“You’re doing thatthick breathingthing,” Rithy notes dryly. “The one that means you’re either about to faint or write a ballad.”
I drag my hands down my face, elbows on my knees.
“It’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing.
“She didn’t even ask for anything,” I say, mostly to myself. “No photo or signature. She was just making sure I could see.”
The bus goes still. Kiri lifts a brow. Rithy stops chewing his cereal. Ronan's expression softens like he’s clocked the real issue.
“Ohhh,” Ronan says, leaning back with a wicked grin. “Our boy’s smitten.”
I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes closed because honestly? If I look at anything else, I’ll see her anyway.
“Whatever,” I breathe out, helpless. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
I can still feel her thumb at the corner of my eye and hear her laugh when I joked about making people cry. I can still see the way she froze when our fingers touched over the card. That wasn’t one-sided. That was…something. Something I’ll have to wait to feel again and it already hits me like it’s torture.
Two weeks?
Fuck, two weeks suddenly feels like a lifetime.
Chapter 12
Make It Brutal
Rafe
“Rafe,” Ronan says from his bunk, pillow propped under his neck. “You’re blinking like a dying lighthouse over there.”
“I’m fine,” I shoot back.
Rithy snorts from the couch, feet up, scrolling. “You seem distinctlynot fine.”
“IsaidI’m just tired,” I mutter, which earns me a look that says none of them believe that for a second.
By the time we’re at the hotel, the ache behind my eyes hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s worse. I shut myself in my room, lights off, sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone longer than I ever would with anyone else. I don’t want to cross a line. I also don’t want to pretend this isn’t happening and my eyes won’t stop stinging. So, I keep it clinical,safe.
getting close to the show tonight. eyes are pretty sensitive. might make it brutal. is this normal?
I send it before I can overthink it. Her reply doesn’t come instantly. I try to tell myself it shouldn’t. She’s a doctor, not a fan waiting by her phone for me. When it does arrive, it’s exactly what it should be. She explains the dilation, the timeline, the light sensitivity. Mentions the show like it’s just another variable. If she’s intimidated or impressed, she doesn’t show it.
I smile despite the throb behind my eyes. I answer lightly, try to keep it distant, mention the show. Make a joke about TikTok. Test the water just enough to see if she’ll acknowledge the world I live in. Her response tightens the boundary.While I’m in her care, she can’t talk about anything personal.Suggests sunglasses would help.Right, of course. Sunglasses.
I knock once on Ronan’s door, and it flies open. He’s half-dressed, towel still around his neck, hair damp and wild, pacing like a madman who’s already been counting time in his head for the last hour. One hand keeps tapping an invisible pattern against his thigh, that drummer brain refusing to shut up.
“We’re cutting the bridge,” he nearly shouts into his phone, giving our musical director, Jacob, a hard time. “I don’t care if it’s emotional, it drags. Four bars too long.”
He turns, paces again, the complaint rolling out of him in that relentless cadence he gets when he’s deep in it, like a funeral drum beating slow. He sounds exactly like his stage name in moments like this, Threnos incarnate, lamenting down the line as if the song itself personally wronged him.
“Ronan,” I interrupt.
He turns, takes one look at my face, and squints. “Jesus. You lookhigh as fuck.”
“My eyes are killing me, you got any sunglasses?”
He brightens immediately. “Oh. Hold on.”
