“Be right back,” I mumble, shoving through the crowd before they can stop me.
The night air hits cool against my sweat, the throb of the bass muffled by brick walls and distance. And there he is. Right where I left him. Hood up, hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning like patience itself against the lamppost.
His head lifts when he sees me, that intense gaze pinning me in place. My chest loosens in a way the music, the noise, the promise of Vegas never could.
“You were fast,” he says, voice low, a curl of amusement at the edge.
“Had to speak to you,” I say, still half breathless from the run outside and the high buzzing behind my ribs. “Had to—fuck, Ollie, someone saw us. A real industry guy. Not a bar booker, not a promoter. Talent development. He works with a collective that feeds straight to labels.”
Ollie’s brows lift, surprise breaking across his face like sunrise. I push on.
“He wants us in a showcase. In Vegas. Next month. Industry room—A&Rs, managers, the whole real deal. If we kill it…” I shake my head, still stunned. “This could be the one that changes everything.”
His eyes go wide, warm, proud—so proud it hits me like a punch.
“That’s… huge, Rafe.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, shaky, like I can’t hold all of it inside. “Yeah, it is.”
For a second, neither of us moves. The street hums with passing cars, a siren wails faintly somewhere across the city, but it feels like we’re the only ones alive.
Then his mouth curves—not the small, polite smile he throws at cameras, not the forced grin for teammates. This is softer. Real. Just for me.
“I told you,” he says quietly. “You didn’t hold anything back. People notice that.”
It hits deeper than any compliment about riffs or lyrics ever has. My throat’s tight, eyes burning, and before I can think better of it, I step closer, close enough to feel the heat of him even in the cool night.
“I wanted you to notice,” I say, and it’s the rawest truth I’ve let out all night.
His breath hitches, barely audible, but I feel it like a ripple under my skin. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but instead, he lets it fall back into his pocket.
“You should get back in there,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the club. “Don’t keep your band waiting. Go celebrate.”
I want to drag him inside, to show him off, to make him part of this too. But I know—I know he can’t. Not here. Not like that.
So I nod, swallowing everything else. “Yeah. But I’m calling you after. Don’t ghost me, Marshall.”
This time he does reach out. Fingers brush my arm, warm, a squeeze that lingers just long enough to steady me.
“I won’t,” he says.
And it’s enough. More than enough.
I turn back toward the pulsing glow of The Lantern, card clenched tight in one hand, the hint of his touch burning on the other. My band, my future, my shot—yeah, it’s inside. But the part of me that feels like it’s finally coming alive? That’s standing under a streetlight, waiting on me.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
The sun’sbarely up when I roll onto my side and find him still here. For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Ollie Marshall is half tangled in my sheets, arm heavy across my stomach like it belongs there.
We haven’t gone all the way yet. That’s by design. I could’ve pushed, could’ve tried to get him to tumble headfirst into every reckless thing I want from him, but I didn’t. I won’t. He’s too new to this, too careful with himself, and if slowing down is what it takes, I’ll take it. What we’ve had—kisses so deep they steal hours, hands and mouths on skin until we’re both shaking—has been more than enough.
And now he’s here, when he should already be with his team, when March Madness is starting and everything’s about to get louder for him than it’s ever been.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound makes him jolt, shoulders stiff. He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face before he grabs it. “Mom,” he mutters under his breath, then swipes to answer.
I stay quiet, half propped on my elbow, pretending not to listen when every nerve in me is tuned to his voice.
