Our last show.
We sell out a warehouse with no heat and questionable wiring.
It’s chaos. Glorious, messy, wild.
Chase forgets the second verse to “Our Last First Goodbye.” I cover for him. He smiles wide.
After, the high carries us into the back lot where fans cluster by the exit gates. Flashbulbs. Screaming. A dozen hands reach out, everyone shouting our names like we owe them pieces of ourselves.
I feel one grip my wrist. Tight. Too tight.
A guy in a denim vest pulls me toward him, asking for a kiss. I yank back, heart spiking.
Chase is there.
Fast. Loud. Shoving the guy back with a snarl I’ve never heard before.
Security rushes in. Cameras flash. Fans scream for selfies as Chase hurls himself between us, a wall made of fire.
In the hotel room, Chase paces, jaw locked like he’s still in the fight. I sit on the edge of the bed, trembling in the aftermath.
When he finally calms, his eyes soften, and he cups my cheek in a warm hand. He asks if I’m okay.
I nod.
But for the first time, I see it clearly:
I’m not sure if he is.
***
We stay one more night in Amsterdam, wandering the canals, hand in hand beneath a silver sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain. Bicycles zip past in every direction, street performers play violins under stone archways, and we share a paper cone of fries drenched in mayo, laughing when half of it falls into the canal.
The city is all charm and crooked beauty. Leaning houses, narrow bridges, tulips bursting from windowsills like confetti.
The hotel room feels like another world.
Minimalist, too clean, and still. The kind of place that tries to look expensive but feels empty. The curtains are drawn, and everything feels muffled, the room holding its breath with us.
Chase is spread out on the bed just after midnight, bare chested, an arm draped over his eyes. I brush my teeth and pop a mint to replace the taste of Marlboro, then pad back into the room, feeding a comb through my hair. “Do you want to talk about last night?”
His arm moves away from his face, but he doesn’t answer right away. When he finally sits up against the headboard, I catch the faint scrapes across his knuckles from that single punch he landed before security dragged him off.
I step closer, setting the brush aside. “Chase—”
“We don’t need to talk about it.” His tone is even, almost light, like he can flick it off as easily as lint.
Sighing, I climb onto the bed beside him. My knee presses into the mattress, and his gaze flits down, lingering for just a beat before sliding back up to me. A tired smile softens his mouth. “You’re so beautiful.”
The compliment warms me, but it doesn’t erase the image of him outside that venue with fire in his eyes. “I’ve never seen you so angry,” I admit quietly.
He glances away. “He grabbed you, Annie. He could have hurt you.”
“He was just a drunk fan.”
“I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”
“Chase…” Inching closer, I place a hand against his chest, absorbing the beats of his heart. “I don’t want you to hurt either. Are you okay?”
