I don’t falter. I don’t hurry. I let the lyric do what I wrote it to do—hound and haunt and open a door I can’t close. The bridge drops out, and the room holds its breath, and I play the note that feels like a wire drawn tight between what I want and what I can have. When the last chorus explodes, somebody shouts like they got an answer to a question they didn’t know they were asking.
We end on a dime. I step to the mic, voice ragged. “We’re Steel Saints. Tip your bartenders. See you soon.”
The noise that comes back is bigger than we are. It hits my chest and rebounds; it carries me offstage on its shoulders even though my feet are doing the work.
Behind the curtain, the four of us stand grinning like thieves.
“We did it,” Eli says, dazed.
Miles blows out a breath. “We did it.”
Drew headbutts my shoulder like a drunk goat. “You did it,” he says in the tone of a man who cannot and will not be sincere, and yet somehow is.
Carl appears, the vest smug. “Not bad,” he says, which, translated from Lantern-speak, isfantastic. “We’ll talk.”
I nod like I’ve heard worse. My heart is sprinting. My body hums like power lines. Sweat runs down my spine in a polite stream.
I check my phone because I’m weak. A single message waits.
Ollie: Proud of you.
I want to run into the room and find him. I want to walk into the night and pretend I didn’t see it. I do neither. I stand there breathing like I just finished a race and text back.
Me: Where are you?
Three dots.
Ollie: Had to go. Team’s splitting.
Me: Okay.
Ollie: You were… good.
Me: You looked alive.
The dots flash, pause.
Ollie: So did you.
I put the phone away because if I don’t, I’ll say something likecome overand he’ll sayI can’tand the high will stutter. I walk back onto the floor and let strangers slap my back and tell me we were loud in the good way. I drink water. I pretend water is beer. I help Miles break down because it keeps my hands busy.
When we load out to the alley, the night is damp, the neon buzzing like it learned our set. A couple of guys stop us to ask when we’re playing again. Drew says, “Next week,” and Miles says, “Follow the account,” and Eli signs someone’s jacket with a Sharpie because he’s an asshole.
I step aside to breathe. The door opens. For a second, my heart leaps, stupid and eager. It’s not him. It’s one of histeammates, the one from the café with the soft mouth who asked me if we had groupies. He nods at me like we share a secret and disappears into the night.
I laugh under my breath at myself and look up at the slice of moon between buildings. The ache is sweet and mine.
Ten days ago, we were noise in a garage. Tonight, we were a band in a room that mattered. Tomorrow, we’ll be a rumor that grew legs. And somewhere out there, the captain who doesn’t make promises sent me three words that feel like one.
Proud of you.
Drew claps me on the back so hard my lungs change zip codes. “Lantern,” he says into my ear like I forgot where we were. “We did it.”
“Yeah,” I say, and let the truth sit in my mouth. “We did.”
We shove the last case into the van. Miles checks the bungee cords like he’s strapping down a dragon. Eli hums “Crimson High” under his breath without realizing it.
I get into the van with my heart beating like a kick drum and a text on my phone I will not delete even when my storage is full. We pull away from the curb, and The Lantern’s neon slides across the windshield like a blessing we pretended not to want.
