So simple.
So peaceful.
chapter 15
Taio
I wake up alone, and for a disorienting moment, I have no idea where I am.
Sheets. Flameless candles, their LED flickers timed out. Goldfish crackers scattered across cushions like tiny orange casualties of war. A pink romance novel splayed open near my knee, spine cracked to the page where I must have finally stopped reading.
I sit up slowly in the fort, my neck protesting the angle I apparently slept in. At some point in the night, I must have shifted from sitting upright with Charlie against my chest to lying flat on my back, because I’m now sprawled across three couch cushions with a throw pillow wedged awkwardly under my shoulder blade. My phone has migrated to somewhere near my hip, buzzing insistently with notifications I’ve apparently been ignoring for hours.
I fish it out and squint at the screen.
12:47 p.m.
I haven’t slept past noon since college. Maybe not even then—Alaina was an early riser who believed sleeping in was a moral failing, and her internal alarm clock became mine.
But last night I slept like the dead. Deep and dreamless and so complete that I feel almost hungover from the rest. My body is loose in a way it hasn’t been in months. Years, maybe. The constant tension I carry in my shoulders—the hypervigilance that comes with always watching for threats, always calculating exits, always preparing for the next disaster—has dissolved into something resembling peace.
I think about Charlie falling asleep against my chest. The weight of her, slight but solid. The way her breathing slowed and steadied as I read, her body going boneless with trust. Complete trust. The kind you can’t fake, the kind that only comes when someone feels genuinely safe.
She felt safe with me.
At some point I must have stopped reading and just…held her. Let myself exist in that moment without calculating the risks or cataloging the reasons it was a bad idea. Her hair smelled like whatever expensive shampoo stocked the bathroom—floral and sweet. Her hand had curled into my shirt like she was anchoring herself to me even in sleep.
It felt good. It felt like something I could get used to.
It felt absolutely terrifying.
I scrub a hand over my face and start scrolling through my phone, partly to distract myself from the direction my thoughts are spiraling and partly because I should probably check in on the outside world. The tour doesn’t stop just because I built a blanket fort and caught feelings like some kind of lovesick teenager.
Instagram first. I don’t post—my account is locked down tighter than Fort Knox, no photos, no followers except a few verified accounts I use to keep tabs on industry news—but I keepregular surveillance on the celebrity gossip pages that have been dissecting Charlie’s every move since the scandal broke.
The shift is immediate and obvious.
Three days ago, every headline was some variation of “Charlie Riley’s Balcony Romp” or “Pop Star’s Secret Scandal” or “Is This the End of America’s Sweetheart?” The comments were vicious—people who’d never met her confidently diagnosing her with personality disorders, addiction issues, attention-seeking behavior. The memes were everywhere. Her career was supposedly over, finished.
Now?
“Charlie Riley SLAYS Miami Concert: The Tour Is Alive!”
“The Moment That Made Us All Cry: Charlie Riley Goes Raw and Real”
“From Scandal to Standing Ovation: Charlie Riley’s Big Comeback”
“Who Is the Mystery Bodyguard? Fans Are OBSESSED”
I click on that last one, morbidly curious. It’s a compilation of photos and videos from the concert—Charlie at the piano, her face luminous with something that looks like joy and terror combined. Charlie taking her bow, tears still wet on her cheeks. Charlie being escorted through the crowd by a tall figure in black, his hand pressed protectively against her lower back.
Me.
My face is mostly obscured in the shots—caught in profile, hidden behind a shoulder, conveniently blurred by movement. The paparazzi got a few clearer angles, but nothing that would hold up to serious scrutiny. Nothing that would trigger facial recognition or link back to my other life.
Knowing Sage, that’s not an accident. She probably had someone reviewing footage before it went live, flagging anythingtoo identifying. The woman operates like a chess grandmaster, always thinking six moves ahead.
The comments on the bodyguard post are…something.
