“We’ll be right here,” I say immediately, squeezing Korbyn’s hands. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”
She looks at me and nods. Linkin tips his chin toward Lucian. “That puts a former FBI agent between her and literally anything with bad intentions. I like those odds.”
Shiloh hesitates, then nods too. “I’ll bring her things over,” she says, laying a hand on Korbyn’s shoulder. “You won’t be missing anything.”
I rise, keeping one hand anchored in Korbyn’s. “Come on,” I tell her softly. “Let’s go carb load before the show.
That earns the smallest huff of a laugh from her, fragile enough that it hurts.
Around us, the rig starts to change gears. Rowan steps aside with Lucian, their voices low. I’m not sure how long Lucian was listening, but he needs to know what’s going on if we’re going to keep our Little Crow safe.
I guide Korbyn toward the door, away from the weight of what just happened, toward light and noise and distraction, toward anywhere she can breathe.
For now, that’s enough.
15
Celeste
Cleaning keeps my hands busy, which keeps my thoughts from getting too far ahead of me.
Lucian has been going on my daily runs with me, so those are no longer safe from his presence. After my post-run shower, I move through the rig with deliberate care, folding clothes, straightening surfaces, resetting small things that don’t actually need fixing.
He has been here for five days now, careful and quiet and trying not to take up space, and it’s somehow worse than if he’d just existed loudly. Every shared hallway carries weight, every near miss feels intentional. It’s easier to focus on what I can control than on the fact that the man who broke my heart has been sleeping ten feet away.
Last night added another layer I haven’t been able to shake. Korbyn’s voice stayed level when she told me what her relationship with James looked like behind the facade and theways he scared her, but the effort it took to keep my emotions hidden sat heavy in my chest long after we turned the lights off. She moved in before either of us had time to second-guess it, and the rig hasn’t felt quite the same since.
So I clean.
I start in the living area, lifting the blanket off the couch to fold it properly. Something slips free as I shake it out and drops onto the cushion with a soft thud.
Bending down, I pick up the book automatically, already recognizing the cover, and my grip tightens before I can help it. I’ve had this on my TBR for months. I know this book is one that people say you can’t start unless you’re prepared to lose an afternoon to it.
I didn’t see Korbyn reading it last night, and there’s no bookmark tucked inside. That makes me hopeful she won’t notice if I borrow it for a day or two. We’ve always gravitated toward the same stories, the same emotional terrain, and it makes sense she’d bring something like this with her and forget about it in the chaos of yesterday.
I set the book on the side table instead of putting it away and finish folding the blanket. The tension in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it eases enough to remind me how tired I am.
That feels like permission.
It’s a conscious choice, one I don’t make often, but the tightness in my shoulders has crossed the line from useful to dangerous. If I don’t bleed some of it off now, I’ll carry it straight through soundcheck and onto the stage tonight, and that never ends well.
I take the book with me into the kitchenette and set it on the counter while I make tea instead of coffee. I need a drink that’s steadying, but not sedating, I need calm without dullness. I reach for one of the blends Shiloh left behind, the kind sheinsists helps with nerves without killing focus, and turn my kettle on.
That’s when I see the note folded on the counter in Korbyn’s handwriting. I pick it up and unfold it slowly.
I kidnapped your grumpy FBI man. Security’s going to be tight today, and I also need to run my nerves out.
You’ll get him back. Promise.
She doesn’t go on runs often, but I am glad to know she’s safe with him.
When the kettle clicks off, I pour the water, steam rising sharp and herbal, and wrap both hands around the mug for a moment before moving back to the couch. The rig hums quietly around me, systems cycling, air conditioning steady, everything functioning the way it’s supposed to.
I curl into the corner cushions and open the book, tea warming my palms as I let my focus narrow. My thoughts stop racing three steps ahead of me; they settle into the page instead.
The story pulls me in faster than I expect. The pacing is tight, the chemistry unmistakable, tension coiled between the characters in a way that feels deliberate and earned. I read without checking the time, without tracking the quiet, without cataloging exits or possibilities.
By the time the restraint finally gives way and the dialogue drops, when proximity turns charged and breathless, I’m fully absorbed, pulse ticking faster for reasons that have nothing to do with security or logistics or the weight of everything waiting for us tonight.
