Tag howls something to my left, pure chaos and joy, his guitar squealing under a final distorted riff. I feel the thud of his boots through my soles.
I grin.
Show-off.
He shoulder-checks me on the way to the front of the stage, light and deliberate, a gesture that we made it. That we’re still us. I chuckle under my breath and toss a quick chord back his way like a musical middle finger.
Then Annie’s voice cuts through.
She’s not just singing the lyrics. She’s throwing them. Hurling them into the crowd like a lifeline wrapped in fire. When I join her on the last chorus, our voices braid together, worn and fierce and ours.The way they always were. The way they were always meant to be.
As the final note rings out and the crowd erupts, I take a step back, steadying myself in the feel of the stage under my feet.
Crowley kills the house lights behind us. The temperature drops, the air thick with adrenaline and the echo of a thousand lives pressed into one room.
I find Annie’s hand before she finds mine.
She’s shaking, laughing. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and then she’s there, bowing beside me, a vision of neon-orange and purple-streaked hair.
Tag’s final chord fades into smoke and heartbeat and noise, and for a moment, I just stand there, soaking it all in.
The crowd’s still screaming, still riding the high of the set, and I should be walking offstage, grabbing water, maybe an oxygen tank. But I don’t move.
Instead, I reach for the mic again.
“Thank you, New York,” I croon, breathless, voice rough with nerves and a telltale high. “Before we go, there’s one more thing I need to say.”
The crowd begins to hush, a slow ripple of curiosity cutting through the cheers.
I feel Annie shift beside me, her hand still in mine. She squeezes, just once, probably thinking I’m going to thank the fans. Give a heartfelt speech.
She doesn’t know I’m about to tip her world sideways.
I take a breath. “This next part wasn’t on the setlist.”
A small tide of laughter rolls across the front rows. I turn slightly toward Annie, angling my body just enough to feel her there. I can’t see her face clearly, but I know her. Inside and out.
I know the slope of her head, the wrinkle of her nose, the tremble in her breath when she’s caught off guard.
“Annalise,” I say into the mic, swallowing hard. “Annie.”
She laughs softly under her breath, nervous and warm. “Chase…”
“I used to picture this.” I inch toward her, trying to smile around the thunder in my chest. “Not the stage, not the crowd, not the lights. Just you. Always you.”
My heart pounds as my skin sweats.
The crowd starts to murmur.
“We’ve played midnight sets in bars that smelled like spilled whiskey and magic. We’ve snuck around hotels like teenagers, hiding something everyone already knew. We’ve cried in parking lots, collapsed backstage from the weight of it all, and spent days in a rundown van that smelled like cheese fries.”
Laughter flickers from the audience.
Annie chokes back a joyful whimper.
“We’ve survived international tours, secrets, pain, and a diagnosis that nearly took everything from me. But we’ve held on anyway. And we’re still making music. Still choosing each other.”
I release her hand just long enough to reach into the inner pocket of my jacket. My fingers close around the ring box I’ve carried for weeks, waiting for this.
