Cherry levels him with a look. “You will if you tug on that cord one more time.” Then she turns to me. “Please.”
Please? I could say no. I want to say no. But I’m not leaving a man on the verge of showtime with a cable trying to choke him. Also, I’m not a coward. “Yeah,” I hear myself speak. “Sure.”
I cross the few feet between us. Every step is louder than it should be. Dean watches me approach, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to,” he mumbles.
“I know.” I nod, then tut out an order. “Stand still.”
He huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one who keeps running away.”
“Dean.” I dart a warning glance up to his mocking stare.
He shuts up. Good boy. I lift my hands. The necklace glints under the stage lights. The cord is snug against it, twisted in a stupid little knot that of course had to happen to him. My fingers brush his throat as I find the loop. His skin is warm. Heat shudders through him like a live current. He goes so still I can feel him holding his breath.
“Sorry,” I murmur automatically, though I don’t know what for.
“For what?” His voice is rough, too close.
“For… tugging on you.” My nose crinkles in concentration. “Be normal.”
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “Normal’s not really our brand.”
I work the cord loose with careful fingers, trying not to notice what it feels like to stand this close to him. Trying not to notice the way his pulse trips under my thumb. Trying not to notice that cedar and mint scent that always surrounds him. Trying not to notice that the faintest scrape of stubble shadows his jaw and makes my palm itch to…
Stop. Stop. Stop. I make myself take a breath.
“About last night,” he starts, and the sentence lands like a match in gasoline.
I freeze. My fingers are still curled lightly at the base of his throat. He doesn’t move. If I pull away right now, it will be obvious. If I don’t, it will be worse.
“What about it?” I squeak, my voice thin, and I want to disappear again.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Then dart back up to my eyes, his voice dangerously low. “What would’ve happened if the doors hadn’t opened?”
The air in my lungs disappears. I should answer. I should make a joke. I should say something sarcastic and safe and Sadie-shaped. Instead, though, for once, I’m silent. Because I know exactly what would’ve happened. Because I wanted it to happen. Because my body is still labeled with the memory of his hands.
Dean’s expression shifts, just a fraction, like he expected to be wrong and found proof he isn’t. “That’s what I thought.” He chuckles, then let’s out a small sigh. “You smell amazing.”
My heart stutters just as I finally manage to untangle the last loop. The cord drops free. I swallow. Step back too quickly. “Fixed,” I declare, and it comes out like a warning.
His mouth twitches like he’s not sure whether to smile or scream. “Thanks,” he whispers instead.
“You’re welcome.” I take another tentative step back, but there’s a beat where we just stare at each other.
Then a stage manager calls, “Five minutes!”
Dean gets pulled away by gravity and obligation and whatever else keeps his life spinning forward. But the question stays; what would have happened if the doors hadn’t opened, and it sticks between my ribs like a knife.
The show is loud enough to rearrange molecules. Lincoln crowds are hungry in a way that’s almost sweet - like they’ve been waiting for this night to mean something bigger than their week. The pit surges, the seats glow, and Devil’s Halo hits the first chord like they’re throwing a match into dry grass.
I shoot from the pit for the opener. Then side-stage for the next three. Then up in the seats for wide shots of the crowd. The sweat. The hands. The lights. Dean is pure fire tonight. Every riff is sharper. Every step more aggressive. Every glance thrown to the crowd like a challenge. And every time he turns, I swear his eyes find me. Not always. Not in an obvious way.
But enough that my stomach keeps somersaulting like an idiot.
When he hits a solo and closes his eyes, head tilted back, that pick charm tapping his skin, I have to lower my camera for a second because my hands are shaking. I would delete the photo if I took it. I don’t take it.
Instead, I keep working. Keep moving. Keep being the ghost that doesn’t belong in the frame. Except I’m not a ghost for him anymore. And that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no guardrail.
When the final song ends and the crowd erupts, I do the thing I’ve always done after shows - I slip out before the afterglow becomes a mess of bodies and adrenaline and too-easy intimacy. Only this time, it doesn’t feel like habit. It feels like survival.
