We stand there for another second, breathing each other in. Then she reaches for her door. Pauses. Looks back at me. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“Goodnight, Sadie.”
She goes inside. The door closes with a quiet click. I don’t feel shut out. I feel… steady. And for the first time in a long time, the thought that stays with me isn’t what am I doing?
It’s I want to do this right.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sadie
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
John Mayer
I sleep like garbage. Not because I’m not tired. I am. But because my body won’t stop replaying the way he kissed me last night. Slow. Deliberate. Like something he chose instead of fell into. Which somehow makes it harder.
I stare at the ceiling while the air conditioner rattles against the Florida humidity, thinking about the way we stopped before things tipped too far. How neither of us pretended it didn’t matter. How he didn’t run, but he didn’t stay either. It leaves everything… suspended.
By the time my alarm goes off, my eyes burn and my thoughts feel carefully stacked, like one wrong move will send them sliding everywhere. I shower, dress, and pull on my professional face; the one that says I’m fine even when I’m anything but.
Backstage that afternoon is a blur of heat and movement. I slip into it easily, camera up, focus narrowed to frames and light and angles. Work is the one place my brain behaves.
I don’t look for Dean. I don’t need to. He’s at stage left, guitar in hand, head dipped as he runs scales. He looks calm. Grounded. Like someone who slept better than I did. He glances up when he senses me because he always seems to, and our eyes catch.
There’s no distance there. Just awareness. Something steady flickers through his expression before he looks back down at his guitar, like he’s choosing not to push. I let him.
At some point I’m crouched near the pedal boards when a shadow falls over me. “Hey Sadie.” His voice is quiet. Careful.
“Yeah?” I don’t look up yet.
“You okay?” he asks. The question isn’t loaded. That’s what startles me. I straighten slowly, camera strap sliding against my shoulder.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
He nods. “Me too.” A pause. Not awkward. Just unfilled. “I meant what I said last night,” he adds, low. “About taking it slow.”
I meet his eyes then. “Me too.”
Relief flickers there. Not triumph. Not hunger. Just relief.
“Okay, good,” he nods, a small smile appearing. That’s it. No dramatic exit. No spiraling. He steps back, giving me space, and goes back to soundcheck like a man who’s trying to learn a new rhythm instead of blowing the song apart.
I exhale. That night after the show, I go straight to my room. Shower. Upload photos. Let the quiet settle.
My phone buzzes.
Dean: You awake?
I stare at it for a second longer than necessary.
Me: Yeah.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dean: Can I come by? Just to talk.
My heart stumbles, but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation.
