Page 130 of Sweet Surrender

None of it holds me the way he does.

Jase.

There’s been distance between us over the past few days. A chasm that feels like it’s widening and going to eat me whole as I fall harder for him and he pushes me further away.

But here, he’s in his element. Here, we’re right back to where we were that first day we met—him, the superstar, and me just a normal cookie baker.

I wish I could say there was more here—to us—but I think that was built on hope and lust and not emotion and love.

But I look at him and my chest aches for more. For him. For the laughter and the love we had what felt like just days ago.

He’s seated behind his kit, head bowed, sticks twirling effortlessly in his fingers before he locks in, hitting the beat with a precision that seems effortless. His whole body moves with the music, his arms flexing, his expression distant but so alive.

This is where he thrives.

This is where he belongs.

And I feel the disconnect like a wall between us.

The band is running through their setlist for the world tour, working through transitions, testing out new endings. I hang back near the door, watching from the shadows as they fall into sync with each other, feeding off the energy they create.

Jase doesn’t look at me.

He doesn’t acknowledge me at all.

I don’t know if it’s intentional, but it’s been building for days.

And now, watching him here, I realize just how much he’s already started pulling away.

Rocket hits the keys, shifting into a slower melody, and Hawkin picks up his guitar. The lights dim slightly, the room shifting from pure adrenaline to something heavier. The air changes, thickens.

A ballad.

I recognize it instantly.

It’s new. Unreleased. A song that leaked a few weeks ago, one that the fans dissected like vultures, searching for its meaning.

It’s raw.

It’s about betrayal. About wanting someone so badly it destroys you.

And when Jase finally lifts his head and meets my eyes, my breath catches.

Because I know.

I know, in that split second, that this song, and the way he’s decided to acknowledge me now, is his way of telling me what he can’t say out loud.

There is nothing more to us than a contract and some convenient sex.

He’s choosing this—them, the tour, the life—and he’s leaving me behind. That’s what was supposed to happen all along though. I shouldn’t be shocked by it. I shouldn’t have hoped differently. But his touch told me otherwise. His love language of taking care of me showed the contrary.

And now I’m standing here in an arena feeling so very small, so very unwelcome when all I want to do is understand the why behind it.

But that’s for another place. Another time. The texts telling me where he’s going and when he’ll be home have stopped. The dinners in the kitchen where we’d laugh until we cried or moaned in bliss have ended. It’s just . . . over.

The beat slows, his sticks striking softer now, more deliberate. His eyes don’t leave mine, even as Hawkin’s voice fills the room with soul-stirring lyrics that rip a person open, that tell a story of heartbreak before it’s even fully happened.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, past the pain that rises so quickly I don’t know how to contain it.