating a gig. I’m celebrating him—this impossible, quiet, reckless miracle sitting beside me, laughing like he’s got the whole night to give.
