“He’stoo affectionate.”
“That’s what happens when you like things, Orion.”
He mutters something under his breath about boundaries and emotional support creatures, but he’s still watching Sass with that reluctantly endeared expression he thinks I don’t catch.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, shifting Sass higher on my chest.
“And you’re welcome,” he fires back.
“For what?”
“For keeping you alive last night.”
We stare at each other as Sass purrs between us like he’s refereeing.
And fine. Maybe I did sleep better.
Maybe.
I won’t admit that out loud.
* * *
The closer we get to the stadium, the more everything inside me starts tightening like a damn vise.
We’re walking alongside the massive concrete curve of Nissan Stadium, the outer ring glowing with LED strips and pulsing color. The air smells like hot pavement cooling after sunset, mixed with fryer oil drifting from food carts, body spray, and the sticky-sweet haze of cheap concert beer. It’s loud and chaotic, everything you’d expect to experience before one of Umbra’s concerts.
I keep glancing back over my shoulder as if I’ll see the hotel from here. I won’t, obviously, but my brain is doing that thing where it tries to peel itself in two directions—go in, stay out; move forward, run back to my cat.
Sir Sass is in the hotel room, tucked into the armchair with a hand-folded towel nest, his water in a crystal-clear glass bowl because the metal one looked sad, his blanket arranged like he’s a fragile Victorian heir recovering from consumption. I put on a nature channel so he could watch the birds, and listen to the softwater noises on the animal documentary, because the internet told me pets like it.
Orion made fun of me and told me I was insane.
So I told him to go fuck himself.
But the truth is, I’ve never left the little tripod alone this long. I don’t know what version of Armageddon we’ll walk into later.
“He’s fine,” Orion says, cutting me a sideways look sharp enough to be a parenting intervention. “He’s a three-legged cat with the ego of a Roman emperor. He’s probably lying on that towel throne you built, waiting for us to return with offerings.”
I grunt, partly because he’s right, partly because admitting he’s right would be fatal to my pride.
We follow a line of metal barricades funneling concert-goers like cattle toward specific gates. Everything vibrates—voices layered over bass, laughter, the thrum of thousands of sneakers and boots and platform heels slapping concrete. Kids run ahead of their parents, holding signs with Umbra lyrics scrawled in holographic markers. Couples glitter under the lights. Someone wears a handmade cape that looks like a galaxy had a baby with a disco ball.
Meanwhile, I’m here limping like an elderly man who is out way past his bedtime.
We reach the will-call window, tucked away behind a secondary fence line. The employee slides the glass window back. “Name?”
“Orion Smith.”
She taps a keyboard, nods, and pulls two lanyards from a box. “Nice—VIP floor access.”
Of course it’s VIP. Orion doesn’t evenbreathecasually.
I take mine and brush my thumb over the laminate. The Umbra sigil catches the stadium lights, showing off the silver, sharp edges, and clean lines.
My stomach flips like the laminate weighs ten pounds.
Orion nudges me with his elbow, checking without looking like he’s checking. “Do you need a breather?”
