She slides a mug toward me without looking up.
Black coffee. One teaspoon of honey already melted in.
Exactly how I like it.
I take it and lean against the counter, close enough that our hips brush. Easy. Unthinking.
“Walk-through today?” she asks, pencil still moving.
“Playoffs tomorrow.”
She grins, finally glancing up. It’s playful. Proud.
“You ready to win it for me?”
I huff a soft laugh and take a sip. Perfect.
“For you?” I say. “Always.”
She nudges my knee with hers, pleased in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable. Then she gestures to the notebook.
“And my tour team sent updated plans,” she adds. “They think I can add three more stadium dates.”
I lift a brow. “You okay with that?”
She nods. No hesitation. No tightness around the eyes.
“Yeah. Fan surveys came back. Apparently I seem ‘happy’ and ‘supported.’”
She makes air quotes, teasing.
A year ago, crowds swarmed her like they were trying to rescue something fragile. Like they sensed fear and wanted to fix it, or consume it, or both.
Now it’s different.
Now they respond to her joy instead of her vulnerability.
She’s not frightened anymore.
She’s shining.
I watch her scribble another line, humming softly to herself. The sound threads through the kitchen, light as breath.
“You excited?” I ask.
She nods again. “I like touring now,” she says simply. “It doesn’t feel like surviving anymore.”
I reach out and brush my thumb over her knee, grounding myself in the moment. She glances at me, smiles, then goes back to her lyrics.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Once.
I glance down and freeze.
Evelyn Sterling — ERS.
Lila notices immediately.
