“Not until you tell me you’re not going to implode onstage tonight,” he demands, lowering his voice. “Because you look like someone lit a fuse in your chest.”
I open my mouth to tell him to screw off. What comes out instead is a rough exhale. “I’m tight, Mikey. Really.”
“Dean,” Mikey adds quietly, and there’s no teasing now. “If you’re not, say so.”
I stare past him at the elevator doors, at Sadie’s disappearing shape. “I’m…” I swallow. “Working on it.”
Mikey’s expression softens in that annoying way he does when he’s being a good friend, not a menace. He claps my shoulder once. “That’s all you gotta do.” He dips his chin. “Just keep working on it.” He heads toward the elevator.
I stay in the lobby another second, alone in the Florida heat and the echo of her voice. Then I grab my bag and go upstairs to get ready to do what I do best - pretend I’m not human until the lights go down.
But it’s getting harder than it used to. Because there’s a photographer in this hotel who looks at me like I’m not a disaster. And I’m starting to want to believe her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sadie
Florida
Taylor Swift & Florence + The Machine
Florida heat is a living thing. It hits me the second I step out of the hotel and follows me like a humid shadow all the way to the arena. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. My shirt clings to my spine. I feel flushed before I’ve even done anything except breathe. Running around the arena tonight is going to be hell.
Or maybe the increased heat I feel is just Dean. He’s been acting different today. Not soft, exactly. Not open. But less fortified. Less armored. More aware of me in a way he’s trying, and failing, to hide, if that is in fact what he’s trying to do. He’s never asked me to meet them for soundcheck before.
We walk into the Orlando arena together, not touching but close enough that the space between us feels like a dare neither of us has accepted yet. Mikey jogs ahead to find the crew. Hayden wanders off in search of coffee. Luc is somewhere backstage warming up.
Dean glances at me as if checking I’m still there. I am. I’m stupidly, willingly, absolutely here. He clears his throat. “You good?”
He asks me that a lot now. He never used to. It’s strange.
“Yeah,” I confirm on a nod. “You?”
His jaw flexes, his green eyes locking on mine a second longer than normal. “Working on it.” It’s too long, too warm, but then he breaks it, walking toward the main stage. And of course, I follow. Because that’s my job. And because, if I’m honest, I want to. I like being in his space.
Backstage is a hive already. Techs are adjusting mic stands. LED panels flash codes. The scent of dust and hot metal fills the air. Cables twist across the floor like black vines.
Dean moves easily through it all, greeting people by name, tapping a cymbal with his knuckle, crouching to tighten a clamp on one of the foot pedals. Watching him work is like watching a language I don’t speak but desperately want to learn.
When he stands, he catches me staring. “What?” he asks, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Nothing,” I reply too quickly.
“Liar.” His smirk grows wider.
Heat slides under my skin. “You’re just different today.”
He freezes, not in fear, but in that careful way he does when something lands too close. “Bad different?” His brow furrows.
My chest squeezes. “No. You seem, more real, more you.”
His eyes darken. Slow, deep, warm. And he looks away like he’s afraid of what will happen if he holds the gaze too long.
I go to photograph the stage setup. He moves around the space like a shadow chasing mine. Not intentional. Not avoidant. Like we’re two magnets that keep drawing toward the other’s energy.
At one point, I bend to get a low shot of the lighting rig. When I stand, he’s closer than he should be. Close enough that my breath stumbles. Close enough that I feel the heat of him on my arms. I step back a fraction. He steps with me.
“Dean,” I murmur.
