Celeste leans back, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, and tells the story of Umbra.
“I was in Raleigh,” she says. “I was at a small venue doing covers across everything–Fleetwood Mac, Paramore, some Stone Sour–just whatever fit the night. After my set, Rowan came up and told me that he liked that I didn’t fit the box people expected me to sing in. And he asked me to help him build something that makes people listen first. He pitched a band under a new label—complete anonymity, no faces, nothing otherthan the music—and played me a rough loop of what would become our first track. I said yes before he finished.”
Linkin lifts his beer, grin already in place. “Rowan slid into my DMs with the same pitch—anonymity as part of the sound. My whole online thing was anonymity anyway: masked clips with low angles, just the guitar and my sexy naked skin. I honestly thought it was a prank until he sent a demo. Then I was in.”
Shiloh cuts in. “You two are skipping the real reason Umbra exists. Umbra didn’t start because anonymity was trendy. It started because of Korbyn. Rowan wanted a band where the music was the map. Korbyn kept getting passed over for gigs because she didn’t have ‘the look.’ He found us because we all had something people kept missing. We built the band around that pulse.”
Linkin taps his glass. “To Korbyn—the heartbeat.”
The toast lands, and everything about how they found each other snaps into place for me. It’s something I didn’t think about before, but it makes sense: people pulled from different corners of the country, different scenes, different late-night rooms, with each of them carrying something the others didn’t. Rowan’s idea wasn’t a recruitment plan so much as a magnet for the kind of talent that kept getting overlooked.
Celeste blinks a second longer than usual when she sets down her drink. Glancing at my watch, I notice it’s getting pretty late, and we have a bit of a drive home. I can’t believe I let time get away from me that easily. Then again, I can get so wrapped up in her that time means nothing.
She leans into my side, giving me most of her weight, unaware of the tension thrumming through my body. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, low and only for her. “Just watching.”
Linkin returns with another round for everyone. The noise dampens the flicker of unease in my chest, but it doesn’t go away.
Not completely.
39
Celeste
Idon’t think I’ve ever felt this alive.
My skin feels lit from the inside out, and my pulse still chases the high of the cheap stage lights and a mic that took a piece of me. Every time I catch Lucian’s gaze, my stomach flips. He doesn’t even have to say anything; the look in his eyes makes my knees go misty.
Is that a thing? Probably not. Oh well.
I lift the drink someone sent over and grin. It’s been forever since something like this happened to me, and a feeling of nostalgia sweeps through me. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and fruity, with a tiny bite. Linkin’s laugh cuts through the table, and Shiloh’s half-smile tucks the moment into something ordinary and safe. I’ve missed this: the teasing, the warmth, the small normal of being with people who know the work.
Under the warmth, there’s a wrongness I can’t name, a thin thread I shove behind the music. I tell myself it’s adrenaline andsugar, and for a second, I believe it, because believing is easier than naming the heat crawling up my neck. My pulse drums too loud; my mouth is cotton-dry even with a fresh ice water at my lips. The lights seem too sharp, like someone turned the contrast up on the world, and I laugh a little too high at Linkin’s joke, the sound wobbling at the edges.
I stand, needing to move, moving feels like doing something sensible, and because the idea of cold water on my skin is suddenly urgent. “Be right back,” I call, voice bright and a touch breathy, and place my phone at the table as I slide out of the booth before anyone can say anything.
Lucian’s hand brushes my thigh as I pass. I flash him a grin that’s more flutter than smile and squeeze his shoulder, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers with a practiced, tipsy looseness. His brow tightens, nothing gets past him, but he lets me go. I try to walk a straight line down the aisle, humming the chorus under my breath, telling myself I’ll splash my face and be back before anyone notices.
The hallway to the bathrooms is both cooler and dimmer. I catch myself in the mirror and blink at myself. My face is flushed, cheeks hot like I’ve been standing too close to a heater. I lift my chin, squint at my eyes, and for a stupid second, I worry about mascara smudges. Then I notice my pupils, too big in the glass, dark and blown out, and a small, ridiculous part of my brain asks if pupils are supposed to look like that after a drink and a half.
Still, there’s a prickle crawling up the back of my neck I can’t quite shake.
The tile under my palms is deliciously cold. I splash water on my face and laugh at the way the droplets bead on my skin, like someone turned the world up a notch. Maybe it’s the adrenaline crash, or the drink was stronger than it tasted. I press my palmsto my cheeks, and the heat under my skin feels wrong, like I’m burning from the inside out.
A toilet flushes behind me, and the stall door creaks open.
“Hey sweetie—are you okay?” a voice asks.
I glance up in the mirror at the woman as she steps out, tall and willowy with a sheet of copper-red hair that catches the low bathroom light and gleams. She’s pretty, in that effortless way some girls just are—clean jeans, a soft sweater, freckles across a sharp nose. My brain flickers with recognition, though I can’t pin where I’ve seen her. At the bar earlier? Somewhere else? My stomach flips, unsettled. I need to get back.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, dabbing my face with a paper towel. “Just a little hot.”
“You were great out there earlier. It was really… moving.”
“Thanks.” My tongue feels thick; my pulse hammers like a drum. I force a laugh that comes out too bright.
She steps closer and hands me another paper towel. “You’re really not looking well. Where are your friends? Do you want me to grab them for you?”
