Ollie: Film till 8. Weights after. I’ll be there around 10 if you’re still at it.
Me: We’re gonna be at it until the god of noise tells us to leave.
Ollie: Tell him I said hi.
It’s ridiculous how much that line warms me.
We tackle “Cinder.” It’s heavier, angrier; it sits lower in my throat, a growl shaped into melody. On the third pass, something clicks. The chorus lifts and doesn’t come down. Miles’s harmony snaps into the exact right sour-sweet interval, and Eli grins like he stole something.
We break to suck water and air. Drew sprawls on the concrete, sweat making abstract art on his chest. “Lantern’s gonna cry,” he croaks. “Bartender’s gonna be like ‘I wasn’t ready.’”
“Bartenders are never ready,” Eli says, then flinches as a cable pops. “Ow. Who kicked the snake?”
“Me,” I admit. “It tried to bite me first.”
Miles points a warning finger at both of us. “Do not anger the snake before ‘Wire.’”
The name sends a little shock through me. “Crimson High” is the one that stalks me when I’m alone, the one I hear when I’m watching him walk away and I want to be unholy.
We dim the garage lights and kill the overheads until there’s just a string of cheap LEDs along the wall. The room feels smaller, closer—like a stage in a place that matters. I take a breath and nod.
We play “Crimson High” like we mean it.
The first verse is a low heat; the pre-chorus tightens a fist around the ribs; the chorus is the fist closing. It drags. It crushes.It blooms. I let my voice crack where it wants to crack, trust it to carry what the lyric won’t say out loud. There’s a place near the bridge where everything drops out but bass and a heartbeat kick; I step forward, feel the neck under my hand like the spine of something alive, and the note hangs in the garage until I swear I can see it.
When we stop, nobody speaks. Then Miles laughs, a single stunned bark. “There it is.”
Eli nods. “Closer.”
Drew wipes his face with his shirt. “I’m going to cry on purpose onstage so the crowd thinks I’m deep.”
“Please don’t,” Miles says. “Your sincere tears look sarcastic.”
We run the whole thirty minutes, start to finish, no stops. I time us. Twenty-nine minutes and twelve seconds.
Miles taps the laptop. “We can add eight seconds of feedback before the last chorus. It’ll breathe.” He looks at me. “You up for the patter?”
“No patter,” I say. “Just a ‘We’re Steel Saints, thanks to The Lantern’ at the end. Keep the mystique.”
Drew groans. “God, you’re exhausting.”
“Correct.”
At ten, the side door cracks. A tall shadow fills the rectangle of alley light, and then he’s inside, hood up, cap low, hands stuffed into his pockets like he might be cold or he might be hiding or both.
“Hey,” he says. It’s just for me, but everybody hears it, and none of the guys are surprised. Nor have they questioned what the fuck I’m doing lapping up every bit of attention I can get from the closeted basketball captain.
They know enough, and what they don’t know for sure, they’ve read between the lines. They’re also my ride or dies—something I’ve promised Ollie, which was my way of reassuring him his presence in my life will not become gossip.
“Captain,” Drew greets him, because he can’t help being an asshole.
“Hey, Ollie,” Eli says, kinder, grabbing a spare stool and shoving it toward him with a foot. “You here to judge us?”
Ollie slides the hood back, offers a small, tight smile that’s code forI’m tired and I don’t want to talk about it.He sits, elbows on knees, the picture of relaxation if you squint and ignore the stiffness in his shoulders.
“From the top?” I ask the guys.
“From the top,” Eli says, sticks twirling.
