“I want to talk about books with you over dinner even if I don’t understand half the shit you’re talking about.” He smirks a little, softening the intensity. “I want to fight over whether Melody prefers salmon or tuna. I want to share custody of our ridiculous diva cat.”
I laugh—choked and watery.
“And I want to do dirty, filthy,obscenethings to you,” he adds, voice rough now. “In every city we stop in. In every hotel bed. On every tour bus couch I can get you alone on.”
My heart is thudding so hard I’m surprised it’s not echoing off the studio walls.
“But more than that?” he says, cupping my face in his hand. “I want mornings. Real ones. With you stealing the blankets and me pretending not to like it. I want to wake up next to the one person who doesn’t give a shit about who I am on stage. Just… me.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
It’s too much. It’severything. And still, I don’t look away.
“Nora Davidson,” he says, voice rough, “will you come on tour with me?”
I lean into his palm. “You’re really not letting me pretend this is temporary, are you?”
“Not a fucking chance,” he murmurs, and then he kisses me.
***
I’ve never been to a rehearsal space before.
Turns out, they don’t smell like I expected. Less weed and leather and more… coffee, dust, and expensive equipment I’d be terrified to touch.
Max’s hand is wrapped around mine as we step into the wide, industrial-style room. High ceilings. Soundproofed walls. Cables like spaghetti across the floor. A drum kit takes up half the back corner, and there’s enough guitar gear here to outfit a small music festival.
There’s also noise—loud, unfiltered,alivenoise. Someone’s running scales on bass. Someone else is cursing about an effects pedal. And somewhere off to the side, a war is clearly being fought between man and espresso machine.
“This is it,” Max says, squeezing my hand. “Welcome to the chaos.”
I try to smile, but nerves flutter in my chest like angry butterflies.This is his world. These arehispeople. And I’m just the librarian who somehow wandered into the eye of a rockstar hurricane.
“Max, I wanted to tell you,” I say. “I spoke to my boss this morning.”
His eyes lock on mine, everything else fading. “Yeah?”
“I asked if I could take a week off.” I pause, my heartbeat thudding. “And he said yes—as long as the charity event stays on track.”
Max juststaresat me for a second, like the words haven’t quite processed.
“I can come with you,” I say, grinning now. “On tour.”
The tension in his shoulders releases all at once. And then—without warning—he pulls me into a hug so fast I let out a little yelp.
“You’re serious?” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m serious.”
“Holy shit.” He pulls back, his face lit up like a stadium spotlight. “You’reactuallycoming?”
I nod, breathless and grinning and maybe a little terrified.
He cups my face in both hands, forehead pressed to mine, his voice rough with something more than excitement.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” he says.
He kisses me. Soft and slow. Like he knows I’m handing him something fragile.
