He eyes me warily. “Go on.”
“No more being an ass about Kasia.Please.”
He sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll try. It’s hard to be civil when she stares at you like you hung the fucking moon. I’lltolerate her. That’s the best I can offer.”
“Sold.”
I pull him into a hug before I can overthink it. For a second he’s still, then his arms come around me, warm against my back.
“I love you, Rith.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I love you too, youfucking idiot.”
When we step apart, something feels lighter, like a weight I’ve carried for years just fell away. Words fail me, which seems impossible, but they do. He makes some excuse about needing to meet someone, then slips out. I watch him go down the hallway, and I know. He was my firsttasteof love, even if we kept it sealed. I just never let myselffeelit until now. My mind echoes with leftover noise from the night, laughter, distant music, the faint reverb of everything we used to be. Grief and gratitude settle together in my chest. I breathe out and let him go with it, into whatever we are now. Men, older, scarred, still bound by the music and love that made us both.
That night, Kasia’s laugh on the other end of the phone was all the relief I needed. Hercalled it, hanging in the air. Today, the ride to Prague feels louder than usual. Not the city, us. Every phone on the bus is buzzing, notifications stacking faster than the coffee can kick in. I’m half awake when Ronan appears at the kitchen booth, waving his phone like he’s flagging down rescue.
“You’re going viral.”
I groan, pressing my forehead to the cold window. “Please tell me it’snotthat.”
“Oh, it’sexactlythat.” His grin’s wide enough to break something. “As expected from the mastermind over there.” He jerks his chin toward Rithy, who looks barely alive in the seat opposite me. “It’s afucking hit.”
I sit up, hair sticking to my cheek. “Not surprised. They always love thesexual-tensionangle.”
“It’s more than that this time.” He tosses me the phone. “Look.”
Clips of the kiss are everywhere, slow-mo edits, fan theories, reaction videos.The Riven Altar Unveiled Kissis trending in eight countries. Someone’s added orchestral music to it; another thread calls it the start of a concept series, a grand reveal. It’s chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos.
Rithy’s sprawled across his side like a king without a crown, all he’s missing is the robe and scepter. No sunglasses today. It’s cloudy, but it feels bigger than that, like he’s not hiding anymore. He’s savoring his last sip of German coffee like it’s victory itself.
“Well,” he says, stretching, “what can I say? I’m anexcellentkisser.”
Kiri flicks a sugar packet at him from the sink. “You’re a liability.”
“Correction,” Rithy smirks, “aprofitableliability. Look at those numbers.”
He’s not wrong. Overnight, everything’s doubled, streams, follows, mentions. Someone online compares us to Hozier-level ascension.
Kiri whistles. “Doesn’t Hozier have, like,forty millionfollowers?”
“Forty-two,” Ronan says, still scrolling.
Kiri shakes his head. “Soonlythirty-sevenmillionmore than us. Practically peers.”
Rithy grins. “It’s not just the kiss. It’s the punch, the cover—” He glances at me, and there’s something almost gentle behind it. “—the tour, the wholefucking alchemyof it. Magic.” He props his feet on the table edge, crossing his legs like he’s already won.
No one argues. The bus buzzes with that weird, charged stillness that comes before a storm. Our manager’s texts keep lighting up the group chat, press, sponsors, interviews. I lean back, phone on my knee,watching the highway blur by through gray light. My coffee’s cold, but my pulse hasn’t slowed since the show.
Alchemy.The word sticks. I think of Kasia, the spark that set all of this in motion. Her voice last night, calm and sure. The way she cuts through the noise without trying. Somehow every road still loops back to her.
Everything that's happening, it all feels wild and uncontainable, like something small and private that grew teeth. Ronan’s laughing again. Kiri’s already writing jokes about Prague. Rithy’s pretending not to check his reflection in the window.
And me? I’m just trying to breathe. Because it hits me, right there between Berlin and the next stage: how easily the ground shifts. How one heartbeat, one look, one woman can ripple through everything.
Whatever’s happening, whatever we’re becoming, her hand’s somewhere in it. The muse. The spark. The fault line. Persephone’s mouth on the pomegranate, upending our underworld. I don’t know if what’s building is a miracle or a storm. I just knowI’d better hold on.
Chapter 57
