She studies me, and I see her begin to accept it—not as recklessness, but as a choice. My choice. And nothing will shake me from it.
Then those old ghosts haunt her thoughts again, and I watch her fidget, her eyes darting toward the door. She pulls her hand from mine, reaches for her purse, and mumbles that she has to get away before she ruins my life.
“Where are you going?” I ask, trying to keep my tone easy and gentle despite the unease I feel.
She shakes her head. “You didn’t sign up for this, Luke. Let me handle it. When it’s over, maybe we can try again.”
She means it. I can see it in the set of her jaw, in the way she’s bracing herself. But I’m not letting her walk away—not from this, not from me. I catch her hand again, bring it to my lips, and kiss each knuckle in turn. “You asked me to remind you, remember? To let me protect you. I meant it, Andi. I’m not going anywhere.”
She won't make eye contact with me, but she nods. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she quickly pulls her emotions under control.
I’ve been staying at Andi’s place every night, returning to my apartment only for essentials. The one night I tried sleeping without her, the silence pressed in from every corner, the sheets cold and unfamiliar. Now, at home with her, the TV flickers in the background, casting restless shadows across the living room. Andi crawls into my lap, curling into my chest. I breathe in the light scent of her shampoo, feel her warmth settle against me, her head tucked beneath my chin, her arms winding around my neck. Sometimes she falls asleep like this, her breath soft and even against my collarbone, and I carry her upstairs, reluctant to let go.
Tonight, though, there’s a tension in her body—a subtle tremble in her fingers, the way she presses closer, as if trying to anchor herself. I run my hand slowly along her arm, tracing the goosebumps rising on her skin. The roomis quiet except for the low hum of the television and the uneven rhythm of our breathing.
She surprises me when she whispers, “Thank you for not leaving me.” Her voice is so small, I almost miss it, but the words land with a weight that makes my chest ache.
For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat is tight, and I just hold her, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against my own. I rub her arm gently, searching for words that don’t sound hollow. “What do you mean?” I finally manage, my voice rougher than I intended.
She hesitates, then says quietly, “When I told you who he is. Thank you for staying. I would have understood if you’d changed your mind, but… what you said meant more than I can explain.”
Her words land with a force I wasn’t prepared for, knocking the air from my lungs. My chest tightens, and for a moment I can only focus on the warmth of her hand in mine and the tremor in her voice still echoing between us. I know the facts—foster care, emancipation at sixteen, all those years she’s spent navigating the world alone—but I’ve never truly let myself feel the weight of it. She’s never once complained, never asked for pity, never let on how much it cost her.
She thinks I’m brave because I step into a ring, choose my battles, and know the rules. But as I look at her now, Irealize she’s never had that luxury. Her whole life has been a fight she never asked for, and she’s had to be strong just to survive. The magnitude of her courage humbles me. I squeeze her hand, wishing I could take even a fraction of that burden from her, and promise myself—again—that I won’t be another person who walks away.
She would let me go if I asked. She’s had to let go of so much already. The thought makes my chest tighten, a cold ache spreading through me.
I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair, breathing her in. “You never have to thank me for staying,” I murmur, my voice hardly steady. “I don’t know how else to convince you I’m not going anywhere, Andi.”
Even as I say it, I feel the fear lingering beneath my words—the fear of failing her, of not being enough, of losing her to the shadows of her past or to the ones I might cast. I hold her tighter, as if I can keep the world at bay for just a little longer, hoping she knows I mean every word.
Maybe that’s what real partnership is: not rescuing each other, but facing what comes together, side by side. That’s the only way this works for us—both of us leaning in and refusing to let go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ANDI
Saturday nights at the club used to feel like a release. Noise, music, lights, friends. A small universe where problems stayed outside the doors. Lately, it feels more like a stage inside a pressure chamber.
We’re down to five contestants now, so Mitch has declared it “playoffs,” apparently giving him the authority to rewrite the rules whenever he feels like it. Instead of choosing our own songs, we’ve each been assigned one in a genre we don’t normally perform. Mine is by Disturbed.
I almost laugh when he tells me. Of course it is.
I don’t mind the song. I mind the timing. Everything in my life feels like it’s teetering on a fault line, and now I’m supposed to scream about war into a microphone. But they don’t get to disrupt my life. They don’t get to take away everything that makes me,me. I don’t sing for boardrooms, investors, or the youth center staff. This is the one place where no one gets to manage me.
Backstage, I rummage through the costume rack, building the look piece by piece. Camouflage shirt, cut and reshaped. Black shorts. Boots. A headband tied tight across my forehead. Pink streaks in my hair again because I’m tired of muting myself for anyone.
If I’m going to sing about battle, I might as well look like I expect one.
When the sirens at the beginning of “Indestructible” wail through the speakers, the lights turn red and spin. I step onto the stage and hold the salute a second longer than necessary before the music crashes in.
The first verse steadies me. The second settles into my bones. The crowd dissolves into motion and shadow beyond the stage lights, and I focus on the rhythm, breath control, and the physical demand of pushing my voice into territory it doesn’t usually venture.
Then I see him.
Not immediately. Not until I move to the left side of the stage and my line of sight shifts. His ball cap is pulled low over his face at first, then he pushes it up just in time to meet my gaze. He’s putting on his own show just for me.
Jackson Rhoades is three tables back, just behind Luke. He’s not wearing a suit tonight—no flag pin, no entourage, just dark clothes that let him fade into the crowd. But he’s not here to disappear. He sits with his back straight, hands folded, eyes locked on me, daring me to acknowledge him.
