A safe, boring morning. Except my body won’t stop replaying last night in microscopic, traitorous detail. The elevator. His mouth. His hand on my waist like it belongs there. The way I kissed him back before I even thought about it. The way I said we can’t, but what I really meant was, I want more.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Professional detachment, Sadie. I can do this. I have done this. War zones. Riots. Backstage stampedes. Two presidents and a pop star who tried to invite me into an afterparty I absolutely didn’t want.
One lone guitarist in a rock band shouldn’t rattle me. I’m not built to fall apart over a kiss. Except, dammit, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a crack in a dam I didn’t know I’d been holding.
And today is their first show in Lincoln. Meaning I will see him in ten different versions of almost-naked, almost-feral, adrenaline-soaked Dean Ross and pretend I’m fine.
Sure, right. I can do that.
By the time I get downstairs, the lobby looks like a touring circus hit a luxury hotel head-on. Road cases stacked in neat rows. Crew members hustling through coffee lines. Cherry at a marble table with her tablet, tapping out causality chains like she’s running a war room. Lily in a cute sundress with Larkin on her hip, hair still damp from a quick shower. Luc hovering beside her, hand on the baby’s back like he’s counting breaths.
My chest does that annoying little twist of affection. Their universe is so different now. Softer. Healed. I’m happy for them. And maybe a little jealous in that way you never admit out loud.
“Morning.” Lily smiles, spotting me. I walk over, her eyes scanning my face like she’s taking my temperature. “You sleep?”
“Like a corpse,” I lie.
She gives me a look. A very Lily look. One that says you don’t have to tell me, but I already know.
“Do you want coffee?” she asks.
“Like I need my next breath,” I joke, but in my reality, I crave coffee like a vampire needs blood.
She laughs and gives me the cup she’s already holding. “Here, take this one.”
“Thanks.” I accept her offering with open hands. Bless her. I take a sip and let the bitterness slap me awake. “Where’s Dean?” I ask too casually.
Lily doesn’t miss a beat. “Soundcheck in an hour. He’s probably already there brooding over a loose guitar string.”
My stomach plummets in the dumbest way, like I’m about to step into a storm without a roof. “Cool.” I shrug, trying to act nonchalant, but know it doesn’t fly when I realize how breathy it comes out.
Lily’s smile is gentle, not smug. “We don’t have to talk about it, you know.”
“About what?”
“Sadie…” She arches a brow as her head cocks to the side. “I saw you leave together last night.”
I look down into the coffee. “There isn’t a what.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Okay,” she acquiesces softly in that way that lets me keep my mask without lying to her and also myself. “But if there is ever a what, I’m here.”
I nod, heart tight. Then I do what I do best; I disappear and bury myself with work. Backstage smells like heat and metal and the sweet sting of electrical equipment warming up. The arena crew is already running cables and checking monitors, and someone is tuning drums in short, sharp bursts.
I move through it like a ghost. I shoot pre-show stills: Luc pacing, Hayden leaning on a case with headphones on, Mikey bouncing like a labrador who found caffeine.
I don’t point my lens at Dean. I am not brave enough to point my lens at Dean. Because every time I look up, he’s there in my peripheral, a dark gravity at the edge of the world.
Black jeans. Bare forearms, that red and black tattoo peeking out on his bicep. That necklace he always wears - the thick rope chain with a silver pick charm that taps against his clavicle when he moves. I’ve seen it after shows, during soundchecks, in hotel lounges when he forgets people are looking. It feels stupidly intimate to notice. He doesn’t look at me. Not directly. But his presence is a steady pressure in the room, like the air before a storm.
I’m swapping lenses when I hear Cherry bark, “Sadie, can you come here?”
I turn, expecting a camera need or a runner issue. Instead, she’s pointing at Dean. Oh, shit. He’s standing near the side-stage stairs, guitar slung low, looking mildly annoyed and very much like someone who has never once fixed his own cable in his life.
A mic cord is caught on his necklace, looped right at the charm and tugging his collar every time he moves his head. Dean notices me noticing. His expression goes still.
Cherry dips her head in his direction. “His headset keeps snagging. Can you fix it before he rips his own throat out?”
Dean mumbles loud enough for both of us to hear, clearly annoyed. “I’m not going to rip my throat out.”
