In this moment.
In the tug-of-war between us that has been building for months.
He carries me toward the bed, careful not to block the audience’s view, and lays me down as if I belong there. Like I’m already his. I stretch out, fold my arms over my chest, becoming the stillness that follows surrender, and death stands over me. Luke leans down and kisses me in a way that sells the story so completely my mind blanks, and when the music fades and the curtains close, the applause hits like thunder. We take our bow when they open again, and I smile like I’m fine, like my heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of myribs.
Backstage, I move fast. Not running, but close. My body is humming, and my thoughts are scattered, and I don’t trust myself to stop walking. I reach the dressing room and step inside, and I don’t turn around yet, because if I do, I might break.
Then I hear him behind me, and the door slams shut with a finality that makes my breath catch.
LUKE
If anyone had told me karaoke could be foreplay, I would’ve said they were full of it. That was before tonight, before Andi stepped onto that stage wearing nothing but a man’s button-down and confidence like armor and sang that song as if she wasn’t performing at all. She was summoning something she couldn’t say out loud. We did not rehearse it the way it happened, not even close, and the second she wrapped herself around me onstage like it was the most natural thing in the world, I had to use every ounce of restraint I’ve ever had not to forget where we were and what we were doing.
I hated her outfit.
I loved her outfit.
I’m not proud of either of those truths, but I’m done pretending I don’t feel things when it comes to her.
She moves offstage like a freight train, cutting through the backstage crowd with purpose. I don’t know if she’s trying to get away from me or be alone with me, but I know one thing for damn sure: I’m not letting her create distance tonight. I’m not letting her crawl back behind that wall she builds when she’s hurt. Not after the way she looked at me up there, not after the way her body trusted mine without asking permission of her pride.
She steps into the dressing room, and I follow, closing the door behind me with a hard finality that makes the air feel smaller. Before she can turn around, I’m there. I spin her around, lift her off the floor, and pin her to the door. When her legs wrap around my waist again, it feels like the night is rewriting itself, like everything we’ve been circling finally collides. My mouth finds hers, and the kiss is hungry, furious, and desperate, with nothing to do with performance and everything to do with months of holding back. I don’t even know who started it. I only know I can’t stop.
Then the world interrupts, as it always does. A pounding on the door. A voice calling her name. Andi drops her forehead to my shoulder like she wants to scream, frustration shaking through her, and she forces out a calm answer. I press my mouth to her temple and murmur low, “We arenot done,” because I need her to know that, because I need her to believe it. She doesn’t argue. Her fingers curl into my shirt for a brief second, as if she agrees. Then she slides down and fixes her clothes with shaking hands while I stand there watching her as if the sight alone might steady me.
It doesn’t.
When she reaches for the doorknob, I catch her hand and pull her back just enough that she has to look at me. “Andi,” I say, and my voice isn’t playful now. It’s raw. “I don’t want a one-night stand, and I don’t want friends with benefits. I want you. I want to be with you, and only you. I want to give us a real chance.” The words come out like a line I can’t take back, and I don’t want to.
If I hesitate again, I’m going to lose her. I can feel it.
Her expression softens in a way that makes me feel seen—really seen. For once, she doesn't dodge, doesn't deflect, doesn't cover her heart with armor. She just holds my gaze, a hint of hesitation, and then something steadier. Her lips part as if the words are right there, but instead she breathes out slowly, then lets her hand find mine and squeezes, anchor-firm. Whatever she was about to say lingers between us, unfinished but understood. In this quiet, I know—she's with me.
Then the door opens, and the moment snaps back into noise and movement, people spilling in, congratulating, and pulling us back into the crowd. After Andi changes clothes, we make it to our friends, and I can feel the shift in her, the way she stays a fraction closer to me now, even while she’s pretending everything is normal. Brandon’s eyes catch mine, sharp and satisfied, and he throws his little dig like he can’t help himself.
“You two sure are good friends, Luke.”
Andi tenses beside me, just slightly, because she’s remembering last night.
So I make it plain.
“Yeah,” I say evenly, “I couldn’t ask for a better friend than Andi.” Her head snaps toward me, disbelief flashing across her face as if she’s bracing for the sting again, and then I finish it before she can flinch. “I couldn’t ask for a better girlfriend, either.”
The tension in her shoulders eases like a held breath finally released, and her smile is so bright it knocks the wind out of me. Brandon leans over, in a low voice, and says, “Best decision you’ve ever made, little brother,” and for once, I don’t fight him on it. He’s right.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUKE
Morning shows you the truth, not the staged version still vibrating with applause and adrenaline, but the quieter one that slips in through half-closed blinds when the room is still, and the only sound is someone else’s breathing beside you. I wake slowly, aware first of warmth beside me and then of the weight of what I said last night. The word girlfriend felt natural when it left my mouth, almost inevitable, but daylight has a way of testing declarations. It strips them down, sets them upright, and waits to see if they can stand without faltering.
Andi is still asleep, curled slightly toward me, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Without stage lights and makeup, she looks softer, younger somehow, and that softness does something dangerous inside my chest. I study her longer than I mean to, memorizing the small details I never admit I memorize—the even pattern of her breathing, the way her hair spills across my pillow as it belongs there, the faint crease between her brows that never fully disappears, even in sleep.
For a fleeting second, fear pricks at the edges of that warmth. If I can have this, I can lose it. The thought isn’t dramatic; it’s instinctive. Reflexive. Carved into me by history. I don’t let it linger long enough to root.
She stirs before I can look away, her eyes opening slowly as if she’s surfacing from somewhere deep. The first thing she does is search my face, not lazily, but deliberately, like she’s assessing the aftermath.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, her voice husky with sleep but steady.
