Her mouth curves. “You were amazing tonight.”
I hold her gaze. “I know.”
She blinks, surprised by the confidence. Then she huffs a small laugh. “Okay, rockstar.”
I should make a joke. I should deflect. I should keep it light. Instead, I do the thing I’ve been teaching myself to do. I tell the truth. “You were right there,” I say. “The whole time.”
Her expression softens, but she doesn’t get mushy. She never does. “It’s my job.”
“No.” I shake my head once. “It’s… you.”
The words land between us like a chord that doesn’t resolve.
Her throat moves. “Dean…”
I don’t touch her yet. Not because I’m afraid. Because I want it to mean something. “Come here,” I demand quietly.
She follows me a few steps out into the quieter corridor, away from the noise. The air is cooler here. The hum of the venue distant. I turn toward her. For a moment, we just stand. Close. Breathing the same air.
Then her voice drops, careful. “How’s your head?”
I know what she’s asking. Not the show. The rest of it. The pressure. The fear. The part of me that used to splinter into sharp pieces when the world got too close. “It’s… quieter,” I admit.
She studies my face like she’s taking a photo without a camera. “Because of me?”
I almost laugh, but not because it’s funny. Because it’s true and terrifying and beautiful all at once. “Yeah,” I admit. “Because of you.”
She holds that. Doesn’t rush to fill the space with jokes or analysis. She just stands there, steady. I exhale and feel something in me loosen. Then Mikey’s voice carries from the green room, loud as hell, “If you two start making out in the hallway, I want royalties.”
Sadie’s eyes widen.
I groan. “Jesus Christ.”
She laughs, and it’s soft. “He’s relentless.”
“He’s feral.”
Her smile lingers as she shakes her head. Then she looks up at me again, and the humor fades into something quieter. “We’re okay?” she checks.
The question isn’t insecure. It’s intentional. Like she’s checking in because that’s what adults do when something matters. I nod once. “We’re okay.”
“And you’re not going to…” She hesitates, like she hates even putting the old pattern into words.
I step closer. Close enough that she can feel my heat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath catches. I lift my hand and brush my knuckles lightly along her cheek. Her eyes close for a second like it steadies her.
“I’m not asking you to promise me forever,” she explains softly.
“I know.”
“I’m just asking you to keep choosing me,” she continues. “In the small ways. The daily ways. The ways that actually count.”
My throat tightens. “That’s the only way I know how to do it,” I tell her. “So yeah. I can do that.”
She swallows, eyes shining just a little. Then she does something that matters even more than my words. She takes my hand.
Like it’s not a question.
