The realization doesn’t jolt me with fear. It settles in my bones, cold and certain: he can find me anywhere. He can sit ten feet from the man I love, pretend it’s a coincidence, just to see how close he can get before I flinch.
The club feels smaller, the air heavier. My pulse doesn’t race—it slows, each beat deliberate. I step off the riser, the stage lights painting my skin in red and gold. The second verse is defiance, and I let the words cut through the haze, my voice steady and sharp. I sing for him, but I sing for myself too—every lyric a line I refuse to let him cross.
When I sing about standing unbreakable, I am not performing.
I am answering him.
I move closer to his table than necessary. Close enough that he has to tilt his head up to meet my eyes. Closeenough that he understands I see him, and I am not retreating.
For a brief second, his mouth tightens.
Then Luke shifts in his chair. He’s turning. I feel it before I see it.
No.
I finish the chorus and step down from the stage before the final chord fades. I cross the floor and take the chair opposite Luke, rather than sliding into the one beside him.
His eyes search my face immediately.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
I take my phone from Katie and type beneath the table where no one can see.
He is here. Behind you. Don’t look.
Luke’s phone vibrates in his hand. When he looks down, his jaw locks. His shoulders change shape. He doesn’t turn.
Why are you not sitting w/ME?
Because sitting beside you makes you visible. Because if he sees what you are to me, he recalibrates. Because I refuse to hand him leverage.
I answer carefully.
He’s threatening. I don’t want you targeted.
Luke reads it. His eyes darken, not with confusion but with anger held in check.
I add:
Element of surprise. He may not know about you yet. Trust me. Please.
A long second passes.
Then my phone vibrates.
I’m leaving.
Before I can respond, he stands. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look behind him. He walks straight toward the exit.
I feel the shift instantly.
From the outside, that move looks like distance. It looks like a disagreement. It looks like a fracture.
Jackson doesn’t move. He watches me instead.
And I understand the play.
If anyone here was paying attention, they would have just seen my boyfriend walk out after I performed a song about war while staring at another man.
