Fourfuckingdays of Lucian Sterling breathing my air, and moving through my space like a shadow I can’t shake. He walks my halls and will stand close enough that I can feel the weight of him, yet somehow still impossibly far away, like he’s separated from me by something vast and unbridgeable.
Jamie used to do this on travel days. Hover at the edges with her quiet competence and clipped instructions, always present, never intrusive. But this is different; it’s more invasive.
Because Jamie wasn’t the man who broke my heart with five quiet, devastating words.
You’re better off without me.
Lucian carries himself like a held breath, always silent in a watchful and heavy way. As if he’s waiting for something to happen between us, or worse, he’s already decided it won’t. Tonight he’s at a security meeting at the Superdome while wedo our own roundtable at the campground. I should be relieved about the space between us, but I keep glancing at the door, half-expecting him to step back inside and pull the air out with him.
The slide-out is open to the early-summer heat, and New Orleans makes no effort to pretend it’s anything but itself. The humidity moves like a living entity, slipping into the trailer even with the fans working overtime. The air smells like river water and sun-warmed asphalt, a sweetness edged with something metallic from the nearby tracks.
Rowan has claimed his usual tour-manager corner, tablet glowing against his knee. Korbyn is folded upside down in one of the swivel chairs, scrolling her phone with the kind of focus she only gives to chaos or memes. Shiloh is half-asleep with her bass tucked against her chest, fingers still curled on the strings like she’s afraid the instrument might float away in the thick air if she loosens her grip.
And Linkin is pressed right up against me like a heat-seeking barnacle, leaning into my side on the couch with his head tipped against my shoulder.
Korbyn pauses her scrolling and puts her phone down before making eye contact with me. “Just in case anyone was wondering, Nashville isstilltrending. Like… aggressively. People are losing their minds.”
Shiloh exhales softly, eyes still closed. “My mom texted me this morning and asked if you were okay. She said she cried watching someone’s livestream.”
Linkin hums against me. “That’s because it didn’t feel like a performance.”
I glance sideways at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Korbyn says gently, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “people could tell you didn’t just sing it, youlivedin that moment.”
“None of that was planned,” I admit, looking down at the scribbled notes in my lap. “It just… happened.”
Rowan finally looks up from his tablet, stylus paused mid-note. “People can tell when something’s real. That was the first time they saw you let the meaning of the song hit you instead of controlling it.” His gaze flicks briefly toward me. “Do you think we can get that again tonight?”
“I can try…” I glance down at the scribbled notes in my lap. “I don’t know if I can fake that level of heartbreak.”
“You don’t have to break yourself open every night,” Shiloh murmurs. “But for a minute… Youhaveto let yourself feel it.”
Linkin exhales, then straightens, finally turning so he’s actually looking at me. “Yeah, rage is fun, don’t get me wrong, but this?” He grins. “This wasconnection. You always make the fans feel the music, but this was the first time they could tellyoufelt it too.”
The room goes quiet, that truth settling in and humming under our skin, heavy and exposed, like no one wants to be the first to disturb it.
So, naturally, Linkin does.
“But,” he says lightly, leaning back and glancing around the rig, “that would explain why the sexual tension in here has been absolutely feral ever since Lucian started haunting the hallways.”
I choke on a laugh I wasn’t prepared for. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, unfazed, “the air gets thicker every time he walks by. Like the walls themselves are uncomfortable.”
“That’s not sexual tension,” I snap. “That’s stress.”
“Stress that wants to jump him,” Korbyn adds unhelpfully, as she grins at us from her upside-down sprawl.
I drag a hand down my face, the pressure finally breaking enough for the truth to slip out. “Fine. I have a raging case of lady blue balls. Happy?”
Korbyn explodes with laughter, nearly falling headfirst out of her chair. “That’s a T-shirt quote I need immediately.”
“I’m serious,” I mutter, folding my arms and fixing my glare on my knees. “He’s here, in my space, and he’s acting as if none of it happened—like we didn’t…” My voice trails off, teeth sinking into my cheek. “It’sinfuriating.”
The humor eases out of Linkin as he shifts closer, his voice dropping without turning solemn. “Do you still love him?”
“I don’t know what I feel.”
