“I like being around you,” I continue, words rough. “I like the way you see things. The way you don’t flinch. The way you calm the room without trying.”
Sadie’s mouth parts, but she doesn’t interrupt. I step closer, forehead nearly touching hers. “And I’m not doing the thing where I ruin something good because I’m scared it’ll hurt,” I continue. “I’ve done that. I’m done doing that.”
Her lashes flutter. She lifts her hand and cups my jaw the way she does when she’s anchoring me. “Okay,” she whispers. “Then don’t.”
I kiss her. Not frantic. Not hungry like a threat. Just… sure. When we pull apart, she rests her forehead against mine.
“This is nice,” she murmurs.
I breathe out, and the sound is something between a laugh and a confession. “Yeah.”
It is. And for the first time, the thought that settles in my chest doesn’t feel like panic. It feels like a decision.
Boston. Pittsburgh. Indy. Chicago. The road still stretches ahead of us. But the difference now is simple: I’m not running down it alone.
Epilogue
Sadie
Cardigan
Taylor Swift
One Month Later — Oak Park, Illinois
Late August smells different in Oak Park. Warm pavement, cicadas, fresh-cut grass, and the scent of Dean’s neighbor burning something on the grill that absolutely violates every fire code. The kind of quiet that feels like a deep breath after weeks of too much noise.
The tour ended two weeks ago, and I swear my soul hasn’t caught up yet. Every morning I wake expecting the rumble of a bus engine, the clattering of a venue load-in, Cherry shouting through a headset, Hayden cursing about coffee.
Instead, I wake up in Dean’s sheets. The cotton soft, faintly smelling like cedar and whatever sinful cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. Sunlight filters through the big oak trees, streaking across the bed. It’s the silence, the calm, and him that steady me now.
Dean’s house is nothing like I expected. It’s warm wood, mismatched frames, guitars everywhere, plants he swears he’s keeping alive (they’re absolutely dying), and a kitchen he uses like he was made to be a chef in another life.
Right now, he’s standing by the sink shirtless, wearing nothing but a faded pair of jeans, washing a bowl, humming something completely off-key. The light glints off the chain on his neck, and for a moment I just watch him.
I never thought I’d see Dean Ross like this. Domestic. Barefoot. Calm. And never did I think I would call him mine. He glances over his shoulder. “You staring at me?”
“Absolutely.”
He smirks. “Come here baby.”
I pad across the kitchen and slide into his space. He’s warm. He always is. His hands settle on my hips like they’ve figured out the exact shape of me as they grip on and lift me onto the counter. His hands slide up the inside of my thighs, stopping at the hem of the long shirt I’m wearing. His.
“I like you in this.” He smirks, his fingers now starting to crumble the material into his fists. “But I think it’s a little too big for you.”
And in one fluid motion, he tugs the shirt over my head and drops it onto the marble beside me. He openly assesses me, his brow ticking up as his head tilts. “No panties?”
One side of my mouth tilts up teasingly. “I find they get in the way.”
I snag a finger under the chain around his neck and use it to tug him closer. “I’m not sure why yours are still on.”
“I can fix that.” His hands making fast work at peeling off his jeans, his cock already hard, springing up against his navel. I reach for him, but he shakes his head, a devilish glint in his eyes as he grips onto my thighs, yanking my bottom to the edge of the counter as he drops to his knees.
A second later his head is between my legs and his tongue begins to stroke up and down between the lips of my center. He’s feasts on me like a man who’s been starving. He sucks and laps and nibbles, taking me to the very edge before rising to thrust himself inside of me just as I combust. My muscles clench and pulse around his hard length as he fucks me on the counter, his hips slamming against mine, his release exploding a minute later, both of us yelling out each other’s name.
He holds me tightly as our hearts slow, as our breathing normalizes, his fingers stroking the back of my neck.
“Good morning.” He chuckles when we finally break apart.
