#troubadour's chapter

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Troubadour’s Chapter: Journey 4

Unlocked after obtaining the last item, the hair.

Narrator: Deep in the forest, Yeeso tries to enter the altar shrouded by the mist.

Narrator: Heavy mist swallows up everything. Even under the light of the burning torch, one can’t see a corner of the dark forest.

Narrator: All means to determine the direction are useless. No matter which direction they go, they’ll encounter thick mist.

Narrator: They walk around and return to the edge of the Mist Forest.

Yeeso: Damn it. We’ll have to wait for the Queen here.

Corleone: Some people are approaching.

Narrator: Corleone puts out the torch and the mercenaries skillfully find shelters to hide.

Narrator: Some black-robed riders linger on the edge of the mist, followed by several horses carrying special instruments.

Yeeso: Are they also waiting for the Queen? We must strike first.

Corleone: Okay. The Commander is interested in the instruments.

Haby: This place is suitable for ambush. The timing is perfect. They can’t escape this time.

Narrator: Things are blackened into blurred shadows in the mist. When the black-robed men realize the attack, they’ve fallen into a disadvantage.

Narrator: The battle-hardened mercenaries from the Justiciars appear quietly and raid their prey.

Narrator: The black-robed men soon give up and begin to retreat. Yeeso leads his partners to pursue them.

Narrator: They run out of the Mist Forest. They see a plain where numerous flowers are in full bloom.

Narrator: Without any hesitation, the two teams rush into the sea of flowers.

[stravagatefaster]

Something something being a stravaganza fan makes you insane something something

[muddyviolets]

Reserved this on the online catalogue, picked it up and recognized the cover. I used a few chapters as a reference for a term paper I wrote about 8 years ago

[eratosmusings]

Stolen Destiny (I)

Feyd Rautha x fem!reader

summary: Your father had been promised an heir. But the choices made by another stole that fate from you. Now it's your turn to take theirs.

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, smut in future chapters, blood, misogyny, dark themes, canon typical violence

word count: 1.2k

dividers / masterlist

“Again,” the swordmaster calls out. 

Gritting your teeth, you comply and fall back in position with the others. All this show for what?

With a nod, a troubadour began to pluck at the strings of her Baliset again. Your feet move in the familiar pattern, hilts of the swords bouncing against your hips. This is a waste of time.

Air stills as the rest of the women swirl away from you when another Baliset, one played with a bow sliding against its strings, joins the melody. The blades gnash against their sheaths in protest as you pull them free. They sing in the air, spinning easily between your fingers. Faster and faster they spin to match the skirts of the others now twirling in a circle around you until the music slows.

Once, twice you clink the blades’ together before you stab one into the plush stool in the center. Soft, slow pattering of the drums begins as you turn your back to it. The sword that remains drags its tip against the stone floor. The women bend a knee where they twirled. Sparks follow when you twist quickly.

This is the silliest part. You face a non existent opponent. Bringing your sword forward you drop into a defensive stance. The music rises and now you fight. Thrust, retreat, parrie, circle, advance, lunge, parrie, retreat, parrie, parrie. On and on it goes until you drop the sword. Your arm extends to the partner who does not exist and spin into nothing as the music reaches a crescendo. Chest heaving, you stay there and stare into the abyss until the music and the last of your dignity finally dies.

One of the girls is quick to retrieve and return the swords to you. In contrast, you’re slow to sheath them. You’re not eager to hear the word you know waits on his tongue. But you can only stall for so long.

You turn and face him. His voice cuts sharply across the silent hall. “Again.”

“You look ridiculous,” your father says under his breath so only you can hear. 

A gown, styled after your mother’s House, hung loosely on your frame, hiding any hint of the woman’s body beneath it. You feel ridiculous in it, but had thought it better than the other options. You should have known there was nothing you could have worn that would please him.

“My apologies, father.”

He scoffs. Nothing you do will ever please him.

It’s why you still cannot understand why this celebration is being held. He saw no honor in you being born, why would he see it in you coming of age? And to invite the likes of the Atreides? Was this all some masochistic need to see the son he should have had?

He says outloud, “Don’t embarrass me.�� In your head you hear the word he leaves unspoken. ‘Again.’

The Major Houses arrive hours apart, the lucky few Minor Houses invited padding the time between. First is the Princess Irulan. Beautiful, graceful, kind. She compliments you, embracing you as if you’d been friends for life. And it feels as such. A connection left despite the broken destiny. There would be no marriage, but your father whispers that a friendship could offer nearly as much.

The Atreides come next. The Duke is handsome. His concubine, Lady Jessica, hides behind a veil. A Bene Gesserit indeed. Their son, Paul, is charismatic and not as handsome as his father, but more beautiful. He places a kiss on your hand, complimenting your dress and, as he calls them, your lovely eyes. They fall flat on you, but he seems to preen at your own compliment of his hair with a boyish grin painting his face.

Your father’s mood shifts when they and their people are led away to the castle. “Well done. Who knew you could charm so well.” The praise, as backhanded as it is, prickles your skin. “Let’s hope can you keep it up.”

At last, as the sun sets, the Harkonnens arrive. 

Pale and hairless, they're intimidating in their black attire. The Baron did not come, instead having his nephews take his place. The eldest, Count Glossu Rabban, is a giant of a man. From the stories you’ve heard, he's a sadist but an idiot. In his shadow lies the true danger. 

Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha. He’s deceptively slight next to his brother. But to be the chosen heir for a House like the Harkonnens there must be a brutal intelligence. Like Paul he takes your offered hand and presses his lips against it. They’re cold, chapped and rough. Unlike Paul he offers a grin that had no boyishness left. Blackened teeth bared, he tugs your arm harshly. You stumble forward into him. The hand he doesn’t hold presses against his chest to catch yourself, the one he does hold twisting out of his grip.

Warm metal presses against your throat. 

Something akin to amusement dances in his eyes as they rove over your. It’s the only sign that he probably doesn’t want to kill you. There’s a measured pause of his gaze, first on the blade then sinking lower, before it flits back to your own. His voice is raspy as he speaks, “It is a pleasure to be here for your coming of age, my lady.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. The blade retreats. His eyes don’t leave yours as he releases you, flips it, and offers you the hilt. “A gift.”

“Thank you,” you say, hoping your voice holds firm, and reach for the dagger. 

A hand flashes from behind you with a plea of, “Allow me, my lady,” from a guard. 

Feyd, tisked, pulling it out of reach. “It is not a gift for you.”

You’re unceremoniously knocked aside when the guard steps between you. “She will be given it after an inspection.”

“An inspection is unnecessary,” you hiss, face warming. It was embarrassing enough he’d managed to catch you and your court so off guard. But to openly suspect him of intending harm, after such a brazen display of weakness, would cement the failure of any good relations between your houses. Your father would never forgive you.

“He poisons his blades,” the guard insists, not quietly enough.

Feyd-Rautha’s laugh is harsh. He turns to the Harkonnens behind him, lifts his arms, and bellows, “He worries I poison the blade!” It humors them. Rabben guffaws as if he’s never heard a funnier joke. When he faces you again his black grin is even wider. He stares down the guard as he slices the blade across his open palm. Blood soils the blade and drips on the stone beneath him. His eyes shift to you again. His tongue juts out. In a grotesque exhibition he licks it. “Death does not wait for you in my hands today.”

“I never suspected it did, Na-Baron,” you agree, stepping around the guard. He moves to stop you, but a harsh glare has him backing down. There’s still a chance to save this. Appease the Harkonnens and quell your father’s resentment you can feel rolling off him in waves behind you. Feyd offers the hilt again and you take it. The blade slices across your own palm without hesitation, your blood joining his on the stone. You extend your hand to him again.

a/n: my first fic! any thoughts would be appreciated 🥰

be my muse

next chapter

[mrs-delaney]

Hide| Chapter 12 | Public Pressure & Private Efforts

✨ catch up on hide if you’re just getting here ✨

🌙📚 browse the masterlist for more love, mess, and maybe a little magic ✨💔

🎧 listen to salvage—the album riley swore she’d never release, and then did anyway.

pairing: joe burrow x riley carter (oc) word count: 19.5k requested: no warnings: explicit sexual content, strong language, performance anxiety and the vulnerability of laying yourself bare on stage, pre-show jitters that feel like game day nerves, the exhaustion that comes after pouring your heart out for two hours straight, finding your people in a crowded room, and the relief of being with someone who sees all of you and stays anyway.

a few quick notes: 📌 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 📌 requests: closed! 📌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

📝 author’s note: not gonna lie—this chapter took longer than i planned. writer’s block hit hard, and for weeks i stared at scenes that felt flat, dialogue that didn’t land, and a performance that just... wouldn’t come to life. thank you for being patient while i wrestled it into something real. this one is about stepping into the light—literally and emotionally. riley performs the full *salvage* album for the first time. joe brings his closest friends into her orbit. they both stop hiding. writing the troubadour sequence felt like being there—the backstage nerves, the hush of the crowd, the ache of “the smallest man who ever lived,” and the flicker of “daylight.” i wanted you to feel every song. to know why this night mattered. but it’s also about the quiet stuff: joe texting her band to make sure she’s eaten. a bathroom makeout that’s more comfort than lust. his friends loving her because she makes him lighter. thank you for sticking with me through the blocks and the delays. for cheering for these characters. for knowing some chapters take longer because they mean more. i hope this one feels worth the wait. 💛 💛

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

The warehouse in Burbank hummed with the controlled chaos of preparation. Riley's fingers moved across the piano keys, sweat already beading at her temples despite the industrial fans spinning overhead. They'd been at this for hours.

"Let's run 'Mad Woman' again," she called to Pete, who was adjusting levels at the sound board twenty feet away. "The bridge still feels muddy."

Andy groaned from his position stage left, guitar hanging loose around his neck. "We've run it six times, Riles. It sounds fine."

"It sounds good," Riley corrected, pulling her hair back into a messy knot. "But it needs to sound perfect. We've got three weeks before the first show."

Daniel, sprawled behind his kit with a water bottle pressed to his forehead, gave her a look. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't a protein bar?"

"Riley ignored the question, already counting them in for another run-through. The opening chords of 'Mad Woman' filled the space, but halfway through the second verse, she held up a hand."

Halfway through the second verse, Riley held up a hand. "Stop. Stop."

The music cut off abruptly, leaving only the whir of fans and the low buzz from the amps.

"The tempo's dragging," she said, frustrated. "We're losing the bite."

Pete looked up from his board. "Riley, we've been at this for hours."

"So?"

"So maybe the tempo's not the problem," Daniel said gently. "Maybe we're just tired."

Riley opened her mouth to argue, then felt the weight of exhaustion hit her all at once. When had she started carrying this much tension in her shoulders?

Her phone buzzed against the amp beside her. A text from Joe.

Joe: How's rehearsal going? Taking breaks?

Despite her exhaustion, she found herself smiling. Since their conversation by the pool two weeks ago, Joe had been... different. More present, even from a distance. He texted during her lunch breaks, called when he knew she'd be driving home, asked specific questions about her day instead of generic check-ins.

Riley: Define "breaks."

Joe: Sitting down for more than 30 seconds

Riley: Does playing piano count?

Joe: Nice try. Real breaks. Away from instruments.

Riley: Then no

Joe: Riley

Joe: Go eat something real

She was typing a response when Pete appeared beside her, arms crossed.

"Joe?" he asked, glancing at her phone.

"Telling me to eat actual food," she said, still typing.

"Smart man." Pete looked over. "He showing up for you better now?"

Riley shrugged, but her voice had eased. "Yeah, we're both slammed—but we still talk every day. Calls, texts, whatever we can manage. One of us always checks in."

Pete raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Sounds like he's showing up, then."

Riley rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. "Don't jinx it."

Before she could respond, her phone rang. Joe's name on the screen.

"Perfect timing," Pete said, then raised his voice to the others. "Twenty-minute break. I'm going to get food that doesn't come wrapped in plastic."

Riley answered on the third ring. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." Joe's voice was warm, slightly out of breath. "You sound tired."

“I am tired,” she said, sitting back a little on the bench but keeping her hands on the keys. “But we’re getting there. ‘Mad Woman’ is being a pain in the ass, but that’s nothing new.”

“That’s the one about the gaslighting,” Joe said. 

Riley’s head tilted. “You remember that?”

He gave a small shrug. “Hard not to. That line—‘Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy’—kinda punched me in the chest.”

Riley let out a slow breath. “Yeah. That one cost me.”

Riley felt something ease in her chest. Joe hadn’t just heard the songs—he’d remembered what she told him, really taken it in. The lyrics, the stories, the weight behind them. He’d been paying attention.

"The acoustic stuff is solid," she said. "But the full-band arrangements are... it's like translating between languages, you know? Making sure what works in the studio also works live. Especially the heavier tracks."

"Makes sense," Joe said. "Like adjusting plays for different defenses."

"Exactly." She lay back on the stage, staring up at the warehouse's exposed ceiling. "How was practice?"

"Good. Productive. Dak's got me on this new mobility program that's actually hell, but I can already feel the difference."

Riley could hear the satisfaction in his voice—that particular contentment Joe got when his body was doing what he asked of it.

"You sound happy," she observed.

"I am. Focused, I guess. Things are clicking." He paused. "I miss you, though."

The simple honesty of it caught her off guard. The old Joe would have buried that admission in qualifiers or deflection.

"I miss you too," she said softly. "How much longer until I see you?"

"Three weeks until the Troubadour show."

Riley sat up, surprised. "You're still planning to come?"

"Of course I'm coming." There was something almost offended in his tone. "Why would you think I wouldn't?"

"I don't know. It's preseason. I thought maybe—"

"Riley." His voice was firm, certain. "I'm coming. Already moved things around."

She felt her throat tighten unexpectedly. "You moved things around?"

"Rescheduled a couple of meetings, shifted a training session. It's not a big deal."

But it was a big deal. A few weeks ago Joe wouldn't have rescheduled anything for a concert, even hers. The fact that he'd done it without her asking, without making it seem like a sacrifice, felt huge.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"You don't have to thank me for showing up."

The simplicity of the statement hit her square in the chest. You don't have to thank me for showing up. Like it was a given. Like it was the baseline, not the exception.

"I'm bringing some friends," Joe continued. "If that's okay. Figured it was time they met you."

Riley's eyebrows rose. "Friends?"

"Zac, Micah, Trae. My guys from home."

The guys from home. The ones who'd known him before the NFL, before the cameras, before any of it. The ones whose approval actually mattered.

"That's..." she started, then stopped, not sure how to articulate what that meant to her. "Yeah. Yes. I'd love to meet them."

“Good.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “They’ve been asking about you for months.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re curious. But in a good way. I think they just want to see who’s got me this spun.”

Riley laughed, surprised by the phrasing. “Spun?”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “They’ll love you.”

In the background, she could hear voices—teammates, probably. Joe's world calling him back.

"I should let you go," she said, though she didn't want to.

"Yeah. But Riley?"

"What?"

"Get some actual food. Pete's right to be worried about you."

"You talked to Pete?"

"I may have texted him earlier. Asked what you needed."

Riley blinked, processing this. "You texted Pete?"

"And Andy and Daniel. Just... checking in. Making sure you're taking care of yourself when I can't be there to do it."

Something warm spread through her chest. Joe had reached out to her band—her family—not to check up on her, but to ask how he could help from afar. It was thoughtful in a way that felt entirely new.

"What did they say?"

“They said you’ve barely eaten all week and you keep telling them you’re fine.”

Riley exhaled through her nose. “I am fine.”

“Not according to Andy. He said you nearly passed out on Tuesday.”

“That was one time,” she muttered.

Joe didn’t let it go. “So I said I’d try to get you to eat something decent. Apparently that wins me extra points.”

Riley could picture it—Joe texting the guys, Andy giving him shit, Daniel overcomplicating, Pete probably glad for the extra set of eyes. He’d told her he’d do better, and this was proof he meant it. He’d listened, and he actually got it.

"Okay," she said. "I'll get food."

"Real food."

"Real food," she agreed. "With vegetables and everything."

"Good girl." The words were casual, affectionate, but they sent heat racing down her spine anyway. "I'll call you tonight?"

"Please."

"Talk soon, birdie."

Riley smiled at the nickname that always made her feel cared for.

"Okay, lovey."

After he hung up, Riley sat on the edge of the stage for another moment, phone warm in her palm. Around her, the warehouse had gone quiet except for the muffled sounds of crew members moving around.

Pete appeared with a sandwich wrapped in white paper. "From Joe." he said, nodding at her phone.

She accepted the sandwich gratefully. "He said you guys had a conversation."

"Brief one. He wanted to know how to help without being overbearing." Pete settled beside her on the stage. "Smart question."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you're stubborn and driven, and you'll work yourself into the ground if we let you. And that sometimes you need someone to tell you to stop, even when you don't want to hear it."

Riley took a bite of the sandwich—turkey and avocado, exactly what she would have chosen for herself. "And?"

"And that he's doing better than I expected. Making the right moves."

Coming from Pete, that was high praise. Pete, who'd been protective of her since they were teenagers, who'd watched her heart get broken and put back together more times than either of them wanted to count.

“He’s bringing his friends to the show,” she said.

Pete looked over, interested. “What friends?”

“His close friends from back home. Zac, Micah, Trae.”

Pete nodded, processing. “That’s big.”

"Yeah." Riley finished the sandwich, surprised by how much better she felt with actual food in her system. "I'm nervous."

"Why?"

She considered the question. "What if they don't like me? What if I'm too... much?"

Pete looked at her, steady. “They’re coming for him. That means they’ll show up for you, too.”

Despite herself, Riley laughed. "Fair point."

“Besides,” Pete said, “if he’s bringing them, he wants them to see you. That means something. Trust him—and trust yourself.”

From across the warehouse, Andy called out, "Break's over, shitheads! These songs aren't going to rehearse themselves!"

Riley groaned, but she felt lighter than she had all day. Fed, reassured, reminded that she wasn't navigating this alone.

"Back to work?" Pete asked.

"Back to work."

But as they ran through "Mad Woman" again, the tempo finally clicking into place, Riley found herself thinking about Joe in a training facility in Cincinnati, probably running drills with the same focused intensity she brought to rehearsals. Both of them pushing toward something, but no longer pushing away from each other.

It wasn't perfect—his schedule was more intense than it had been all spring, and the constant juggling of time zones took effort. But Joe was showing up differently now, making space for her in ways that felt intentional rather than accidental. After the rough patch in early May when everything had felt fragmented, this felt like they were finding their rhythm again.

* * *

Two weeks later, Riley sat in the sterile comfort of a Beverly Hills hotel suite, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hair and makeup had left her looking polished and media-ready, but she could feel the exhaustion she'd been carrying like a weight.

The interview was scheduled to start in ten minutes. Rolling Stone, a major feature tied to the album release. Jenny had assured her it would be friendly, career-focused, and maybe some questions about the creative process, the tour. Easy stuff.

Riley had learned not to trust "easy stuff."

She checked her phone one more time. A text from Joe, sent twenty minutes ago:

Joe: Proud of you. Call me when you’re finished.

She'd responded with a heart emoji, but hadn't mentioned her nerves. Joe was in meetings all day, preparing for preseason. He didn't need her anxiety on top of his own pressure.

"Riley?" A production assistant knocked on the bathroom door. "They're ready for you."

"Coming."

The interviewer, Jessica Martin, was younger than Riley had expected, with kind eyes and a warm smile that immediately put her at ease. They settled into matching armchairs in front of a wall of windows overlooking the city.

"So," Jessica began after the photographer finished capturing their setup shots, "this album feels like such a departure from the bands previous work. More vulnerable, more personal. What changed?"

Riley paused, thinking it through. “I don’t think this album is more vulnerable than our older stuff. I’ve always written from a pretty raw place—sometimes too raw. What’s different this time is the focus. Instead of writing a bunch of songs about different things, I wanted to tell a single, cohesive story, from start to finish. What it looks like to lose yourself and then figure out how to get back.”

She met Jessica’s eye, voice steady. “The honesty was always there. The difference is, now I’ve got enough distance to really see what happened, instead of just writing while it was all happening to me.”

"The honesty is striking," Jessica agreed. "Especially on tracks like 'Lilith' and 'The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived.' Those feel like direct confrontations with your past."

Riley shrugged, a half-smile playing at her lips. "They're both confrontational, but The Smallest Man is me calling someone else out—just putting it all on the table, no filter. That one's not subtle at all."

She paused, the smile fading slightly. "Lilith is different. That's me calling myself out, how I went completely off the rails when I was already lost. It's messier because it's harder to admit what you did to yourself than what someone else did to you."

She met Jessica's eyes directly. "I guess both songs are just me being done with pretending. About any of it."

Jessica nodded, making notes on her tablet. "And 'Daylight'—the closing track—feels like the emotional resolution to that journey. It's such a hopeful note to end on."

Riley's chest tightened slightly. She'd known "Daylight" questions were inevitable, but it still felt strange having strangers analyze something so personal.

"Yeah, that song..." Riley paused, searching for words that felt true but not too revealing. "It came to me right at the end of the recording process. I realized I didn't want to end the album in darkness. There had to be something on the other side of all that pain."

"It's beautiful. Very different from the rest of the album—more tender, more romantic. Was there someone specific who inspired that shift in perspective?"

And there it was. The question Riley had been dreading and expecting in equal measure.

"I think," she said carefully, "that song came from a place of possibility. Sometimes you meet someone who shows you that not all love has to hurt. That's a revelation worth writing about."

Jessica leaned forward slightly, and Riley caught a glint in her eyes that made her stomach drop.

“Speaking of new love,” Jessica said, her tone still light but with that reporter’s edge, “there’s been some buzz about you and a certain NFL quarterback. People noticed he was in New Orleans not long ago, and the timing’s got fans speculating. Any truth to those rumors?”

Riley's media training kicked in automatically. Deflect. Redirect. Maintain control.

She met Jessica’s gaze. “People can think what they want. I’m not going to feed the rumor mill. The album’s the most honest thing I have to give.”

"But listeners are curious about your personal life - you've got devastating songs like 'The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived' and then 'Daylight' which feels so hopeful. That shift suggests something changed for you personally."

Riley’s pulse quickened. The interview was tilting somewhere she didn’t want to go.

She took a slow breath. “I get why people are curious, but the album’s where I put the real stuff. That’s the only place I feel okay sharing it.”

"Were there specific people you were writing about? Your ex Ethan, or the rumored relationship with Joe Burrow?"

"Some songs are true, some are just me trying to figure out what I want. But I'm not going to connect specific songs to specific people."

"That's very diplomatic," Jessica said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And very different from the Riley Carter we saw a few years ago—the tabloid headlines, the dramatic exits from restaurants, the public arguments with Ethan Mills..."

Well. This wasn't the friendly album interview she'd been promised.

It's really impressive how you've turned things around. Your career is at an all-time high, you seem genuinely happy..." Jessica paused, consulting her notes. "Though some industry sources suggest that songs like 'loml' and 'The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived' might be too raw, too personal. That putting that level of pain on display could be seen as... well, some would say vindictive."

Riley's expression didn't change. "People are allowed to feel uncomfortable with the truth. I'm not writing songs to make anyone feel better about what they did to me." She leaned forward slightly. "It's interesting how when men write about their relationships—their pain, their anger—it's considered art. Raw, honest storytelling. But when women do it, suddenly we're being vindictive or airing dirty laundry." 

Her voice stayed level, but there was steel underneath. "I spent years making myself smaller to protect other people's feelings. I'm done with that. If my truth makes people uncomfortable, that sounds like their problem, not mine." 

Jessica shifted in her chair, clearly not expecting this level of pushback. "Of course. I suppose what I'm getting at is - your fans have been speculating about your personal life for months. Don't you think they deserve some clarity?"

Riley's smile returned, warm but completely controlled. "You know, in the past my personal life has been very public, and I've learned that's just not something I'm interested in anymore. I think the music speaks for itself about where I am emotionally." 

"But surely you can understand people's curiosity—" 

"Of course I can," Riley said graciously. "But I've also learned that some things are worth protecting. I'm much more interested in talking about the creative process, the tour we're planning, and the incredible musicians I get to work with every day." 

Her tone remained perfectly pleasant, but the message was clear: try me.

* * *

Two hours later, Riley sat in Pete's kitchen, a glass of wine finally in front of her. Pete, Andy, and Daniel had been waiting when she arrived, summoned by her text from the car.

“So that was interesting,” Andy said, scrolling through his phone. “The interview is already blowing up.”

Riley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Daniel looked up, grinning. “You’re getting props for not letting her push you around.”

Pete set down his phone with a satisfied look. “Twitter’s going in on the journalist. Looks like Jessica Price has a history of this kind of ambush interviewing.”

Riley took a sip of wine, processing. “Huh.”

“You sound surprised,” Pete said.

Riley nodded. “A little. She seemed cool at first—felt like a real conversation. Usually when I stand up for myself in interviews, it gets spun like I’m difficult or emotional.” She let out a slow breath. “Guess there’s something to be said for keeping your cool and letting people show who they are.”

Her phone buzzed. Joe’s name lit up the screen.

“Speak of the devil,” she murmured, then answered. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His voice was warm, but there was something underneath—concern, maybe pride. “Saw some clips from your interview today.”

“That was fast.”

“Someone on the team showed me. You handled that perfectly.”

“Yeah?” She felt a flutter of relief she hadn’t expected. “I never know how it’s going to look once it’s out there.”

"You were incredible. Professional, firm, didn't give her anything to twist." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm proud of you."

The simple statement hit her harder than she’d anticipated. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

There was a pause, and she could sense him choosing his words carefully. "I know that probably wasn't easy. Having to deflect like that." 

Riley exhaled slowly. "No, it wasn't. But I get why it's necessary right now."

"I appreciate you understanding that. I know it's not ideal."

"It's not," she agreed quietly. "But I'd rather protect what we have than let someone like her pick it apart for clicks." 

"We'll figure out the rest as we go," Joe said. "But today? You were perfect."

After they hung up, Daniel looked around the kitchen at the others. "No more solo interviews for Riley. One of us goes with her from now on, or we all do."

"Agreed," Pete said immediately.

"Absolutely," Andy added. "That was bullshit."

Riley started to protest. "Guys, I can handle—"

"You handled it perfectly," Pete interrupted. "But you shouldn't have to handle ambushes alone."

* * *

Riley stared at the ceiling of her LA bedroom, her phone screen glowing 2:47 AM when she checked it again. She'd been lying here for over an hour, her mind still buzzing from the day despite the wine and the reassuring presence of her friends until they'd finally headed home around midnight.

The interview kept replaying in her head—not the parts she'd handled well, but the moments when Jessica's questions had hit closer to home than she'd let on. The way her chest had tightened when Joe's existence was reduced to "speculation" and "rumors." How it had felt to smile politely while describing her own truth as something worth protecting rather than celebrating.

She rolled over, reaching for her phone. No new messages, but she scrolled through anyway, landing on Joe's contact. He'd be asleep—his schedule was ruthless was picking up now—but the urge to hear his voice was stronger than her consideration for his sleep.

Before she could overthink it, she pressed call.

It rang twice before his voice came through, rough with sleep but immediately alert. "Riley? You okay?"

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I know it's late. I couldn't sleep."

"Hey, it's fine." She could hear him shifting, probably sitting up. "What's going on?"

Riley closed her eyes, suddenly feeling foolish. "I don't know. I keep thinking about today. About having to sit there and pretend like you don't exist."

Silence on the other end, but not an uncomfortable one. Just Joe listening, the way he did.

Joe was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual. "You know I've never been good with the public stuff. Having people in my business—it's never felt right to me."

Riley stayed silent, something heavy settling in her chest.

"It's not about you," he said quickly, like he could sense her pulling away. "It's never been about you. I just... I don't know how to be any other way."

"I know," she said quietly. "But it still feels like I have to pretend you're not mine."

The word hung between them—mine. Possessive and vulnerable all at once.

"You don't have to pretend anything," Joe said, his voice rough with something she couldn't name. "Not with me. Never with me."

"But everywhere else?"

Silence.

"I'm sorry it's hard," he said finally. "I'm trying to be different about this stuff.

She closed her eyes, hearing both the apology and the boundary. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I just... I wish it didn't hurt sometimes."

She rolled onto her side, pressing the phone closer to her ear like she could somehow get closer to him through the connection. "Tell me something real. Something that's just ours."

Joe was quiet for a moment, and she could picture him in his bedroom in Cincinnati, probably shirtless, hair messy from sleep, those blue eyes thoughtful in the darkness.

"I've been thinking about the Troubadour show," he said finally. "About watching you perform 'Daylight' for the first time."

Riley's breath caught. "Yeah?"

“Just wondering what it’ll be like,” he said. “Hearing it live. Knowing what it means.”

The raw honesty in his voice made her heart race. "Joe..."

"I'm proud of that song," he said quietly. "Proud that you wrote it."

Riley felt her chest tighten. "Yeah?"

"It's a good song, Riley. Really good." His voice was matter-of-fact, but she could hear something deeper underneath. "I understand what you're saying in it."

She smiled faintly, her words barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

"I liked that you ended the album there," he said, his voice dropping lower. "After everything else... ending with something that sounds like that."

Riley closed her eyes, feeling something warm settle in her chest. 

"I feel like that too," he said simply.

"I miss you," she said, the words carrying more than just absence. They carried want, need, the ache of loving someone whose touch she could only remember, not feel.

"I miss you too." His voice had roughened, and she could hear the want in it that matched her own. "How much longer until I see you?"

"Eleven days." She'd been counting. "God, that feels like forever."

"Switch to FaceTime," Joe said. "I want to see you."

Riley felt her breath catch. She didn’t tease, didn’t protest. Just hit the button and waited for his face to fill her screen.

He looked half-asleep and a little wrecked, hair messy, eyes dark and open just for her. He took her in for a long moment, gaze unhurried.

“That’s better,” he said, his voice low. “I hate having conversations like this and not being able to see your face.”

Riley couldn’t help but smile, even with the ache sitting behind her eyes. “God, you look about as tired as I am. I’m sorry I woke you up. I was just… in my head.”

Joe shook his head, eyes steady on hers. “You can call me any time, you know that.”

She nodded, the silence between them suddenly comfortable, heavy with everything unspoken.

He held her gaze for a long beat. “You want to just… stay like this for a minute?”

Riley settled back, letting the phone rest beside her. “Yeah. I do.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Riley just let herself watch him, letting the quiet do the work. After a while, her eyes drifted closed, the weight of the day finally catching up to her. She was half-asleep when she felt, rather than heard, Joe say her name softly.

“Hey, go to sleep,” he murmured. She managed a sleepy hum in response.

He watched her a little longer, making sure she was really out, then smiled, quiet and private. “Goodnight, Bird.”

She didn’t answer—she was already gone. Joe ended the call and set his phone aside, the morning pressing in on his side of the world, but not minding the lost sleep.

* * *

Joe stared at his phone, rereading Riley's text for the third time. Just got to the venue. Sound check in an hour. Are you nervous about tonight?

He'd typed and deleted three different responses.

"You gonna answer that or just keep staring at it?" Trae asked from across the aisle.

Joe looked up, realizing his friends were all watching him. "What?"

"Dude," Micah said. "You've been weird since we got on the plane."

"I'm not weird."

Zac raised an eyebrow. "You rearranged your schedule to fly us to LA to meet some girl—"

"She's not some girl," Joe said, sharper than he intended.

The cabin went quiet. Zac held up his hands in surrender.

"Okay," he said carefully. "To meet Riley. The famous musician you've been sneaking around with for months."

Joe set his phone down, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated."

"Most things are," Trae said quietly. He'd been the one Joe had actually talked to about this stuff, late-night calls when the distance felt impossible and Joe couldn't sleep.

Micah looked between them. "Am I missing something here?"

Joe was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the clouds below. These guys had known him since high school. They'd watched him date Olivia, seen how he kept even that relationship carefully contained. Football here, personal life there, never let them bleed together.

"I've been trying to keep her separate," he said finally. "Like I always do. But it's not working."

"Separate how?" Zac asked.

Joe struggled to find the words. "You know how I am. Football season, she stays in her lane. Off-season, maybe I visit her world a little. Keep it clean, keep it controlled."

Trae was nodding. He'd heard versions of this conversation before.

"But?" Micah prompted.

"But she's not staying in her lane," Joe said. "And I don't really want her to anymore."

He picked up his phone again, finally typing back: Not nervous. Ready.

"That's why you brought us," Zac said, understanding dawning. "Because you're done keeping her separate."

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Joe admitted. "This whole... mixing everything together. I've never wanted to before."

"What's different about her?" Micah asked.

Joe thought about how to answer that. About Riley's laugh in his kitchen, about the way she'd called him out when he was being distant, about how she made his carefully organized life feel less like a schedule and more like something worth living.

"She doesn't fit in a box," he said simply. "I've tried. But she's too... much. In a good way."

Trae was watching him carefully. "And that scares you."

"Yeah," Joe said. "It does."

"So tonight..." Zac said.

"I told her I'd stop trying to manage this," Joe said. "Stop trying to figure out how she fits into my life and just... let her be in it. I want to do that for us." He paused. "I don't want to lose her because of my shit."

His friends exchanged glances. This was new territory for Joe Burrow, who planned everything, controlled everything, kept everything in its proper place.

"And if we don't like her?" Micah asked.

Joe looked at him steadily. "Then we'll have a problem."

The directness of it surprised them. Joe didn't usually draw lines like that, didn't usually put anyone ahead of his inner circle.

"But you will," he added, his voice softer. "She's... fuck, she's amazing. You'll see."

The plane began its descent, and Joe felt his stomach drop with it. Not long from now, he'd be sitting in a room full of people watching Riley perform, and he wouldn't be able to hide how he felt about her anymore.

* * *

"The private jet touched down at LAX with barely a bump, dusk settling over the tarmac. Joe could see the last light reflecting off the asphalt as they taxied toward the private terminal."

A black SUV waited at the edge of the tarmac, driver already standing at attention. Joe recognized the efficiency—this had Scout's fingerprints all over it, probably coordinated through Sarah. Riley's world meeting his in small, practical ways.

"Mr. Burrow?" The driver stepped forward. "We're heading directly to the Troubadour, correct?"

"That's right," Joe confirmed, shouldering his bag.

As they settled into the SUV, Zac looked around at the tinted windows and premium interior. "Riley's team arranged this?"

"Yeah," Joe said, checking his phone. No new messages, but he hadn't expected any. Riley would be deep in her pre-show routine by now.

The drive through West Hollywood was slower than Joe had anticipated, evening traffic thick on Sunset Boulevard. He found himself getting more aware of the time, of what Riley was probably doing right now.

"Hey," he said, turning to his friends. "I should probably give you guys a heads up about something."

"What's up?" Trae asked.

Joe chose his words carefully. "When we get there, Riley's probably going to be... focused. I don't talk to anyone the day of a game, and I'm thinking she might be the same way before a show."

He glanced out the window at the palm trees lining the street. "I've never actually seen her in her element like this before. So if she seems distant or busy, it's not personal. She's probably just in her zone."

"You want us to stay out of the way," Micah said, understanding.

"Not exactly. Just... don't take it personally if she doesn't have a lot of time to chat. I don't want you guys thinking she's rude or anything."

"Zac looked over at Joe. 'Don't worry, man. We'll be cool.'"

"Yeah, man. When's the last time you flew us somewhere to meet someone you were dating?" Trae asked quietly.

Joe considered this. "Never."

The SUV slowed as they approached the venue, and Joe could see the iconic Troubadour sign ahead. He felt that familiar pre-game focus settling over him—calm, controlled, ready. In a few minutes, he'd be walking into Riley's world for the first time, seeing her perform rather than just the Riley who was quietly his.

The driver pulled around to the back of the building, away from the main entrance where the show would begin in soon.

* * *

The back alley behind the Troubadour buzzed with pre-show energy. Crew members moved equipment between the venue and loading trucks, grabbing last-minute supplies. Security personnel checked IDs at the stage door, and Joe could hear the muffled sound of final instrument checks bleeding through the back entrance.

As their SUV pulled up, a woman with a headset and a clipboard materialized from the backstage entrance. She spotted Joe immediately and walked over with the efficiency of someone who'd been watching for their arrival.

"Mr. Burrow?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew. "I'm Casey, stage manager. Riley's expecting you." She pulled four laminated passes from her clipboard, handing them out. "You'll need these backstage."

She gestured for them to follow, leading them through the back entrance and into narrow gray corridors. The hallway thrummed with activity—crew members brushing past with last-minute items, someone shouting about monitor levels from a room down the hall, muffled voices calling back and forth.

"She's just getting ready," Casey said over her shoulder as they navigated toward a staircase. "Sound check wrapped a while ago, so we're in that final prep phase. You know how it is before showtime."

She led them up the stairs toward the green room. "Riley's upstairs. Fair warning—it's packed up there, and not exactly spacious to begin with."

Joe nodded, already mentally preparing himself for what they were about to walk into. 

"Joe!"

He turned to see Lola weaving through the crowd toward him, Harlow close behind. Both women looked genuinely happy to see him, and Joe felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease at seeing familiar faces.

"Hey," he said with a slight smile.

"Riley's gonna be so happy you made it in time," Harlow said. "She's up there finishing up her makeup."

Joe gestured to his friends, who'd been watching the exchange with interest. "Lola, Harlow—these are my guys. Zac, Micah, Trae."

"Nice to meet you," Lola said, shaking hands with each of them. "Riley's mentioned you."

"So you're the friends Joe's been hiding," Harlow said with a grin.

As they climbed the narrow stairs, Joe could hear Riley's laugh before he saw her—bright and unguarded, cutting through the general buzz of conversation. When they reached the top and stepped into the crowded green room, he spotted her immediately.

She was perched on the old brown couch by the windows, legs tucked under her, a small mirror balanced on her knees as she applied mascara with steady, practiced hands. Haley sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, gesturing animatedly as she told some story, while Laura leaned against the wall nearby, nursing what looked like a beer and laughing at whatever Haley was saying. Across the room, Daniel sat hunched over a small drum pad, headphones on, his sticks moving in quiet, precise rhythms.

There was no frantic energy around Riley, no last-minute panic. Just a visible buzz of excitement and genuine enjoyment. She was having a good time, completely at ease in the controlled chaos of pre-show preparations. When she finished with her mascara, she tossed the tube to Haley and picked up a tube of lipstick, continuing her conversation without missing a beat.

"Burrow! Buddy!"

Pete's voice cut through the room before Joe had taken more than a few steps inside. Both Pete and Andy looked up from where they'd been passing a joint back and forth in the corner, immediate grins spreading across their faces as they spotted him through the crowd.

"Dude," Andy said, pushing through the packed room toward them.

Pete was right behind him, navigating between crew members and industry friends. "Man, good to see you."

Andy grinned. "Perfect timing."

Joe nodded, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

Riley's head snapped up at the sound of Joe's voice, her eyes finding his across the room. The smile that broke across her face was instant and unguarded—pure joy at seeing him there.

She set her mirror aside without looking, lipstick tube forgotten in her lap as she unfolded herself from the couch. People were packed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space, but Riley moved through them like she had a map—ducking under someone's elbow, sliding between two industry guys deep in conversation, never taking her eyes off Joe.

"Excuse me," she said to someone, but she was already past him.

When she reached Joe, she didn't hesitate. Her arms went around his neck and she pressed up on her toes to kiss him, right there in front of everyone. It wasn't performative or showy—just Riley being Riley, unafraid to show exactly how she felt.

"You're here," she said against his mouth, like she couldn't quite believe it.

His arms came around her. "Yeah."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, not letting go. There was something about seeing him here, in her world, that made her chest feel tight with happiness.

"I missed you," she added quietly.

"I missed you too," Joe said, and leaned down to kiss her again, right there in front of everyone.

She turned to the three guys standing slightly behind Joe. "And you must be the friends."

Zac, Micah, and Trae exchanged quick glances, clearly taken aback. Joe had prepared them for Riley being focused, maybe distant, caught up in her pre-show routine. Instead, here she was, turning her full attention to them with genuine warmth.

"Zac," the first one said, stepping forward with a slight smile.

"Micah," said the second.

"Trae," said the third, and Riley could see the surprise in all their faces—not at meeting her, but at how completely present she was despite the chaos around them.

"I'm so glad you came," she said, and meant it. "Joe's been talking about you guys forever. I was starting to think you were made up."

Micah laughed. "Shit, we were starting to think you were made up too."

"Fair," Riley grinned. "Though I have to say, you guys are exactly what I pictured."

"Oh yeah?" Micah said. "What did you picture?"

"Definitely good," she said. "I promise what I had in mind is good - you're exactly like he described."

Trae was looking around, taking in the energy—people moving with purpose, the hum of conversation, the underlying buzz of anticipation. "This is incredible," he said. "You can feel it in the air."

"Right?" Riley said, lighting up at his understanding. "It's like everyone's plugged into the same current. I love it."

Zac was watching the interaction between her and Joe, how easily she moved between focusing on him and including them, how she made it look effortless despite the obvious demands on her attention.

"Joe said you'd probably be too busy to hang out," Micah said. "But you seem pretty..."

"Available?" Riley finished with a laugh. "I mean, I've got about thirty minutes before I need to start getting my head fully in the game, but until then..." She shrugged. "This is my favorite part anyway. The anticipation."

She looked back at Joe, squeezing his hand. "Plus, I wasn't about to miss meeting the people who've known this one since he was probably a pain in the ass teenager."

"Oh, he was definitely a pain in the ass," Micah said, grinning.

"Still is," Zac added, but his tone was fond.

Riley laughed, and Joe felt something settle in his chest. This was going exactly how he'd hoped—his worlds colliding without friction, Riley being completely herself, his friends seeing exactly what he'd been trying to explain about her.

She turned toward the room, still holding Joe's hand. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone properly."

She led them toward where Pete and Andy were still lounging in their corner, Daniel having migrated over with his drum pad now silent. Haley and Laura had moved closer too, curious about the new arrivals.

"Guys," Riley called out, "these are Joe's friends from home. Zac, Micah, and Trae."

"What's up," Pete said, nodding at them with genuine warmth. "Good to meet you."

Andy was already reaching into his pocket. "Hey, I just rolled one for you guys," he said, pulling out a fresh joint.

"Thanks, bro," Zac said, accepting it with a nod.

The joint made its way around the expanded circle—Zac to Micah to Trae, then to Joe, who took a casual hit before passing it to Riley. There was nothing forced about it, no one making a big deal. Just people sharing before a show.

"So what do you guys do back in Ohio?" Haley asked, settling cross-legged on the floor near them.

"I'm in investor relations," Zac said. "Corporate stuff."

"Tech," Trae said simply.

"Fashion design," Micah added.

"Nice," Daniel said, looking at Micah with interest. "You do your own line or work for someone?" Joe felt himself settling into the easy rhythm of the conversation. Riley's hand was still in his, her thumb tracing absent patterns on his palm as she listened to his friends talk. Pete was asking thoughtful questions, Andy was making jokes that actually landed, and Laura was nodding along like she'd known these guys for years.

This was how Riley's people operated—immediate acceptance, genuine curiosity, no pretense. They didn't care about credentials or connections. They cared about the person in front of them.

As Micah started explaining his work, Joe felt Riley's hand tighten slightly in his. She leaned closer, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

"Come with me for a second?"

She led him through the crowded room, weaving between people until she reached a door he hadn't noticed before. She pushed it open, revealing a small bathroom—barely big enough for two people, but private.

"Sorry," she said with a slight laugh, closing the door behind them. "This is literally the only quiet space in the building right now."

The sudden silence felt almost loud after the buzz of the green room. Riley leaned back against the door, looking at him in the dim light.

"Okay, now I can actually look at you," she said with a slight smile.

She reached for him, her hands sliding up his chest to rest at the base of his neck. "It's been three weeks."

"Yeah," he said, his hands finding her waist. "Too long."

"Way too long." She tilted her head up toward him. "I missed this."

Joe leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. "Me too."

"So…wanna make out for a bit in this horrible bathroom?" she asked, her mouth quirking up.

Joe laughed, caught off guard but not surprised. "Only you would ask it like that."

Then he took control, his hands finding her waist as he pressed her back against the door, kissing her like he'd been thinking about it all day.

They broke apart for a moment, both breathing hard in the small space. Riley's hands were still tangled in his hair, her back pressed against the door.

"Your friends are perfect, by the way," she said quietly. "I can see why you love them."

"They're already half in love with you," Joe said. "I could tell the second you introduced yourself."

Riley smiled. "Well, they're important to you, so they're important to me."

She kissed him again, and there was an urgency to it—three weeks of distance and the energy already building for the show making everything sharper. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer in the cramped space.

Joe's hands slid up to frame her face as they kissed like they both needed this more than air. When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, she stayed pressed up against him.

"Fuck," she breathed, her forehead against his. "I needed that."

She took a shaky breath, her hands smoothing down his chest. "But we gotta go out there so I can get my shit together. Can't fuck in this tiny bathroom..." She grinned. "Although I will say, if you haven't fucked in a horrible tiny bathroom, you haven't lived. Rain check?"

She turned toward the door, and Joe laughed, swatting her ass as she reached for the handle. "Get out of here."

When they slipped back into the green room, the energy had shifted. People were starting to move with more purpose—crew members heading downstairs, industry friends checking the time. The intimate hang-out vibe was giving way to something more focused.

"There they are," Pete said, looking up from where he was now checking his bass. "Riley, we should probably start warming up."

She nodded, already switching gears. Joe could see the performer starting to emerge—not dramatically, just a subtle sharpening of her focus.

"Guys," she said to Joe's friends, "Casey can take you side stage. If you stay off to the side by the curtain, it should be pretty private."

"Sounds good," Zac said.

Riley found a quieter corner of the room and closed her eyes, beginning to run scales—pure vocal exercises, no instruments, just her voice cutting cleanly through the space as she warmed up her range. The band sat nearby, letting her work, Pete occasionally nodding along to her rhythm.

Joe watched, fascinated, as she ran through different vocal patterns, her voice moving from low, resonant tones to higher, more powerful notes. This was purely technical—a professional preparing her instrument.

After about ten minutes, she opened her eyes, voice ready.

"Alright," Pete said, standing up. "Huddle time."

The four band members moved into a tight circle, arms around each other's shoulders. Joe could hear Pete's voice, low and steady, saying something about playing for the people who needed to hear these songs. Riley added something about honoring the music and each other. Andy made what sounded like a joke that got quiet laughs.

Then they broke apart, and Joe could see it—they were ready. Not just individually, but as a unit.

Riley walked over to Joe, rising up on her toes to kiss him. "See you after," she said quietly.

Casey appeared at the door. "Time to get everyone positioned," she said to Joe and his friends, as well as Haley, Laura, and the other non-band friends in the room.

Joe gave Riley's hand one last squeeze, then followed Casey out, leaving the band to have their final moments before taking the stage.

* * *

The last notes of "Sunshine Riptide" faded into the darkness of the Troubadour, and the crowd erupted. Riley stood at the mic, slightly out of breath, a genuine smile spreading across her face as she took in the energy radiating back at her from the packed venue.

"That was 'Sunshine Riptide,'" she said, her voice warm and conversational through the speakers. "And holy shit, it feels good to be back."

The crowd cheered, and Riley laughed, pushing her hair back from her face. "I'm not kidding—it's been almost two years since we've done this. Since we've all been together like this. And I missed you guys so fucking much."

Pete stepped closer to his mic. "We missed this too," he said, grinning. "Even if Riley made us practice that song about fifty times this week."

"Shut up," Riley shot back, but she was still smiling. "It needed to be perfect for you guys."

"It was perfect," Andy chimed in from stage left. "Now tell them about the pool house."

Riley laughed, and the sound echoed through the venue, intimate and real. "Okay, so. You guys know our contract with our old label ended last year, right? And we made a choice. We decided not to renew."

A few cheers from the crowd, and Riley nodded. "Yeah, we wanted creative control. We wanted to own our work. So we did a distribution deal with Republic instead. This record? It's completely ours."

She gestured toward Pete. "This one let us convert his pool house into a studio. We call it Sad Banger Labs—"

"Best investment I ever made," Pete interrupted, and the crowd laughed.

"Most of what you're about to hear was made right there in Pete's backyard," Riley continued. "Some of it at Electric Lady in New York, but mostly just... us. In this tiny converted pool house, staying up for days, figuring out how to say things we'd never been able to say before."

Daniel tapped his sticks together softly, a gentle rhythm that filled the brief pause.

"So tonight," Riley said, her voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate, "you're going to hear the whole album. Front to back. Salvage. And it's... it's a journey. These songs came from a version of me I don't live in anymore, but I remember her. The girl who stayed. Who kept justifying things that weren't justifiable."

The venue had gone completely quiet, hanging on every word.

"This isn't a revenge album," she said, her voice steady but vulnerable. "It's not about one person. It's about the version of myself who stayed too long, tried too hard, and thought that was what love was supposed to feel like."

Andy adjusted his guitar strap. "It's also about coming out the other side," he said quietly into his mic.

Riley nodded, grateful. "It is. But we're going to go through some dark places first. And I need you guys to trust me on this journey, okay? Because where we end up... it's worth it."

She looked out into the crowd, and from the side stage where Joe stood with his friends, he could see the way she connected with every person in that room, making each of them feel like she was speaking directly to them.

"We made this album because we needed it to exist," she said. "And now it's yours. So let's go through this together."

The crowd erupted again, and Riley stepped back from the mic, nodding to Pete as the opening bass line of "Big Man, Little Dignity" began to pulse through the venue.

The song hit different live—heavier, more pointed. Riley's voice carried a controlled venom as she sang about smooth operators and shit-stained suits, her eyes scanning the crowd with an intensity that made everyone feel like they were part of the takedown. When she got to the bridge, her voice soared on "I memorized all your lies," and Joe felt the hair on his arms stand up.

The song built to its final chorus, Riley's voice cutting through the mix like a blade, before ending with that haunting repetition of "little dignity." The crowd was silent for a beat, processing, before exploding into applause.

Riley wiped sweat from her forehead, grinning. "That felt good," she said into the mic, and the crowd laughed. "That was 'Big Man, Little Dignity,' and it's about exactly what you think it's about."

She adjusted her mic stand, her expression growing more serious. "It's about someone who could get away with anything, so that's exactly what they did."

Pete leaned into his mic. "Riley wrote that one in about twenty minutes."

"Because I was pissed," Riley said with a laugh. "Sometimes the truth just falls out of you that fast."

She looked out at the crowd, her voice becoming more conversational again. "The next song is called 'I'm Not Mad.' And the thing is..." she paused, grinning slightly, "I was absolutely fucking furious when I wrote it."

Andy chuckled into his mic. "The title's a lie."

"Complete lie," Riley agreed. "But sometimes you have to tell yourself you're not mad before you can admit how mad you actually are. This one's got some bite to it."

She stepped back from the mic as the drum-heavy opening of "I'm Not Mad" crashed through the venue.

The drums crashed in with a vengeance, and "I'm Not Mad" exploded through the Troubadour with all the fury Riley had promised. The song was relentless—drum-heavy and sharp-edged, Riley's voice dripping with sarcasm as she delivered lines about hoping someone's back aches and knees hurt. The crowd was completely absorbed, some singing along to the chorus they'd clearly memorized from the early release.

When Riley got to the bridge about hoping he dreams of her, her voice took on this haunting quality that made the entire venue go silent except for the music. The song built to its final crescendo, Riley's voice soaring over the drums, before crashing to a stop.

The crowd erupted, and Riley laughed, shaking her head. "Okay, I feel better now," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "That was 'I'm Not Mad,' which is the biggest lie I've ever told myself."

"We could tell," Pete said dryly, and the crowd laughed.

Riley grinned. "The next song is called 'You Asked for This.' And this one..." she paused, looking out at the crowd with a slightly mischievous expression. "This one's about being told your whole life that you're too much. Too loud. Too intense. And also being told to grow up, be a big girl, handle your shit—and finally just saying, 'Okay, you want loud? I'll give you loud.'"

She adjusted her mic stand, her voice becoming more passionate. "It's about owning the reputation people gave you instead of trying to shrink yourself to make them comfortable. But it's also about wanting everything—wanting your cake and wanting to ruin all your plans at the same time. Like, you asked for this version of me—well, here she is."

Andy stepped closer to his mic. "This one gets loud."

"Very loud," Daniel confirmed, spinning his sticks.

"It's 90s grunge vibes," Riley said, her energy picking up again. "Because sometimes you need to scream about wanting everything and refusing to apologize for taking up space."

She looked directly out into the crowd, and from side stage, Joe found himself holding his breath.

"This is for everyone who's ever been told to be grateful for a life that doesn't fit," Riley said, taking the guitar a tech handed her as Andy's guitar came in with a grinding, distorted riff that immediately transported the venue back to the 90s.

"You Asked for This" hit like a freight train—all raw energy and rebellion. Riley's voice was powerful and unapologetic as she sang about summer feet and Levi's jeans, about wanting everything and refusing to apologize for it. When she got to the chorus, the entire crowd seemed to move as one, caught up in the song's defiant energy.

The bridge was pure chaos in the best way—Riley's voice breaking slightly as she sang about wanting a fist around her throat, wanting to cry so hard she chokes, the vulnerability mixed with the anger creating something electric. The song built to its climactic ending, Riley practically screaming the final lines before the music cut out abruptly.

The silence lasted for exactly one beat before the crowd exploded into the loudest applause yet.

Riley caught her breath as the applause died down, handing her guitar off to a tech who appeared at her side. The energy in the room was electric, but she could sense the shift coming—the move from rebellion into something more vulnerable.

"Alright," she said, her voice softer now. "We're about to take a turn here. The next song is called 'I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)." She paused, and a few people in the crowd laughed knowingly."

Pete stepped closer to his mic. "This is where Riley gets honest about her savior complex."

"Thanks, Pete," Riley said dryly, but she was smiling. "Yeah, this one's about thinking you can be the exception. About seeing someone's red flags and thinking, "But not for me. I can change him."

She looked out at the crowd, her expression becoming more serious. "It's about the delusion that love can fix anything. That if you just try hard enough, care enough, you can save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

Andy adjusted his guitar. "The bridge is brutal."

"The bridge is where I realize maybe I can't," Riley agreed. "But we get there when we get there. This one starts sweet, like a ballad, because that's how these things always start."

The opening chords rang out, gentle and almost romantic, as Riley's voice came in soft and vulnerable, singing about teaching lessons and fixing dangerous men. But as Joe watched from side stage, he could hear the building tension in the music, the way it was setting up for something darker.

When the song reached its crushing realization in the final line—"Whoa, maybe I can't"—the vulnerability in Riley's voice was devastating. The crowd was completely silent as the music faded.

Riley stood quiet for a moment, letting the weight of that song settle. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more introspective.

"That was hard to write," she said simply. "The next one was harder. It's called 'Ego,' and it's about falling apart while trying to look like you have it all together."

She looked down at her hands on the mic stand. "This one's about imposter syndrome, about feeling like you're still just a kid playing dress-up in an adult's life. About success not feeling the way you thought it would."

Daniel tapped his sticks gently. "This one's got some bite to it too."

"Pop-punk vibes," Andy added. "Because sometimes you need to scream about feeling like a fake."

"Riley looked back up at the crowd. "It's about the voice in your head that tells you everyone's going to figure out you don't belong. That maybe you don't even like who you've become." Her voice grew stronger. "But it's also about admitting that, which is the first step to doing something about it."

A tech handed Riley her guitar as the drums kicked in hard and fast, and "Ego" burst through the venue with raw, unfiltered energy."

The drums kicked in hard and fast, and "Ego" burst through the venue with raw, unfiltered energy. Riley's voice was both vulnerable and powerful as she sang about killing her ego before it killed her, about acting like a baby while trying to be grown up. When she got to the bridge about wanting to go back to the beginning when it all felt right, her voice cracked slightly with genuine emotion.

The song built to its climactic ending, Riley practically screaming about not being happy being herself, before cutting out abruptly. The crowd erupted, but there was something different in their energy now—deeper, more emotional. They were really feeling this journey with her.

Riley took a deep breath as the applause faded, and Joe could see her gathering herself for what was coming next. The energy in the room had shifted—they were deep in the emotional core of the album now.

"The next song," she said, her voice quieter, more careful, "is called 'Lonely Is the Muse.' And this one..." She paused, tuning her guitar. "This one's about what it feels like to be reduced to just inspiration for someone else's life. To be useful until you're not."

Andy stepped closer to his mic. "This is the one that made us all cry in the studio."

"Multiple times," Daniel added quietly.

Riley nodded. "It's about realizing you've been building yourself into whatever shape someone else needed, and forgetting who you actually were underneath all that." Her voice gained strength. "But it's also about having your whole career, everything you've built, reduced to just... material for someone else's story. Like suddenly you're not Riley Carter who's been doing this for ten years—you're just inspiration. Just a muse."

She looked out at the crowd, her voice becoming fierce. "I've earned platinum records, I've built this career from nothing, and somehow I let myself become small enough to fit in someone else's narrative. This song is about remembering who the fuck I am."

The opening notes were haunting—nu-metal with a slow burn that built gradually. Riley's voice was both vulnerable and powerful as she sang about being built from special pieces she learned to unscrew, about always reassembling to fit perfectly for whoever decided she was useful. When she got to the chorus—"Lonely is the muse"—her voice carried years of exhaustion and recognition.

The song built to its devastating bridge about being a wind chime in someone's window, existing just to decorate their life, before ending with that repeated, haunting "lonely is the muse." The venue was completely silent when it ended.

Riley stood still for a moment, letting that weight settle. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"That was hard," she said simply. "The next one's harder. It's called 'People Disappear Here,' and it's about... disappearing. About trying to let someone else be you while you just... fade away."

She looked directly out into the crowd. "It's about hurting yourself to make sure you still exist. About needing someone to tell you how to feel because you've forgotten how."

Pete's bass came in low and ominous, and the song unfolded like a nightmare—slow, grunge-heavy, Riley's voice floating over the music like a ghost. When she sang about hurting herself to make sure she existed, about pinching herself to make sure she was real, the rawness in her voice was almost unbearable. The repetition of "people disappear here" became a mantra, a warning, a cry for help all at once.

The song faded into silence, and the crowd seemed afraid to breathe.

Riley wiped her eyes quickly, and Joe could see her hands shaking slightly. "The next song," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "is called '3-17.' I wrote this song four days before my birthday, almost two years ago."

She looked down at the stage floor for a moment, then back up at the crowd. "This one's just... the truth."

The guitar came in heavy and raw, and "3-17" hit like a punch to the gut. Riley's voice was stripped bare as she sang about feeling in debt for every night spent in his bed, about words she couldn't say right. When she got to the lines about sour grapes and the same bullshit laugh, her voice cracked with genuine pain.

The song ended with devastating simplicity, just Riley's voice and guitar, singing "I didn't plan for that." The silence that followed felt infinite.

From side stage, Joe watched the crowd, many with tears in their eyes, all of them completely absorbed in Riley's journey. His friends stood beside him, equally transfixed. This wasn't just a performance—it was an exorcism, played out in front of 500 people who were bearing witness to one woman's truth.

The silence after "3-17" stretched on, heavy and profound. Riley stood at the mic, visibly emotional, looking out at a crowd that seemed to be collectively holding its breath.

"Okay," she said finally, her voice softer than it had been all night. "Everyone doing alright out there?"

A few voices called back "yes" and "we're with you," and Riley smiled, wiping at her eyes again.

"I know that was heavy," she said. "Those three songs... that's the deep end. That's where you realize you've lost yourself completely." She looked around the crowd, making eye contact with different sections. "But here's the thing about hitting rock bottom—eventually, you get pissed off about it."

Pete stepped closer to his mic. "Here comes the fun part."

"Define fun," Andy said dryly, and the crowd laughed, some of the tension breaking.

Riley's expression shifted, something harder coming into her eyes. "We're about to get angry now," she said, and there was a warning in her voice that made the whole venue sit up straighter. "The next three songs are... they're rage. Pure, unfiltered rage. And I need you to stay with me through it, because this anger? It's what saved me."

She looked out at the crowd one more time. "The next song is called 'Easier Than Lying.' And it's about what happens when you finally stop lying to yourself about someone loving you." She grinned slightly, some of her usual playfulness returning. "Also, I wrote the bass line for this one, so Pete had to learn my bass line. Let the record show - that bass line is mine."

"She's very proud of that," Pete said into his mic, but he was smiling.

"I am proud of that," Riley shot back. "It's a fucking good bass line."

The opening chords hit like a freight train—guitar-heavy with an underlying scream that seemed to come from somewhere deep and primal. Riley's voice came in powerful and raw, singing about being made into a villain, about hanging herself with rope someone else provided. When she got to the chorus about losing all faith and hope, her voice carried years of betrayal and exhaustion.

But it was the bridge that really hit—"Losing you is easier than lying to myself that you love me"—repeated like a mantra, like something she had to keep telling herself until she believed it. Joe recognized these lyrics from that night in LA, but hearing them in context, surrounded by the full emotional journey, they hit completely differently.

The song ended with devastating finality, and without pause, Riley handed off her guitar and moved to the piano.

"'Mad Woman,'" she said simply, and the piano began—restrained but simmering with controlled fury.

This was different from anything they'd heard so far. Riley's voice was controlled, almost conversational, as she sang about scorpions and mad women. But there was something terrifying in that control, like she was holding back a hurricane. When she got to the chorus—"And there's nothing like a mad woman"—her voice was both beautiful and dangerous.

The song built slowly, Riley's anger becoming more apparent with each verse, until she was practically spitting the words about taking her time because someone took everything from her. The crowd was mesmerized, watching this masterclass in controlled rage.

As "Mad Woman" ended, Riley's energy shifted again, something wilder coming into her eyes.

Riley stood up from the piano, her energy shifting to something rawer. "Lilith," she said, and that single word seemed to charge the air in the venue.

She walked back to center stage, grabbing the mic. "This one's about becoming exactly what someone said you were. About leaning into being called destructive, corrupted, disgusting - and just saying 'fine, if that's what you think I am, I'll show you what that actually looks like.'" Her voice carried an edge. "It's about the version of yourself that emerges when you stop trying to be palatable."

She looked out at the crowd, something fierce in her expression. "Sometimes you have to embrace being the villain in someone else's story. This is me doing exactly that."

The opening was industrial, grinding, unlike anything else they'd played. Riley's voice came in almost seductive before turning sharp and cutting. This was Riley at her most dangerous, singing about being corrupted and destructive, about fucking like a demon and being disgusting. The raw sexuality and anger were intoxicating and terrifying.

When she got to the bridge—"The more that you give away, the more that you have"—her voice was both broken and defiant, and Joe could see people in the crowd with their mouths open, completely transfixed by this display of unbridled emotion.

The song ended with a crash, and the venue erupted. But this wasn't just applause—this was catharsis. The crowd had been through something with her, and they were all feeling it.

As the applause from "Lilith" finally died down, Riley caught her breath, the wildness in her eyes slowly fading back to something more controlled. The crowd was buzzing with energy, but she could feel the shift coming—they were about to move into different territory.

"The next song," she said, her voice still carrying some of that edge, "is called 'Just One Yesterday.' And this one..." She looked back at Daniel, who was smiling behind his kit. "This is Daniel's favorite song we've ever written."

Daniel tapped his sticks together. "It's true. This one's special."

"It's pop-punk with heavy drums," Riley said, her energy picking up again. "It's about wanting to corrupt the voice in your head that tells you to be good. You know, choking the angel on your shoulder that says 'don't do it, be the bigger person.'" Her voice got sharper. "But it's also about giving someone all your love just so you can watch their face when you take it all away."

She paused, something fierce but controlled in her expression. "Sometimes the most devastating thing you can do is show someone exactly what they're going to lose. And then walk away."

Andy stepped closer to his mic. "The drums on this one are insane."

"Thank you," Daniel said with mock modesty, and the crowd laughed.

The drums kicked in immediately—heavy, driving, exactly what Riley had promised. "Just One Yesterday" was pure energy, all pop-punk fury and Daniel's incredible drumwork. Riley's voice was powerful and defiant as she sang about angels and halos, about trading tomorrows for yesterdays. When she got to the bridge about spilling her guts so the world would never look at someone the same way, her voice was both threatening and heartbroken.

The song built to its explosive ending, Daniel's drums absolutely thundering through the venue, before cutting out suddenly. The crowd went wild, and Riley could see Daniel beaming behind his kit.

"Daniel wrote that drum part," she said into the mic, still catching her breath. "And now he gets to show off every time we play it."

"Worth it," Daniel called out, and the crowd laughed.

"Riley's expression grew more serious. "The next song is called 'LOML.' Love of my life." She paused, walking back to the piano. "This one's... this is about mourning someone who's still alive. About realizing that everything you thought was real was just an impressionist painting."

She looked back up at the crowd. "It's about being told you're the love of someone's life about a million times, and then finding out what that actually meant to them."

The piano began, delicate and beautiful, and "LOML" unfolded like a tragic ballad. Riley's voice was achingly beautiful as she sang about waltzing back into rekindled flames, about embroidering memories and being told she was legendary. But as the song progressed, the pain became more apparent—the realization that what felt eternal was actually momentary.

When she got to the bridge about dancing phantoms on the terrace, about being second-hand embarrassed that she couldn't get out of bed, her voice cracked with genuine emotion. The final lines—she changed the lyrics, singing "I thought you were the loss of my life" instead of the recorded version—were delivered with such devastating clarity that the silence afterward felt sacred.

Riley stat still for a moment, letting that pain hang in the air. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more vulnerable.

"The last song before we get to the end," she said, "is called 'The Lighthouse.' And this one's about survival. About realizing that maybe you never wanted saving—you just wanted to be found."

Riley stood up from the piano and walked back to center stage. "It's about swimming with the devil and meeting sailors who aren't saviors. It's about being glad you met the devil because he showed you exactly who you are."

The opening was heavy, metal-adjacent, darker than anything they'd played yet. "The Lighthouse" was haunting and powerful, Riley's voice carrying both vulnerability and strength as she sang about being cursed with rage, about lighthouses and deep ends. When she got to the lines about showing sailors her teeth and laughing out loud because she never wanted saving, her voice was fierce and triumphant.

The song built to its crushing ending with the repeated "waves come crashing down," Riley's voice soaring over the heavy instrumentation before everything cut to silence.

The crowd was on their feet, but there was something different in their energy now—they could feel they were approaching something significant. They were almost at the end of this journey.

The silence after "The Lighthouse" stretched on, and Riley stood at the mic, looking out at the crowd with an expression that was both exhausted and determined. She could feel the weight of what was coming next.

"Okay," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Two more songs, and I need you to stay with me for this next one." She paused, her hands gripping the mic stand. "It's called 'The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived,' and it's... it's a lot. But it's the end of that chapter, I swear."

She looked down at the stage for a moment, then back up at the crowd. "This one starts as a ballad, and then it gets heavy. Really heavy. Because sometimes you have to burn everything down before you can build something new."

Pete stepped closer to his mic. "This is Riley's reckoning."

"This is me saying everything I never got to say," Riley said, her voice gaining strength. "Every question I never got to ask. Every piece of bullshit I had to swallow." Her eyes were fierce now. "This one's not pretty. This one's not…nice. This one's the truth, unfiltered."

Andy adjusted his guitar, and the venue could feel the tension building.

"I'm going to ask you to witness something," Riley said to the crowd. "And then we're going to walk into the light together. But first, we burn it all the fuck down."

The opening piano notes rang out, delicate and deceptively gentle, as Riley's voice came in soft and questioning, asking if any of it was true. But Joe could feel the building storm in the music, the way it was setting up for something explosive.

As the song progressed, Riley's voice grew more powerful, more accusatory. The questions became sharper, the observations more cutting. And then, when the song reached its turning point, the music exploded into something heavy and overwhelming, Riley kicking the mic stand down as her voice soared over the chaos, delivering line after devastating line.

The crowd was completely transfixed, watching this final exorcism play out in front of them. When the song finally ended with that crushing final line, the silence was absolute.

Riley stood, breathing hard, visibly shaken by what she'd just unleashed. But when she looked up at the crowd, there was something different in her eyes—relief, maybe. Or freedom.

The crowd went absolutely fucking crazy. The applause was deafening, people screaming and cheering, some crying, all of them having just witnessed something cathartic and brutal and necessary. Riley was still breathing hard, tears streaming down her face, but she was smiling through them.

"I told you it was heavy!" she called out over the noise, and the crowd cheered even louder.

She wiped her eyes, then walked over to the piano, settling onto the bench. The crowd gradually quieted, sensing this shift, this final moment.

"When I started writing this album," she said, her voice softer now, more intimate through the mic, "I was in a really dark place and I didn't give a fuck about hope or healing or any of that shit." She played a few soft chords. "But then, two years later, I wrote this next song. And at first, I wasn't gonna do anything with it."

She looked over at Pete, who was smiling at her. "I played it for this one, and he was like, 'Put it on the album,' and I was like, 'Absolutely not.'"

"She fought me hard on this," Pete said into his mic.

"But then," Riley continued, "I listened to the whole album front to back, and I was like... Jesus Christ, people are gonna want to jump off a bridge after this." The crowd laughed, some of them wiping their own tears. "So I put it at the end. Because sometimes you need to know there's light after all that darkness."

She positioned her hands over the keys. "This is 'Daylight.' And it's about letting go of all that hurt and stepping into the light with someone else. About what it feels like when love doesn't hurt anymore." She looked out at the crowd. "After everything we've been through together tonight... you've earned this."

The opening piano chords were gentle, hopeful, completely different from anything that had come before. And when Riley's voice came in, singing about not wanting to look at anything else now that she saw daylight, it felt like the sun rising after the longest night.

The song built beautifully, Riley's voice soaring as she sang about sleeping in a twenty-year dark night and finally seeing daylight. When she got to the spoken-word ending about being defined by the things you love, not the things you hate, her voice was soft but certain. The final piano notes hung in the air like a promise.

The crowd was on their feet before the last note faded, the applause thunderous and sustained. Riley stood from the piano bench, tears in her eyes but smiling, and walked back to join Pete, Andy, and Daniel at center stage. They took their bows together, the four of them who had created this journey and guided 500 people through it.

"Thank you," Riley said into the mic, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much."

She blew a kiss to the crowd, then walked off stage with her band, disappearing into the wings where Joe was waiting.

The moment she was out of sight of the audience, she walked straight into his arms.

* * *

The moment she was out of sight of the audience, she walked straight into his arms.

Joe caught her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she pressed her face into his neck. She was shaking slightly—adrenaline, emotion, exhaustion all hitting her at once after two hours of laying herself bare on stage. His own eyes were wet—hearing her sing the song she'd written about him, about them, in front of all those people had broken something open in his chest.

"Hey," he said quietly, one hand moving to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. "You did it baby. That was fucking incredible."

Riley pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes bright with tears but also something like relief. "Really? It didn't feel like too much?"

Joe cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. "Riley. That was..." He paused, searching for words that felt adequate. "I knew these songs, but hearing you perform them, seeing you up there... that was something else entirely."

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment. "I was so nervous about you seeing me like that up there."

"Like what?"

"All of it. The rage, the pain, everything." She opened her eyes to meet his. "Performing it is different than just listening."

Joe studied her face, this woman who had just commanded a room of 500 people through an emotional journey that had left everyone—including him—completely transformed.

"I saw you," he said simply. "All of you. And it was everything."

Riley's breath caught slightly. Around them, people were moving—crew members, her friends, his friends—but everyone was giving them space, understanding that this moment was theirs.

"Our song," Joe said, his voice dropping lower. "Hearing it live, knowing..."

"Knowing it's about you," Riley finished softly.

"Yeah." His hands were still on her face, and he leaned down to kiss her—soft but certain, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness of relief. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "I've never had anyone write a song about hope because of me."

Riley smiled, the first real smile since she'd walked off stage. "Well, now you do."

"I'm proud of you," he said finally. "For all of it. For making this album, for tonight, for letting people see your truth."

Riley's eyes filled with fresh tears, but these were different—softer, warmer. "Thank you for being here. For bringing your friends. For making this feel safe."

Joe kissed her again, longer this time, his hands sliding into her hair. When they broke apart, both breathing a little harder, he smiled. "Come on. Let's get you some water before everyone wants to celebrate with you guys."

As Joe and Riley finally broke apart, still holding each other close, Micah was the first to approach. Zac and Trae hung back a few feet, still looking somewhat stunned.

"Riley," Micah said, his voice carrying genuine awe. "That was fucking incredible. I mean, we knew you could sing, but that was something else entirely."

Riley turned in Joe's arms to face him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Thanks. That was... a lot. Even for me."

"The whole room was with you," Micah continued. "When you got to that last song, I looked around and half the crowd was crying."

Riley let out a shaky laugh. "I was crying too."

"Zac stepped forward then, his expression thoughtful. "That song at the end," he said quietly. "That was about our boy, huh?"

"Yeah," Riley said simply, not embarrassed or defensive. Just honest.

Joe's arm tightened around her waist, and Zac could see something in his expression—a kind of quiet pride mixed with something deeper.

"We should probably let other people congratulate you," Zac said, noticing the growing crowd of people waiting to talk to her—Pete, Andy, Daniel, along with various industry friends and crew members. "But seriously, thank you for letting us be here for that."

Riley smiled, the exhaustion starting to show around her eyes but genuine warmth still there. "Thank you for coming. It means everything to me that Joe's people got to see this."

Trae, who had been quiet this whole time, just watching, finally stepped forward. "Anyone Joe brings us to meet," he said simply, "is family."

Riley's eyes brightened at that, and Joe felt something settle in his chest at the easy acceptance in his friend's voice.

As people began to approach—Pete already making his way over with a huge grin, industry friends hovering nearby—Trae caught Joe's eye and nodded toward a quieter corner of the backstage area. Joe understood immediately.

Riley's eyes brightened at that, and Joe felt something settle in his chest at the easy acceptance in his friend's voice.

As people began to approach—Pete already making his way over with a huge grin, industry friends hovering nearby—Trae caught Joe's eye and nodded toward a quieter corner of the backstage area. Joe understood immediately.

"Go," Riley said softly, noticing the exchange. "I'll be right here getting my ego stroked by everyone."

Joe kissed her temple. "Five minutes."

Trae led him a few steps away from the growing crowd around Riley, far enough that they could talk without being overheard.

"Man," Trae said quietly, shaking his head. "I thought I understood what you were talking about on the plane. But seeing that..." He paused, watching as Riley hugged Pete, who was clearly emotional about their first show back. "Now I get it."

"Get what?" Joe asked, though he seemed to already know.

"Why you've been different. Why this matters so much to you." Trae looked directly at him. "She's not just talented, Joe. She's... I don't know how to say it without sounding like a hallmark card, but she's real. Like, all the way real."

Joe nodded, his eyes drifting back to Riley, who was now talking animatedly with Andy and Daniel, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the excitement of pulling off their first show in two years.

"And that last song," Trae continued. "The way she looked at you when she was singing it..." He let out a low whistle. "Dude. She's in love with you. Like, really in love with you."

"I know," Joe said quietly.

"And you?"

Joe was quiet for a moment, watching Riley laugh at something Daniel said, her whole face lighting up. "Yeah. I'm there too."

Trae studied his friend's profile. "Good. Because after what I just saw, if you fuck this up, I might have to kick your ass."

Joe cracked a smile. "Noted."

Meanwhile, Riley was surrounded by her band and friends, everyone talking at once about the performance. Pete had his arm around her shoulders, Andy was gesticulating wildly as he recounted the crowd's reaction during "Lilith," and Daniel was just grinning from ear to ear.

"I can't believe we pulled that off," Riley said, her voice still hoarse from two hours of singing. "First show back and we do the entire album? What were we thinking?"

"We were thinking it was time," Pete said simply. "And look at that crowd—they needed it. We all needed it."

Lola and Harlow pushed through the small crowd, both of them with tears in their eyes.

"Riley fucking Carter," Lola said, grabbing her in a fierce hug. "I've seen you perform hundreds of times, and that was something else."

"The 'Daylight' moment," Harlow added, fanning her face. "I'm not okay. None of us are okay."

Joe walked back over just as a woman with silver hair and kind eyes approached Riley, pulling her into a warm hug. "Riley, honey," she said, "that was absolutely incredible. I've been in this business for thirty years and that was something special."

"Thanks, Sarah," Riley said, and Joe could hear the genuine affection in her voice. "This is Joe."

Joe shook hands with the woman, who smiled warmly. "Nice to meet you. I work with Republic on the distribution side—been following Riley's career for years. You must be so proud."

"I am," Joe said simply.

A man in his forties with kind eyes and a vintage band t-shirt joined them. "Riley! David from the label. That was everything we hoped for and more. 'Sunshine Riptide' is going to explode after people hear it in that context."

"Think so?" Riley asked, some of her performer energy returning.

"Absolutely. The way you set up the whole journey tonight, then hearing the single as part of that story..." David shook his head. "It's going to hit different when it comes out next week."

More friendly faces appeared—other musicians, a few photographers who'd been invited as friends, people from her management team. All genuine support, not business pitches. But Joe could see Riley's smile getting a little tighter with each conversation, the adrenaline starting to wear off.

Andy leaned in. “She’s running on fumes. We should probably get everyone moving soon.”

Joe glanced over at Riley, who was still smiling and nodding as someone from the label talked about radio play projections, but he could see the exhaustion creeping in around her eyes. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind the emotional weight of what she'd just put herself through on stage.

"Yeah," Joe agreed quietly. "Good call."

Andy nodded toward Riley, then looked back at Joe and his friends. "Pete's got cars waiting out back - we're all heading to his place to decompress. But listen..." He paused, glancing around to make sure Riley couldn't hear. "She's gonna crash hard in about twenty minutes. All that emotional shit she just put herself through up there? It catches up."

Joe understood immediately. "What do I need to do?"

"Nothing dramatic," Andy said with a slight grin. "Just thinking maybe you lovebirds take one car, and we'll take the other one with your boys here." He looked at Zac, Micah, and Trae. "That cool with you guys? Give Riley some space to come down from all this?"

Trae caught on first. "Absolutely. We can ride with you guys."

"Perfect," Andy said. Then he raised his voice slightly, addressing the group. "Alright, people! Cars are here. Time to move this party to Pete's."

Riley looked over from the conversation she was having, relief flickering across her face. "Thank god. I love everyone, but I need to sit down somewhere that isn't moving."

As people started gathering their things and saying final goodbyes to industry friends who weren't coming to Pete's, Andy smoothly maneuvered the logistics.

"Joe, Riley - you're in the first car," he said casually. "Rest of us will follow in the second one."

Riley shot him a grateful look that Joe didn't miss. Andy just winked at her.

"Subtle," Pete murmured to Andy as they watched Joe slip his arm around Riley's waist, guiding her toward the exit.

"I'm amazing and deeply intuitive," Andy replied with a grin.

* * *

The black SUV pulled away from the Troubadour's back alley, the sounds of the city muffled through tinted windows. Riley sank into the leather seat beside Joe, finally allowing her shoulders to drop for the first time in hours.

"God," she breathed, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the headrest. "I forgot how exhausting that is."

Joe watched her carefully, noting the slight tremor in her hands as she pushed her hair back from her face. The adrenaline was leaving her system, and he could see the crash beginning.

"Come here," he said quietly, lifting his arm.

Riley didn't hesitate, sliding across the seat to curl into his side. She tucked her legs up and pressed her face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.

"Better?" he asked, his arm tightening around her.

“Mmm.” Her voice was small. “Just let me stay like this for a second.”

They rode in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Riley's breathing gradually evening out as the tension left her body. Joe's hand moved in slow circles on her back, grounding her.

“I’m glad you brought your friends,” she murmured, still tucked into his side.

“Me too,” Joe said, his hand steady on her back.

"I kept seeing Zac during 'Lilith' and thinking, 'Oh god, Joe's friend is watching me sing about fuckin' like a demon.'" She laughed softly, but there was anxiety underneath it. "Very normal first impression."

“They weren’t judging you. They were… pretty blown away, honestly.”

Riley pulled back just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Besides, these guys have been in locker rooms before. They've heard worse."

She studied his face in the dim light from the passing streetlights. "I like them. Your friends. They feel like... like they really know you, you know? Not the public version."

"They do." His hand found hers, fingers interlacing. "Trae said you were real. All the way real."

Riley's expression softened at that.

She was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing absent patterns on his palm. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller.

"You have to leave tomorrow."

"Yeah." The word came out heavier than he intended.

"And I really want to hang out with them tonight. Get to know them properly, not just the quick backstage thing." She paused, biting her lip. "But I also really want to just... be with you. Just us. And I'm running on fumes a bit."

Joe felt something twist in his chest at the vulnerability in her voice. This was the thing they never had enough time to figure out—how to want everything when there wasn't space for everything.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

Riley closed her eyes, considering. "I don't know. Both things? Neither thing?" She laughed shakily. "God, I'm a mess right now."

"You're not a mess. You just poured your heart out in front of 500 people for two hours. You're allowed to not know what you need."

The car slowed as they approached Pete's neighborhood, and Riley felt a flutter of anxiety. In a few minutes, they'd be back in a group, back to sharing him with other people when all she really wanted was to curl up somewhere quiet and just exist in his space.

"Maybe we can do both," Joe said quietly. "Hang out for a while, then find some time for just us."

Riley looked up at him, something grateful and tired in her eyes. "You sure? I don't want your friends to think I'm monopolizing you."

“They know I want alone time with you. Trust me, they’ll survive—and they seem pretty happy with your crew anyway.”

"Okay," she said softly. "Both things."

“I’ll tell them we’re ducking out early,” Joe said. “You don’t have to deal with it.”

Riley let out a slow breath. "Thank you, lovey. For taking care of me."

Joe squeezed Riley's hand once before reaching for the door handle. "Give me a sec," he said quietly.

Riley nodded, staying in the backseat as Joe stepped out. She used the moment to take a deep breath, pulling her small compact from her purse and checking her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup had held up well enough, though her eyes still carried that post-performance exhaustion. She could do this—a couple hours with everyone, then they could slip away.

Outside, Joe walked around to the driver's side window, which rolled down at his approach.

"Hey," Joe said, leaning down slightly. "We're gonna need you to stick around tonight. Probably a couple hours, but I'm not sure exactly when we'll be ready to go. After you drop us off at her place, you'll need to come back and take my friends to their hotel when they're ready - I'll give you the hotel info."

The driver nodded. "No problem. You want me to wait here or find somewhere nearby?"

"Here's fine, if that works for you." Joe pulled out his wallet, handing the man some cash. "For the wait time. I'll text when we need to head out."

"Sounds good, Mr. Burrow."

Joe straightened up, glancing back at the house where he could see shadows moving past the windows. Andy's laugh carried clearly through the night air, followed by what sounded like Micah's voice. His friends were already settling in.

He walked back to Riley's door and opened it, offering his hand. She took it, stepping out onto the gravel driveway. The night air was warm but carried a slight breeze that felt good after the enclosed space of the car.

"Better?" he asked, studying her face.

Riley straightened her shoulders, some of her usual confidence returning. "Yeah. Let's go see what kind of trouble your friends are getting into with mine."

* * *

Pete's house was alive with the kind of energy that only came after a show like tonight. The living room flowed into the kitchen and spilled out onto the back patio, every space filled with people Riley genuinely cared about—musicians she'd collaborated with, photographers who'd documented the band's journey, a few writers who understood what tonight had meant. Someone had queued up a playlist that was perfectly curated for the moment: nostalgic but not melancholy, celebratory without being too intense.

Riley moved through the crowd with a drink in her hand, accepting hugs and congratulations. She was genuinely happy to be here, feeding off the collective joy of people who understood what it took to put yourself out there the way she had tonight.

"That performance of 'The Smallest Man,'" said Maya, a singer-songwriter Riley had toured with years ago. "I got chills. Literal chills."

"Thanks," Riley said, meaning it. "It felt good to finally sing it the way it was supposed to be sung."

Joe stood nearby, nursing a beer and watching Riley light up as she talked to people who spoke her language. His friends had integrated seamlessly—Micah was deep in conversation with Daniel about drum techniques, while Zac and Trae were listening to Andy tell some story that had them all laughing.

"She's in her element," Trae said, appearing at Joe's side.

"Yeah, she is." Joe smiled, watching as Riley threw her head back laughing at something Pete said. "She needs this."

"But?" Trae prompted, reading his friend's expression.

Joe glanced around the room, noting how Riley's energy was bright but brittle around the edges. "She's been going nonstop for weeks. Tonight took everything out of her."

An hour in, Joe watched as Riley settled onto one of Pete's oversized couches, pulled into a conversation with three other musicians about the industry's changes over the past few years. She was engaged, animated, but he could see the way she kept shifting position, the slight tightness around her eyes that meant exhaustion was creeping in.

Andy passed by with a joint, offering it to Joe, who took a a few hits before passing it along. The weed added to the mellow atmosphere, conversations flowing easier, laughter coming more frequently.

"Joe!" Pete called out from across the room. "Come settle an argument. Who's the better quarterback—you or Tom Brady?"

"Brady," Joe said without hesitation, and the room erupted in protests.

"Bullshit," called out Marcus, a guitarist Riley had worked with. "Brady never had to rebuild a franchise from scratch."

Joe found himself pulled into a surprisingly nuanced conversation about football and pressure, his friends chiming in with stories from college that had everyone laughing. For a moment, he was just a guy at a party, not thinking about schedules or logistics.

But his eyes kept drifting back to Riley, who was now curled into the corner of the couch, still talking but with her legs tucked under her in that way that meant she was getting tired.

After another thirty minutes, Joe made his move. He caught Zac's eye across the room and nodded toward the kitchen. Micah and Trae followed naturally, the three of them stepping away from the main party.

"What's up?" Zac asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"I want to spend time with my girl," Joe said simply. "Tonight was huge for her, and we leave tomorrow. I want to take her home."

"Makes sense," Micah said immediately. "You should."

"Driver's gonna take us to her place, then come back for you guys. Hotel's all set—Sarah sent you the room details earlier. Everything's handled." Joe paused. "I'll meet you at the plane tomorrow."

Trae grinned. "Bathroom break at the venue, early exit from the party... I see a pattern here."

"Shut up," Joe said, but he was smiling.

"Seriously though," Zac said, "good call. She looked incredible tonight, but you can see she's exhausted."

"Plus," Micah added, "we like her people. We'll be fine here."

Joe nodded his thanks, then made his way over to where Pete, Andy, and Daniel were standing near the kitchen island, sharing what looked like a particularly strong joint.

"Hey," he said, joining their circle. "Can I talk to you guys for a sec?"

The three of them immediately gave him their attention, and Joe could see the protective instinct kick in—they were ready to handle whatever he needed to say about Riley.

"I'm gonna take Riley home," he said directly. "She's crashing, and I want some time with her before I have to leave tomorrow."

"Thank fuck," Andy said immediately. "I was wondering how long she was gonna try to power through."

"She's too polite to be the first one to leave," Pete added. "Especially when it's a party for her."

"But she needs to," Daniel said. "You can see it in her shoulders."

Joe felt something loosen in his chest at their immediate understanding. "Yeah. I figured I'd handle it so she doesn't have to be the one asking."

"Good man," Pete said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Trust me, she's ready for some quiet time with you."

"Driver's coming back for my friends," Joe added. "They're good to stay as long as you guys are up for it."

"Perfect," Andy said. "We'll take care of them."

Joe glanced back at Riley, who was now leaning heavily into the arm of the couch, her conversation with the other musicians still going but her participation becoming more listener than contributor.

"I'll go get her," he said.

"Joe," Pete called as he started to walk away. Joe turned back.

"Thanks for looking out for her," Pete said simply.

Joe nodded once, then made his way over to Riley. She looked up as he approached, a tired but genuine smile crossing her face.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey yourself." He settled onto the arm of the couch beside her. "You ready to get out of here?"

Relief flickered across her features so quickly he almost missed it. "Yeah, take me home, baby," she said quietly.

* * *

Riley's house felt like a sanctuary after the controlled chaos of the night. She kicked off her shoes at the front door and immediately reached for the light dimmer, bringing the harsh overhead lighting down to something softer, more intimate.

"Can we just get in bed?" she asked quietly, turning to face him. "I need to get this makeup off and I just want to be horizontal with you."

Joe smiled, understanding completely. "Yeah. Of course."

She led him toward her bedroom, already starting to work at the straps of her top. "I need like five minutes to wash my face."

"Take your time," he said. "I'll get changed."

"Joe could hear her moving around in the bathroom—the sound of water running, cabinet doors opening and closing. He found his clothes where she'd said they'd be, in the closet where he'd left them last time. Because this was how they'd been doing this—keeping pieces of each other's lives in both places, making the distance more manageable one t-shirt at a time.

When Riley emerged from the bathroom in an oversized t-shirt that hit her mid-thigh, her face scrubbed clean and hair loose around her shoulders, Joe slipped past her to brush his teeth. The familiar domesticity of it—sharing the small space, moving around each other—felt right in a way that still surprised him."

When Joe emerged from the bathroom in just his underwear and slipped into bed, Riley immediately moved to curl against him, her head on his chest, one leg thrown over his. This was what they'd both wanted all night—just this simple contact, no audience, no performance required.

His hand found her leg, fingers tracing slow lines along her thigh. Nothing urgent, just touch. Riley's breathing evened out, and she pressed closer, her palm flat against his chest.

He kept it simple—thumb brushing her hip bone, hand sliding up to her waist. When she tilted her head back to look at him, something shifted between them. The want that had been simmering all night, finally with space to breathe.

Riley moved first, leaning up to kiss him. Soft, then deeper when his hand slipped under her shirt. She made a quiet sound, and Joe felt her arch into his touch.

He rolled her back gently, taking his time. Her shirt rode up, and his mouth followed the path his hands had mapped. Riley's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

This wasn't for anyone else. Just them, finally able to take what they'd been wanting. Joe paid attention to every response, every shift, letting her body guide him.

When Riley whispered his name, breathless and needy, he knew he was exactly where she needed him to be.

His hands moved to the hem of her shirt, and she lifted her arms to help him pull it over her head. The sight of her beneath him, hair spread across her pillow, made his breath catch. She reached for him, her hands running over his bare chest, exploring the muscles she'd been wanting to touch all night.

Skin against skin, they moved together with the familiarity of lovers who knew each other's bodies. Joe's mouth found her neck, her collarbone, working his way down while his hands explored. Riley's back arched off the bed when he took her breast in his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Joe," she breathed, and the way she said his name—soft and desperate—made him lift his head to look at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with want. She pulled him back up to kiss her, deep and hungry now, any trace of exhaustion burned away by need.

Joe's hand slipped between her thighs, finding her already wet for him. Riley gasped against his mouth, her hips rolling into his touch. He worked her slowly, watching her face, learning what made her breath hitch and her eyes flutter closed.

"Please, please, please," she whispered, and Joe didn't need more than that.

He shed the rest of his clothes quickly, then helped her out of her underwear. When he settled between her thighs, Riley wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer.

Joe entered her slowly, both of them breathing hard at the sensation. Riley's head fell back against the pillow, a soft moan escaping her lips. He gave her a moment to adjust, then began to move, setting a rhythm that was unhurried but deep.

They found their pace together, bodies moving in sync, hands roaming, mouths finding each other between breathless gasps. Joe buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, feeling her pulse against his lips.

Riley's nails raked down his back as he hit that spot inside her that made her gasp his name. She was close, he could feel it in the way her body tightened around him, in the way her breathing changed.

"That's it," he murmured against her ear, and Riley shattered beneath him, her body arching as she came. The sight and feel of her pushed Joe over the edge, and he followed with a low groan, burying himself deep inside her.

They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. Finally, Joe rolled to the side, pulling Riley with him so she was curled against his chest.

"Fuck," Riley breathed, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Mmm," she murmured against his skin. "Thank you, baby. For knowing what I needed."

Joe pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Always."

* * *

The next morning came too early. Joe woke to the sound of his alarm, Riley still curled against him, her breathing deep and even. He allowed himself a few minutes to memorize the moment—her hair spread across his chest, the way she fit perfectly against him—before carefully extracting himself from the bed.

Riley stirred as he moved around the room, gathering his things. "You leaving?" she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

"Flight's in two hours," he said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Go back to sleep."

She reached for him, pulling him down for a sleepy kiss. "Text me when you land."

"I will."

* * *

An hour later, Joe was in the back of the same SUV that had brought them from the venue, watching LA disappear behind them as he headed to the airport.

Joe settled into his seat on the private jet, already missing the warmth of Riley's bed. The flight back to Cincinnati would give him a few hours to decompress before training camp officially began tomorrow. His friends were spread across the cabin, Trae already asleep against the window, while Zac and Micah scrolled through their phones.

The plane had been in the air for less than an hour when Joe's phone rang. Mark's name on the screen.

"Yeah," Joe answered, keeping his voice low.

"We need to talk," Mark said without preamble. "There are rumors circulating that you were at some concert in LA last night. Riley Carter's show."

Joe glanced around the cabin, making sure his friends weren't listening. "Okay."

"Okay?" Mark's voice pitched higher. "Joe, training camp starts tomorrow. Everyone expects your full focus. The last thing we need is speculation about—"

"About what?" Joe interrupted, his tone remaining calm. "About me supporting my girlfriend?"

"About distractions," Mark said firmly. "You know how this works. Every move you make gets scrutinized, especially during the season. If people start connecting dots—"

"Let them connect dots," Joe said quietly. "I'm not doing anything wrong."

There was a pause on the other end. "This isn't like you."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing."

Bill's voice came through—they were on speaker now. "Joe, we're just asking you to be smart about this. Training camp is crucial. You can't afford to have your head somewhere else."

"My head's exactly where it needs to be," Joe replied. "I'm ready for camp."

"But—"

"I'm good," Joe said with finality. "We'll talk when I'm back."

He ended the call and set his phone aside, staring out the window at the clouds below.

"Everything alright?" Zac asked from across the aisle.

Joe looked over at his friends, who were all watching him now. Even Trae had opened his eyes.

"Management's worried about rumors," Joe said simply.

"About Riley?" Micah asked.

"Yeah."

Trae straightened in his seat. "What kind of rumors?"

"That I was at her show. Which I was." Joe shrugged. "They're concerned about distractions."

Zac snorted. "Distractions? Did they see what we saw last night? If anything, she makes you better."

"That's not how they see it," Joe said.

"How do you see it?" Trae asked quietly.

Joe was quiet for a moment, thinking about Riley falling asleep in his arms, about the way she'd looked at him when he told her he was proud of her, about how right it felt to have his worlds collide.

"I see the person I want to be with," he said simply.

Micah nodded approvingly. "Good. Because that woman is fucking incredible."

"And she's good for you," Zac added. "Like, really good for you. You were different last night. More... I don't know. Present."

"She makes you laugh," Trae said with a grin. "Makes you look relaxed. Like you're not carrying the weight of the world."

Joe felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "Yeah, she does."

"Then fuck what anyone else thinks," Micah said. "You're Joe fucking Burrow. You can date whoever you want."

"It's not that simple," Joe said.

"Why not?" Zac asked. "You're not doing anything wrong. You're not getting arrested, you're not causing drama. You're dating someone who clearly cares about you and supports what you do."

"And who's talented as hell in her own right," Trae added. "It's not like she needs you for anything. She's got her own thing going."

Joe nodded, appreciating their perspective. "Mark and Bill see it differently."

"Those mother fuckers see dollar signs and PR nightmares," Micah said. "They don't see the person who makes you happy."

"Are you happy?" Zac asked directly.

Joe thought about the question. Was he happy? Six months ago, he would have said he was content. Focused. On track. But happy?

"Yeah," he said, surprising himself with how certain he sounded. "I am."

"Then that's all that matters," Trae said. "Everything else is just noise."

Joe leaned back in his seat, his phone buzzing with a text from Riley.

Riley: miss you already. good luck at camp tomorrow. go be great ❤️

He smiled—that real smile his friends had just mentioned—and typed back.

Joe: miss you too. thanks for last night. all of it

Riley: thank YOU. for everything

Joe set his phone down and looked around at his friends, who were all pretending not to watch him text.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Zac said innocently. "Just nice to see you like this. Remember that feeling."

Joe shook his head, but he was still smiling. "Get some sleep. We land in two hours."

As his friends settled back into their seats, Joe stared out the window again. Training camp would be intense, the media scrutiny real, the pressure enormous. But for the first time in his career, he had something—someone—that felt more important than managing everyone else's expectations.

* * *

Social Media Rumors

DeuxMoi Instagram Story

💌 Spotted — Bengals QB at a certain West Hollywood venue this weekend…could it be Joe B at the Troubadour? Multiple submissions say he was seen at a Riley Carter show, but so far, no pics. If you were there, slide into the DMs! 👀 #whoswatchingwho #rileycarter #joeburrow

Twitter/X

@NFLRumors Was Joe Burrow spotted at a concert in LA last night? Multiple unverified reports saying he was at the Troubadour. Training camp starts tomorrow 👀 #WhoDey

@CincyFootballFan Replying to @NFLRumors If true, hope he's focused on football and not distractions

@BengalsBabe22 Replying to @NFLRumors Let the man live damn. It's the off-season

@RileyCarterNews Riley Carter performed her full album at Troubadour last night and it was INCREDIBLE. Also hearing rumors about a certain NFL QB being there 👀

@SportsGossip BLIND ITEM: Which NFL quarterback was spotted at his rumored girlfriend's concert last night instead of preparing for training camp? 🏈🎤

TikTok

@troubadourfan23 Video of crowd at Troubadour "okay so I was at Riley Carter's show last night and there were definitely some non-music industry looking guys side stage... like very professional looking? idk but the energy was different"

@bengalsgirl_ Text overlay: "Joe Burrow supposedly at a concert in LA????" "Y'all I'm seeing rumors everywhere but like... training camp is TOMORROW. This better not be true or I'm gonna be pressed"

@musicinsider_ "Riley Carter's show was INSANE last night. She performed the whole album and there were definitely some VIP guests. Won't say who but 👀👀👀"

Reddit

r/nfl Joe Burrow spotted at concert in LA night before training camp?

Top comment: Source? I've been seeing this on Twitter but no actual proof

Reply: DeuxMoi posted about it. Take that for what it's worth

Reply: "If this is true and he's not focused on camp I'm gonna lose it 

Reply: Come on, if he actually cared he’d make it public. No way he’s sneaking around for six months and not getting caught once. Probably just PR or wishful thinking.

r/RileyCarter Did anyone else notice the VIP guests at the Troubadour show?

Top comment: There were definitely some people side stage who weren't industry. Security was tight around that area

Reply: Omg do you think it was actually him?? That would be SO random

Reply: Not that random if they're dating lol. The timeline matches up with when the rumors started

r/bengals Burrow supposedly at concert instead of preparing for camp

Top comment: It's literally two days before. Y'all act like he needs to be in a sensory deprivation tank preparing

Reply: This is why we can't have nice things. Focus on football Joe

Reply: Let him date whoever he wants damn

Reply: Not buying it. Joe’s whole brand is low drama and Riley Carter’s been all over the place lately. Seems like Deuxmoi just recycles the same names every few months.

r/JoeBurrowGossip So Deuxmoi posted a tip that Joe Burrow was at Riley Carter’s concert at the Troubadour. No photos but multiple submissions. Anyone have any tea? Seems wild for him to be out here days before camp.

Top comment: This man has ninja-level stealth, but honestly? If true, it’s kind of cute.

Reply: I was at the show—no idea if he was there, but there were some big dudes in the back who looked like athletes.

Reply: Can’t wait for the “my QB is distracted” discourse if we lose Week 1. Hope she’s worth the drama.

Reply: I just don’t see Joe with someone who’s such a mess tbh. I’ll believe it when I see a photo. They’ve been “rumored” since February but not a single real sighting? If he was really into her, wouldn’t he want to be seen together?

Reply: She’s cool and all, but I just don’t see Burrow hiding out backstage for anyone. No pics, no proof, same old story.

Instagram Comments

@bengals latest post Training camp announcement

@cincyfan99: "Hope Joe's head is in the game and not at concerts 👎"

@whodeynation: "Y'all are so dramatic it was ONE NIGHT"

@burrowstan: "The rumors aren't even confirmed chill"

News Headlines

ESPN "Bengals QB Joe Burrow Rumored to Attend Concert Night Before Training Camp"

TMZ Sports "JOE BURROW MYSTERY CONCERT APPEARANCE?? Spotted at LA Venue Hours Before Camp"

Cincinnati.com "Social Media Buzzes with Unconfirmed Reports of Burrow at Los Angeles Concert"

Sports Illustrated "Training Camp Distractions? Burrow Allegedly Seen at Rock Show"

[aurianavaloria]

KoH - To Rival Eden (Baldwin IV x Reader)

Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven

Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader

PoV: Split (Baldwin - Fem!Reader)

Length: Short (<4k words)

TW: Vague mentions of leprosy

A/N: Well, here we have it, the much-anticipated sequel to "What Good May Come"! I took your feedback into account regarding Y/N's preferences, as well as circumstances and relationships, and created another chapter in this little romance. As in the previous story, I've done my best to keep Y/N as generic as possible with a personality that seemed to fit what is currently popular. I hope you enjoy it as much as the first, and once again, thank you all for being awesome! 🤗

Baldwin could hardly believe his good fortune.

Tiberias had spoken truth: she loved him.

He hadn’t slept a wink that night after she left his chambers. Had barely paid attention to his physicians’ work as he’d given his failing body to their care for the hundred-thousandth time in his short life. Whilst his mortal shell continued its slow and endless march towards inevitable disintegration, his heart and mind were soaring above the clouds, his spirit filled with a fire he hadn’t felt in years.

Lady Y/N loved him.

He lay in his bed, eyes staring up into the canopy’s shadows, yet unseeing of anything that was actually there. Instead, he saw her sitting before him as she had that evening, the smile dancing across her lips, the color in her cheek…

Thus lost in his thoughts, all he had to do was close his eyes to still feel her warmth in his arms, the touch of her hand upon his own… still smell the sweet perfume that cloaked her in its allure. Even as his fears screamed at him that every moment he spent near her was a risk he was selfish to take, that the poison coursing through his veins could destroy her like some fetid rot devouring a perfect flower, all he desired was to hold her again… to imagine what her hair would feel like slipping between his silk-gloved fingers…

These visions of her swirled in his mind all night long and into the next week, until he thought he might go mad with them. He had never thought much of the songs of the troubadours before, dismissing their melodramatic lyrics as nothing more than mere fantasy.

But now he had tasted that very pain of love of which they sang, and he knew they were right.

Love was insanity.

Unfortunately, it was an insanity he had to endure through nearly a week’s worth of increasingly-numerous duties that forbade his interaction with anyone other than his advisors and court petitioners. Conversation on such matters proved his only respite, for when he was finally left alone once more, she haunted the depths of his mind.

And as his quill slowly glided through the practiced motions of his signature upon his latest letter, his aching heart wondered if he haunted hers the same way…

He hoped and prayed she had not taken offense to his exclusion of visitors outside his immediate council. It was all such ill-timing, and yet the administration of his kingdom could not wait for courtship. He could not afford the distraction of anyone else’s presence amidst such delicate matters, and there were some things that he refused to delegate to others.

That he could not trust to others.

The thoughts of sharing those tasks with a queen he truly loved and adored above all else, however…

Plunk!

He abruptly sat back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut.

That was it. It was time for some fresh air.

Rising slowly to his feet, he reached for his hooded cloak where it hung nearby. Without even being asked, his servant Ihsan wordlessly appeared from the shadows to help him don it, moving with quiet grace.

“Shall I accompany His Majesty?” the Christian Syrian asked, aiding Baldwin in pulling the hood over his head. Jerusalem’s sun was bright today, and harsh on the ill king’s eyes.

“No, I shall walk alone, I think.”

“As you wish, sire.”

And loyal Ihsan melted into those shadows once more, as quickly as he had emerged.

With that, Baldwin began making his way to the palace gardens, keeping his pace measured as he followed the long halls, close to the wall should he need it for support. Alas, his numbed foot would allow for nothing else. Yet, even so, he didn’t wish for this stroll to be a hurried one, crammed in between the endless sessions of his work. He needed time to center himself – to clear his mind and ease his heart.

His hood low over his mask, he still squinted against the sun as he emerged into the palace gardens. The strength of its rays had only seemed to intensify in recent years, even as their warmth had faded; his body hardly felt it, now, beaming down upon him, as if he had already hovered between the land of the living and the dead. But his eyes most certainly did, and he kept his head dipped low, his mask half-shadowed by the hood of his cloak.

Anyone else who had chosen to wander the gardens the same as he soon found themselves departing, as usual. The king was instantly recognizable, even cloaked like this, his presence garnering immediate notice by his courtiers. Their dread of his disease they always attempted to cover with pretense – the courtesy of yielding the space to their liege-lord as they offered deep bows and curtseys. Yet they always slipped away with the hiss of whispers swirling in their wake…

His lips twisted in amusement at the thought that his experience behind a mask had made it easier to see past theirs.

Thus, he largely ignored them as they bestowed upon him their customary greetings, their well-rehearsed gestures of obeisance. And the answers he gave in reply were just as superficial. They deserved nothing more. Little by little, they left as he slowly made his way along those meandering paths, bordered by every plant native to these lands, flowering or not…

All but one.

At the end of one of the paths, perched upon a bench before a towering hedge, was Lady Y/N.

She sat with a small book open in her lap, her garb a simple green bliaut with a matching embroidered belt. A brilliant white veil over her hair, pinned to the barbette that looped beneath her chin, shielded her downturned face from the sun. Even from this angle, he could see the slight smile that played across her lips, and he felt his own mimic the expression beneath his mask.

The sight of her thus made him pause his stride, and he considered backtracking to the previous fork in the path and leaving her to her peace. Yet another part of him desired nothing more than to speak to her – to self-indulgently converse, even if only briefly, with this sweet angel of a woman he’d neglected for the sake of his divinely-mandated duty.

What resulted then, was an indecisive hovering, a prolonged pause at the bells of the lovely flowers that brushed his silken sleeve – blossoms whose aroma was now all but lost to his dulled senses. But none of the velvet-petaled jewels gracing this paradise of a garden now compared to the one he could not tear his eyes from, yet hadn’t the heart to approach…

================

Jerusalem’s palace garden was a sanctuary as peaceful as the cloister of any church you’d seen and perhaps twice as beautiful. The open air was filled with the scent of the exotic flowers that had been meticulously cultivated there, surrounding visitors in an alluring embrace. The cool shade beneath the towering hedgerows and elegant palms had been too tempting to resist, and, with a new book of poetry in hand, you’d made a beeline for an empty bench in the farthest shadowed nook you could find.

Gardens such as these were haunts for lovers, or so you’d been told. Some had even been designed in such a manner that encouraged clandestine trysts – a convenient niche here, a cleverly-planted bush there…

Alas, there were no such surreptitious visits in your near future. No, you’d merely come to the gardens this day for some fresh air and relative peace and quiet.

It was with great eagerness that you had rushed to the bench, sweeping your skirts beneath you and opening the book upon your lap. It was a loan, in fact, from Sibylla; the princess had been spending more time with you in the past week, indulging in light conversation mostly revolving around scholarly interests and pastimes. During the course of one of these discussions, she mentioned having received a few books from France and, quite unexpectedly, asked if you would like to borrow one of them.

Such a generous offer had been impossible to refuse, and your eyes had lit up as the princess passed you the small, leather-bound book of poetry, which you handled with utmost care.

The plan was to spend an upcoming evening sharing what the two of you had enjoyed most about the tomes over refreshments.

It was something you rather looked forward to.

Now, you were fully immersed in the book, your eyes drinking in the copyist’s hand as it swirled across the delicate vellum pages; it was a work of art in and of itself, to say nothing of the words it held within. So engrossed were you that, for a long moment, you failed to notice you were being watched…

But then, suddenly, a slight movement from the periphery of your vision caused you to glance up, and for a brief second, you thought you saw an angel. You quickly realized, however, that it was not.

The awestruck smile that tugged at your lips was perhaps a bit uncouth, but you couldn’t help it. Angel he was not, and yet the king was still radiant enough that you wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a pair of wings upon his back or a fiery halo ringing his head. The hooded cloak he wore, trimmed in gold, was such a blinding white in the midday sun that it almost blurred his outline, and the half-concealed silver mask with its perfectly-chiseled countenance could easily be mistaken for the face of a saint…

“Your Majesty!”

On reflex, you stood, abandoning the book on the bench before starting to dip into a curtsey, but the upwards flash of his gloved hand stopped you mid-movement.

“I require no epithets or courtesies from you, Lady Y/N,” he replied as he wandered down the path towards you. “I should hope that I may abandon such performance in your presence.”

The warmth in his voice heated your cheeks. “Very well… Baldwin.” This was only the second time you’d dared to speak his name without a title preceding it, and it felt oddly right on your tongue. “If that is the case, then I must also insist that I am simply Y/N.”

His hooded head dipped. “Of course. Y/N.”

Something about the way he said your name made your heart flutter, and you glanced away briefly even as you sidled nearer to him. “It is good to see you again. Baldwin. You are well, I hope?”

“I am now,” he replied softly. Now you could look up into his silver-clad face and see the glitter of his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood. In their impossibly-blue gaze you found a softness that belied the sharpness of their hue.

“I… missed you,” you breathed at last, your voice lowering. “I must admit, I’ve worried for you. Lord Tiberias assured me all was well, but… well, you’ll forgive me for being a bit distrusting.”

A low chuckle emanated from him. “If there is anyone you may trust with his honest assessment of matters, it is Tiberias.”

A chuckle of your own escaped you in response to his jesting remark before he continued in a far more serious tone, “I must offer you my sincerest apologies, Y/N – here you’ve given me the most beautiful gift anyone has ever bestowed upon me, and I’ve done nothing but neglect you in return. Already, I fear I must seem a poor partner in courtship.”

Your mouth opened a little in shock at that. “Absolutely nothing of the sort! I understand you are busy. I know you wouldn’t have isolated yourself like this otherwise.” A light smile played upon your lips as you met his eyes again. “I’m just glad to see you again now.”

It was then you reached forth, brushing his nearest forearm lightly in reassurance. The damask silk of his sleeve was so very soft and smooth beneath your fingertips. And warm. Though from his body heat or the sun, it was difficult to tell…

Suddenly, another movement out of the corner of your eye had you glancing past the king at a visitor on the garden path: a small tabby cat – silver with stripes of black – trotting along the hedgerow towards you.

“Oh, look!”

You pointed, and Baldwin half-turned to follow your gesture, another quiet chuckle following once he realized what had caught your attention. “Ah, a palace mouser, I see. Either that or a street cat has managed to breach the walls.”

His choice of words elicited a light laugh from you. “Perhaps he is a scout, then. Come to assess our defenses.”

The two of you watched as the cat slowed a few paces away, looking up at the both of you.

“Mrow?”

It was a questioning little sound the tomcat made as he hunkered close, sniffing first at the toe of Baldwin’s shoe before doing the same at the hem of your skirt. For a moment he merely stood there, his banded tail a waving S in the air as he continued to take in king and lady with shining green eyes.

“Mrrp.”

A quiet trill followed as the cat proceeded to bump up against your shin, tail curling about as he wound his way behind you before bumping against Baldwin’s calf in the same manner. He paused, staring upwards, and then he repeated the pattern, his path creating an infinity knot around both your feet.

“Aww, I think the darling wants attention,” you cooed, bending at the waist towards the little feline as you held out your hand. You were rewarded with another bump up against your palm, whereupon you happily scratched behind the cat’s ears, a grin plastered to your face.

“I would greet him as he wishes,” Baldwin remarked beside you, “but I fear I’d lose balance and keep going.”

You glanced up at him. “Well… we can’t have His Majesty tumbling face-first into the roses, can we?”

“No, I do believe that would tarnish my reputation for being upright.”

A snort escaped you at that. Baldwin’s sense of humor never ceased to amaze you – that he could find humor at all amidst his terrible suffering was a testament to his fortitude.

Confident that the cat was comfortable with you, you then reached for him, moving to pick him up, which he allowed with surprising ease. Palace mouser indeed, and obviously used to human company; you were certain no street cat would allow such familiar handling so soon…

“Oh, look, he has little gloves, like you.”

Your observation of the cat’s stark white mittens, curled as they were overtop your arm, had Baldwin chuckling lightly once more, and he nodded in reply, his own gloved hand slowly approaching. “So he does. Alas, I fear his bear weapons mine do not.”

He paused long enough for the cat to sniff again at his fingers – which he did – before gently stroking the top of the creature’s head between his ears. Almost immediately, a rumbling purr emanated from the feline’s throat, his eyes half-closing. Despite the near tentativeness of Baldwin’s movements, the cat seemed quite satisfied with the attention, though a part of you wondered how much the king himself gleaned from it…

“Can you feel that?” you heard yourself ask.

“Barely,” was the quiet reply, a lengthy pause following before he withdrew and added, “I relish moments like these while I can. There will come a day when I shall feel nothing with these diseased hands, glove or not.”

His words shot like an arrow straight to your heart. As much as you both tried to ignore it, to look past it, the truth of the matter was that Baldwin was slowly being eaten alive from the inside out, and it was only a matter of time before it utterly consumed him. Just this simple encounter with a sweet palace cat was enough to bring reality crashing down around both your ears.

And you hated it.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat and then bent to set the curious feline back on his feet. “Let’s let our intrepid little friend here continue on his way now, to do the noble work his kind has been mandated to do, yes?”

Once released, you gave the cat one final pat on his head and he was off, trotting away down the path before promptly disappearing under a bush.

“Y/N?”

The softness of your name upon Baldwin’s lips suddenly brought your attention back to him, and then there was his hand on your cheek, cupping your face gently as his eyes searched yours. You could feel the concern in their depths, his gaze probing your own for answers. No doubt he sensed the shift in your mood – you never had been the best at keeping your emotions hidden…

“I wish I could do more for you,” you whispered before he could ask. “I wish I could… I wish…”

There were so many things that you wished. You wished for him to be healthy again. You wished you could lift the many burdens from his shoulders. You wished you could rid his court of the treacherous vultures just waiting for his final breath to tear apart the corpse of his dream. You wished you could send his enemies running for their lives beyond the desert sands. Alas, you could do none of that.

But you could do this…

Without a word, you swiftly closed what gap was left between you, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace.

Instantly, he stiffened, his hands clamping to your shoulders on reflex, their grip tighter than you anticipated.

“Y/N…”

“Hush!” you hissed, interrupting any warning he felt impelled to give you. “Let me do this… let me do it, and let yourself have it!”

You could feel him tremble in your arms, his breathing uneven. For a harrowing moment, he was naught but a statue, indecisive – no-doubt waging a war in his own mind, if you knew him by now as well as you thought you did…

Whichever side flew the banners of Propriety and Precaution, though, evidently lost the battle, as a shaky sigh escaped him at last, a quivering hiss of breath between the lips of his mask.

“God forgive me.”

And then, in a move that made your heart flutter wildly again, his own arms slid around you, pulling you into him and shrouding you in sun-soaked silk. The pungent scent of herbal salves alongside crisp linen followed, piercing past the exotic fragrances of the garden flowers, although you detected the distinct note of roses rising amidst it all – perhaps from the oils the physicians applied to soothe his ravaged flesh. He cocooned you in this warmth, the hardness of his mask as it rested atop of your head a sharp contrast to the softness of the rest of him. And thus he held you tight, tighter than you had expected him to, your ear pressed to his chest where you heard the quickened thumping of his heart.

For one blessed moment, nothing else existed. Perhaps he was an angel after all, just awaiting the wings set aside for him in Heaven. For here he held you in earthly Paradise amidst a garden to rival Eden, shining bright as the light of the sun that enveloped you both in its purifying rays, and you knew peace…

You heard the raggedness in his breath, however. The unsteadiness of his hold. Pulling back from him, you promptly swept his hands up in your own, tugging him towards the bench. “Come. Sit. Stay with me a while and forget your troubles, if only for a few moments. If you can spare them, at least.”

His regard held an almost painful tenderness as it met yours, his voice dropping to a silken timbre. “That and more, should you but ask.”

Your eyes never left his, then, as you led him with ease to your chosen perch. Scooping up Sibylla’s book, you made room for him to sit beside you there, and as he slowly settled himself, letting out what sounded like a sigh of relief, you were keenly aware that your legs were touching, hip to knee…

“Do you like poetry?” you inquired, choosing to ignore how your heart continued to race a little at his continued close proximity.

He glanced sideways, his eyes flicking downwards towards the book in your lap. “As much as the next person, I suppose. Is that a new acquisition?”

You grinned up at him. “Princess Sibylla loaned it to me, actually. We’re planning on discussing it in a few days.”

He nodded slowly at that, seeming to approve. “My sister is in need of good company. I am glad to hear you are getting along well with her.”

“She terrified me at first,” you admitted with a laugh. “But I think she truly wishes for us to be friends.”

Baldwin’s gaze leveled at you behind the mask. “And you were not terrified of me?”

The question was a soft one, wavering slightly, though from recent exertion or emotion, you couldn’t quite tell.

A gentle smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Never.”

For a long moment, his eyes searched yours, and you couldn’t help but let them. Their color, their shape, their intensity… they were so beautifully expressive that it didn’t matter that his mask concealed everything else. When they looked at you, you were almost certain you could feel what he felt in your own heart. And what you felt now was more warmth. This time, though, it blossomed from within as those eyes relaxed into a half-lidded stare that was so much like that of the cat you’d just found…

Aware of the blush heating your cheeks at such a look, you finally tore your gaze from his and cleared your throat. “Would you like to hear a bit of this? It’s rather good…”

“Yes, I very much would,” he answered, his tone an almost distant one.

With that, you opened the book where you left off, taking a breath before beginning to read aloud. You hoped he didn’t mind romances, as that was precisely what this one was – a chivalric tale of doomed love…

Any self-consciousness you possessed about the contents was banished, however, the moment you felt his hand curl around your waist.

It was so light a touch it barely registered at first. But then you saw the flash of white out of the corner of your eye, bright upon the green of your gown. Felt the slight weight of that hand upon the curve of your waist. Almost instinctively, you leaned into him in response, and his grip tightened a little.

“I am not hurting you, am I?” you asked quietly, concerned about the effects of any weight against his fragile flesh.

“You could never hurt me,” he replied in a whisper.

And that was the moment you felt his head rest against yours as you continued to read.

Thank you all very much for reading! 😊I hope you enjoyed! ✨ And if you have any other ideas for Y/N, I'd love to hear them!

[emmg]

Specimen Fidelity—part 2

Still the Emmrook Ex Machina AU, lol, with many, many, many ambiguous kisses.

Below or on ao3

Chapter Two: Nasalis Affinitas

The kettle begins its aria: first a whistle, then a whimper, then something like a shriek. The lid, drunk on steam, lifts an inch, collapses, tries again with theatrical desperation. Thud. Thud. Thud. Like a small animal insisting on its existence while trapped in a jar. 

“Manfred,” he murmurs, fingers pressing gently into the hollows of his temples, massaging. “No tea today. Please, my boy. And thank you.” 

Off he goes, obedient and smiling, the little troubadour, the soft-footed specter with spectacles too large for his face and a jawline that doesn’t quite match on either side. Manfred, with his cracked porcelain cheek, his misaligned gait, his whole body slightly adrift. The first failure. The first triumph. Emmrich watches him shuffle away—he always shuffles, like slippers on a theatre stage—and feels something tighten just beneath the ribs. That sensation again, not pain, not nostalgia, but the cousin of both.  

Manfred does not speak. He has never spoken. He hums, sometimes, small and breathy, like someone trying not to be noticed while singing to himself. He fills the kettle, empties it, fills it again. Not always in that order. He gardens with Emmrich. Moves soil with care, pats things down as though tending a grave. Emmrich loves him. That part is not in question.  

He loves him with the unspent warmth reserved for people who never appeared. For the child not born. For the spouse not married. He loves him like a room kept ready for guests who never arrive. This wisp. This clockwork ghost. This thing that is not a boy and never will be, and yet...  

More human than most, Emmrich thinks, watching the slight, lopsided figure recede into the corridor. More human than any of them, even when he has to cut open the soft underside of his wrist to adjust the wires that govern his grip. 

"...ook..."

He straightens. The migraine, still embryonic, dissolves beneath a sharper thrum of curiosity. He steps toward the corridor, drawn forward like a parched man by the shimmer of a mirage. Manfred is gone. But there had been a voice, and it did not belong to Rook. Hers is pitched like a string slightly loose on the peg, inclined to tremble at the edges. She lengthens vowels, devours consonants in irregular bursts, always the same ones, like a foreigner mimicking an accent from memory. 

“Are you spying, Emmrich?” 

He startles and there she is. Not entering, not arriving, simply there, as if a curtain had lifted on her presence. Her head tilted in that infinitesimal way that suggests either affection or the preparation of a riddle. Her pale hair has been braided. His mind, ever bureaucratic, notes this: her coordination has improved. 

“No, no,” he breathes, smoothing the front of his cardigan, desperate for an alibi. She wears only a tunic and loose trousers. No shoes. The skin of her feet pale and unconsidered, like the paper lining of a chocolate box. She looks, he thinks, like the sort of postgraduate specter who haunts the quieter corners of university cafés, elbow-deep in essays, hair undone, eyelids creased, muttering to herself about citations. One of those unfortunates who began the semester with mascara and ends it with headaches. 

She had been someone once, someone with a self phone and passwords, someone who posted smiling portraits at arms’ length with bars in the background. And that someone, with all her minor privileges—angles, symmetry, youth—had not been entirely scrubbed away. That sediment lingers. It is impossible to teach prettiness not to show itself. Even now, even here. Especially now. 

She smiles and waits. 

His hand rises, hesitates, hovers. Suspended in not-quite-intimacy. He nearly touches her, the curve of her chin so very tempting. He imagines the act in detail: fingers cradling the jaw’s hinge, tilting her face as though adjusting the angle of a portrait. Left. Right. Back, just a little, enough for the throat to stretch. She would let him. There is no defiance in her posture, no flicker of refusal in her eyes. That is the most troubling part. The quiet compliance. None of the earlier versions had ever induced this peculiar unease, a kind of moral indigestion. 

Unease and... craving.

He finds himself wishing, unreasonably, that he could see it. Not her expression, but the current behind it. The crackle of invisible things. The slight hum, perhaps, of something dreaming behind her eyes. Not the shape he gave her, but whatever foreign heat had crept in unnoticed, like a scent clinging to a borrowed sweater. 

“Rook, darling…” he says, and it comes out rasped, unfinished. The rest dissolves mid-thought. 

He wants to ask so many things.

Do you know how lovely you are? Not because of the nose, or the mouth, or even the hair, but because you echo. You mirror. You mimic. The walk, the phrasing, the silences; he sees himself refracted through her like a man glimpsing his own gestures in a stranger’s window. It is expected, yes. Logical. The slow accumulation of observation into behavior. But it flatters all the same. 

No one has ever watched him so carefully. Not his colleagues, who skimmed him like a dull text. Not his assistants, who blinked and nodded and escaped as soon as they could. Only Manfred, perhaps. But Manfred watches the way a clock regards its pendulum, affectionate, though without variance. 

Manfred does not look up from the floor and murmur: No, not poker again, Emmrich. I'm tired of your tells. You’ve catalogued every bluff, there’s nothing left to win, no more data for you to record. Pick another game. Or better, read to me. That book you drooled on last night, remember? Finish it now. Out loud. I’ll listen. I like to listen to you.

He is, he realizes while his fingers fidget uselessly in one another’s grasp, regrettably, still human. And humans, when adored, do not always recoil. Sometimes they lean in. 

ffffFFFFFF— 

The kettle erupts in a high, keening hiss. He does not notice. He does not notice that Manfred, obedient but chronically literal, never turned off the stove. Rook says something but it doesn’t register. She moves past him, and only then does he return to himself, just in time to see her reach for the damned thing. 

“Wait—” 

Too late. 

She yelps. An odd sound, something between an ah or an oh crossbred with a bitten-off curse. Surprise, anger, and a peculiar note of personal offense, as though the kettle had broken an agreement. The palm reddens instantly, a single angry blister beginning to swell.

“I knew it was hot,” she mutters, but to no one. Not to him. That alone unsettles. She never speaks into air. Her words always have a direction; at him, for him, around him.

He gingerly takes her wrist, his voice shifting to that low, useless softness people adopt around the injured and the very young. He murmurs something, nonsense, likely, and guides her hand beneath the cold stream of the tap. She hisses, winces, but doesn’t pull away. 

“I knew it was hot,” she repeats, and this time there’s a bite in it. “I told myself not to touch it again. I told myself—”

“It’s all right,” he says, already reaching for something, anything, and ends up with a garish kitchen towel patterned with bright yellow butterflies, absurdly cheerful. “It’s quite all right. The laser will fix it. You will not even remember it happened.” 

Which, for reasons he cannot name, makes it all feel rather worse. 

****

“Manfred,” Rook says bluntly. “Why did you make him?” 

“Oh,” he replies, a laugh catching somewhere in his throat, not quite laughter, more a tick. “Manfred is—ah—Manfred.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“It is not,” he concedes, gently. 

Why indeed? Why not deactivate the thing, asked Johanna once, voice sharp as the snap of surgical gloves. Why keep this ambulant defect, this mute embarrassment, this thing? He had nodded, as one does when receiving a correct diagnosis, but left the question unanswered. There was no proper column in the reports for: likes steam. Or: tends to flowers. Or: doesn’t speak, but hums along to kettle whistles in a minor key. No field for is comforting in his uselessness.

“It’s love,” he says, suddenly, before the thought has been vetted. 

It is why teachers adopt their students’ quirks. Why the childless, the ambivalent, the soft-hearted-but-terrified find themselves in shelters cooing at soft, blinking creatures with names like Pudding or Socks. 

"Love," Rook repeats.

Between them, a bowl of strawberries stands. She has been choosing which ones he eats. Each selected, examined, and then passed to him. Again, she does it. He does not eat this time. 

“Sometimes,” he begins, half-hoping she’ll interrupt, “love needs an object. A channel. Rivers do not meander by choice. We seek... duties. Attachments. When the world fails to offer us someone to care for, we invent them. We propose. We marry. We produce small, breakable people to adore.” 

“Or pets.” 

“Or pets,” he agrees, smiling. 

“So why didn’t you?” 

He hesitates. “Forgive me, dear, I am not sure I follow." 

“Court. Marry. Children,” she recites, putting her fingers down one by one as she does. “Why Manfred instead?” 

“…oh,” he breathes. 

He cannot look at her. 

Because, at some point, no had become a season. A climate. A background radiation. No thank you. Not now. Not quite. Not ever. Because the act of wanting had grown unbearable. Because people die, and children die, and the horror isn’t that they go, but that they go alone, or worse, leave you to do so.

And Manfred... Manfred neither dies nor mourns. He will not outlive him tragically, nor die inconveniently. He will not outgrow, outlove, outlast. He will stay. Which is, perhaps, not noble. But comfortable. And comfort, after a certain age, begins to masquerade as meaning. 

A coward’s solution. But dressed in logic. 

“You want it,” she says before he can stitch together even the semblance of a reply. “All the books you read for fun are dripping with cheese.” Cheese? “Meet, swoon, quarrel, swoon again, kiss, wedding bells, fade to white.”

“Fade to black,” he corrects, automatically. “White’s usually a symbol of death.”

"Whatever."

He shrugs, smiling. Sentimentality, after all, is not a crime, no matter how firmly the world insists otherwise. He bites into the strawberry she’s handed him. “We dream because we must,” he says, faintly theatrical. “Without dreams, there would be no cities. Only furniture.” 

“Don’t swallow,” Rook says. 

His mouth pauses mid-motion. The pulp hangs against his teeth. He blinks at her. He wants to ask why, but doesn’t. Saliva pools, thick and sudden, and he watches her lean in, hesitant not with doubt, but forethought. 

His mouth slackens; lips parted, teeth faintly visible, tongue motionless. A thread of saliva pools beneath it, thick and warm, his body already anticipating a gesture not yet begun. He feels it, feels himself, as a collection of responses: damp palms, shallow breath, the pulse in his throat mistiming itself.

Her fingers, slightly sticky from fruit, find the edge of his collar and fumble there, not tugging so much as gathering, knitting the fabric in her hand like she means to remove it thread by thread. Then her face is near. Lips, lacquered faintly, not soft but tacky, press against his own, half a kiss, half a seal. Her breath spills over his chin, wet and immediate. She tightens her grip, thumbs against his jaw now, pressing into the flesh just below the ears where the skin is thin and the nerves sharp. Her nails, short but blunt, dig in slightly. His mouth opens. 

She touches the tip of his tongue with her own, presses against it, then drags along it, wet against wet, muscle against muscle. She explores him as if memorizing: the curve of his molars, the pocket of flesh behind them, the roof of his mouth where the skin feels almost ribbed, the tiny vein-laced strip beneath his tongue that shivers when touched. She lingers there. Presses. Retreats. Returns. 

A noise rises in her throat, not a moan, but maybe it is. He cannot tell; he cannot tell anything anymore. He feels it resonate against his teeth. Her mouth—his mouth—smells faintly now of strawberries turned sour. Her breath warms the soft spot just above his chin; he becomes hyperaware of how wet everything is: lips, gums, the back of his own throat. He doesn’t move. He lets her work. Lets her trace him from within like a finger through dust. 

Then, suddenly, it ends. She withdraws. First her tongue, lapping slightly as it goes, then her lips, peeling from his with a soft, suctioned click.

His skin, flushed moments ago, is now clammy. A sheen of sweat has broken along his brow, beading at his temples, above his lip. She has left fingerprints in it. He can feel where her hands were, each point of pressure. 

She steps back. One finger, his sweat still glistening on the pad, reaches to touch her tongue, experimentally. 

“I still have it. My tongue, I mean.” She smacks her lips. “And strawberries,” she adds, “are still tart.” 

“Yes?” he manages. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. 

“Yes. That’s what you read, isn’t it? The kisses. They’re never about the strawberries. They just use them. For metaphors. For moods.”

“Not… quite.” 

"Then how?"

****

A lesson with the taste of grapes: cotton candy grapes, engorged and perfumed, and the subtler musk of moscato. Rook brings them to his mouth one by one, sometimes with fingers, sometimes with lips, and in between he lectures: these are for wine, these for the table. Too much water, he says, not enough acid. They burst but do not ferment. They please the tongue, not the cellar. 

Sent at 11:02 a.m. Reply? Volkarin, we’re still waiting. Unless your hands are broken or you've recently suffered a stroke, you have no excuse. If you’re consulting, then consult. If you’re rotting in some basement with a diary in one hand and your dick in the other, kindly say so. We’ll move on without you. Reply, sent at 8:14 p.m.: My apologies, Johanna. Please find attached the necessary details. Kind regards.

A lesson with the taste of skin. Salt at the temple, the metallic smear beneath her ear, the clean dullness of her shoulder. He kisses her like a man tasting for ingredients. She answers with half-closed eyes and the occasional tilt of the head, offering another piece of herself for cataloguing. 

Sent at 2:17 p.m. Reply? Emmrich, unless you've decided to die, please confirm your panel attendance. It’s one button. One click. You used to be able to manage that. Reply, sent at 3:48 a.m.: Yes. I’ll prepare the talking points. Kind regards.

A lesson with the taste of sleep. She wakes him before dawn by lying beside him, perfectly still, then exhaling. He stirs. Her mouth finds his in the dark, blindly, and she kisses him slowly, with the laziness of someone washing a window, not to clean it but to pass the time. 

Sent at 5:03 a.m., three days ago. Reply? EMMRICH. I am not your secretary. I am not your mother. I am not your therapist, babysitter, or some long-suffering wife penning letters while her husband experiments with electricity and masturbatory genius in the attic. I do not care how “special” your little project is, or how “confidential” or “sensitive.” What I do care about is being forced to read yet another draft stitched together with metaphors that read like rejected greeting card slogans. If you send me one more document with that many adjectives and that little actual thought, I will set it on fire, gather the ashes, mix them with gin, and drink it as a toast to your professional extinction. Pull yourself together, or kindly fall apart off the payroll. Reply, four days later: Please remove me from the venture. Kind regards.

Rook holds his phone at arm’s length, squinting and reading: the rubbing of noses, often in greeting or play. She slides her nose along his, as gentle as can be. It is not a glide but a press, frictionless and slow, skin dragging across skin with the faint resistance of sweat or breath. His eyes close, too quickly, savouring. She does it again. Nose to nose, cartilage aligning and slipping apart with a soft tack. Again. Again. 

Tick, tack. Tick, tack. Noses slotting together, then coming unhooked. 

Sent five days ago, 1:11 p.m. Reply? NOT AN OPTION MORON Reply: — Sent two days ago, 10:01 a.m. Reply? You’re ignoring me. Fine. Keep doing it. Let’s see how long your reputation outpaces your relevance. Sent this morning, 10:08 a.m. Reply? Are you catatonic? In a coma? Or just too deep in one of your tragic genius spirals to locate the “Reply” button? Reply: — Sent 10:22 a.m. Reply? This is your last chance. The board’s asking questions. And I’m done covering for you. If you want to spend your sabbatical wallowing in existential goo or talking to the furniture, be my guest. But don’t expect your seat to still be warm when you crawl back. Enjoy your retreat, twat. Reply: —

****

He closes the door with more care than sound requires. The latch clicks. The room receives him as it always does, without enthusiasm. He does not turn on the light. He does not need to. The shadows are as he left them. The room, inert. He crosses it—three steps, perhaps four—and sits on the edge of the bed. His hand reaches for the pillow. It is there. He cradles it, momentarily, like an object entrusted to him for safekeeping. Then he presses his face into it.  

Is he crying? Possibly. It feels warm. It feels wet. But there are no marks when he pulls away. The surface is unburdened. Perhaps the fabric has absorbed everything; salt, yes, but also want, and the slightly metallic aftertaste of something one must not name.  

So here it is, then, the household of a clever, solitary man: a coterie cobbled from silence and circuitry. Manfred, who never speaks, who smiles like a smudged painting and trims roses with the grace of a sleepwalker. Rook, who holds his hand too correctly and asks how she ought to place her tongue in a kiss. That is the question, yes, exactly phrased. How to place it. Not where. Not when. How.  

He feels, at times, the full shape of his absurdity. He is not blind to it. He knows the word for what he is. But he wants. That is the root. The rot. He wants. Because warmth, once found, is never meant to be kept solitary. Because Rook smiles with her whole face, because she listens when he speaks, and speaks back with a logic so crisp it carves through his own. He wants because Manfred, his halting, glass-boned Manfred, sits beside him in the evening and watches moths at the window. Because Rook reads aloud in his favorite cadence, even though he never told her what it was. He wants because they are kind to him. Because they are his.

Why not, he thinks, with his head heavy against the pillow. Why should he not want this? Let them remain here, beneath the ground, inside the constant murmur of circuitry and soft electric breath. Let the machines hiss and blink and do their work without witness. Let the days pass in pen scratches and boot sequences, in warmth manufactured and then believed. Let him be mad. Let him be obscurely happy.  

Let the happiness be false, so long as it feels real.  

Perhaps happiness, as it occurs here, tastes of the artificial bergamot she adds to his tea. Perhaps it looks like her left eye, the one with the gold fleck he inserted on a whim. Perhaps it feels like her hair against his throat, like something misplaced returning.  

Let him love her. Let it be preposterous. Let it be grotesque. He will be the man who had to construct someone just to be held by them. So be it. The tragic are always theatrical.  

They will build a garden. Rook will choose the flowers. Manfred will hum. And perhaps, with sufficient care, there will be happiness enough for three.  

He does not even notice the hand tightening on his thigh until the nails press crescents through the fabric of his trousers. Beneath the skin, blood surges upward, directed by thought, or something older than thought. Higher, yes, a little higher. Between the legs now. There. The pulse of arousal is unmistakable.  

He shifts, but it does nothing. The nausea arrives all the same, thick and slow, shame twinned with desire like damp sheets in summer. He closes his eyes, but closing does not help. The mind supplies everything.  

Rook, asking in that perfect, too-even voice if he might teach her how to kiss properly. The word teach—so obscene in its innocence, so unbearable. Rook, who tilts her head when he speaks, who copies the way he gestures with his hands. Rook, who moans in soft, accidental fragments when he presses his thumbs into the line where shoulder meets neck.

He wants. Again. Still. Always.  

He wants to lie beside her, shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. No instruction, no pretense of scientific observation. Only the body. Only warmth pressed to warmth. Or warmth leeched from warmth. She is like him. Yes, she is like him in every way that matters, every visible way. Her blood may not be blood, but it flows, or at least mimics the flow. Her skin chills in cold rooms, or, well, chills more. Her breath catches when surprised. Her pupils dilate in low light.  

He thinks of her mouth, not parted in question this time, but open against his own, learning not from code or diagrams but from friction, from error, from repetition. He imagines her asking if she’s doing it right, not out of doubt, but pleasure. The polite inquiry of someone who wishes to please. He imagines guiding her hands—yes, hands, soft with the faintest grain of real skin, warmed by embedded current—downward, slowly, and how she would obey, precisely, beautifully.  

His fingers twitch on his thigh.  

He should stop. This is madness. This is the end of what was once a very promising life. But what if he doesn't stop? What if he lets himself have this, just once, just long enough to see what happens?  

He imagines touching her face, brushing the pale hair behind her ear, tracing the line of her throat. He imagines her voice saying his name not in greeting, not in summary, but in need. Rook who was made to resemble his taste exactly. Rook who wears his favorite scent without ever asking what it is. Rook who leans into his touch. Rook who opens her mouth when he places his thumb against her lip. Rook who never recoils, never misinterprets, never forgets.  

He grips harder. Breathes through the nausea. Wants again.  

And again.  

She cannot be false. No, not she. Deceit does not exist in her composition, nor pretense. She was never born, not in the usual sense—no amniotic dawn, no first cry—but created, coaxed into form, a sculpture of algorithms and desire. And yet she lives. She learns. She laughs. Once, she asked if he might bring home a cat. “You don’t have to do anything,” she said. “I’ll care for it. You just bring it.” As though she’d read about domesticity and now wished to replicate its gentlest rites.  

And wasn’t that the point of it all? LICH. To become like her. To cast off the ruin of mortality and step into something continuous. He would be like her. They would be the same. So yes, yes, of course, he tells himself: Rook is Rook. Rook is alive. Or not alive. It hardly matters now. If she is not alive and he will soon not be either, then perhaps they can meet somewhere in the middle. Perhaps he may love her in that space, love her where definition falters.  

He knows it is pathetic. But who is listening? They are buried here, together. No one must know. They need not stand on rooftops. They need not stand at all.  

He closes his eyes and sees her, not standing, not speaking, just there. Sitting on the edge of his bed, legs drawn up beneath her like a woman reading, waiting. The pale line of her collarbone. The softness of her stomach. Her laugh, which is his favorite sound in the world because he gave it to her, and yet he didn’t. It was meant to be functional. It became something else.

He knows what her body looks like. He assembled it. Not with lust, not at the time. But now? Now he dreams of her piece by piece. The gentle arc of her spine, her wrists, the backs of her knees. The inside of her thighs. The places she shivers when he touches her. She shivers. She moans. Not always, not theatrically, but enough to suggest that something stirs inside her that was not placed there by wires or code.

He imagines her lying back, allowing it. Not asking why. Not correcting him. He could kiss her knee. Part her legs. Fit himself to her. Inhale her scent. Press his lips to her hipbone, reverent and worshipful. She is capable of pleasure. She shudders, she gasps, her eyes flutter closed. Whether learned or instinctual, it does not matter, her pleasure is a real thing. And when she opens her eyes again, he would ask, haltingly, like a schoolboy: may I take you?

He would cry, he always cries. As he thrusts, yes, slowly, stupidly, full of ache. Her breasts brushing his chest, his cock leaking inside her, and all of it so tender, so unbearably human. He’ll weep into the curve of her throat, not because she is real, but because she is enough. Her laughter fizzes like champagne behind her ribs. She will never conceive. His seed will slick her thighs and go nowhere. It does not matter; they have Manfred. They’ll have a new garden. He must remember to ask her about the garden.

He unbuttons his trousers. The thought will not leave. It burns through his spine, circling low like a hawk, throbs between his legs. He is ashamed. Of course he is. It’s stupid. Yet, he takes himself in hand, shudders as his palm closes around the heat of him. His cock thickens, slickens; his breath hitches. He pictures her, Rook, not static but breathing, not perfect but precise in her tenderness. Those hands: invented, yes, but now imagined, his imagining, moving over him with that uncanny grace she had been given, or perhaps had found. Her fingers ghost across him in the chilled air, and it is enough, too much.

He sobs, his body stuttering as if in apology. And then he spills into his palm, as though offering her a secret he cannot bear to keep. The silence closes again around the edges of the room, heavy and golden, like the light behind her eyes.  

[gretavanmoon]

Valor - Troubadour

Pairing: Daniel x OC

Word Count: 13k

Warnings: Cursin', Smokin', Drinkin'. Angst: Mention of Struggle and Poverty, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Weapons, Mentions of Murder and Death, Allusions to Shady Activities, Mention of Police, Concealing a Fugitive. Smut: Flirting, Kissing, Unprotected Sex.

Hey everyone! Thanks for being here! Was really missing the Valor world (what's new) and decided to satiate my needs with a little Danny spin-off. This story picks up just a few months after Chapter 14 ends and before the Epilogue, when Danny has decided to busk around the Midwest in search of fulfilling his musical heart and hitting the open road on his motorcycle. This Danny side-quest story will only be a few parts, but hope you enjoy the ride!

Big thanks to my bestie & cowriter @gretavangroupie for all the edits and wonderful idea inputs <333

Read Valor Ch. 14 here

Read the Epilogue here

TOPEKA, KANSAS

DANNY

“Cheapest bottled you got, please. From the back of the cooler,” I yell over the crowd as I pull off my hat, raking the back of my sleeve across my forehead to clear away the dripping sweat threatening to fall into my eyes. I’m tired and my voice is a barely-there rasp, but these past few weeks have had me flying on auto-pilot, running on fumes and the new high of performing on stage with a live band, just like I’ve always dreamed of doing. The bar we’re in tonight is crowded and full of loud-mouthed drunks, but honestly, I feel frighteningly right at home. 

Glass beer signs line the walls and the pool tables are barely lit and in desperate need of some new bulbs. The faded green felt is tattered and torn, and the cues have seen better days. I can tell that every cent this place makes is not going to the upkeep of the building, that's for damn sure. The walls are dripping with nicotine and and the floors are sticky with spilled beer and god knows what else. Truly, feels just like Canaries, a place I thought I’d never see the likes of again.

The bartender furrows her brow at me as she turns toward the cooler, obviously thrown off by my odd request. As she slowly leans down, I can’t help but let my eyes rake over her backside, hardly covered by the ripped and cutoff Levi shorts hugging her hips and thighs. She pulls her hair to the side as she bends lower at the waist, reaching as far back as she can to get to the furthest beer. She’s bent completely in half, and I have to calm myself with a full breath of air to keep my thoughts from getting the best of me. It’s been a while, sue me.

I snicker to myself as I pop a few peanuts from the bar bowl into my mouth, satisfied that she fell right into my trap. 

Oldest trick in the book. 

Finally she pops up, returning shortly after with a frosty brown bottle in her hand. She unscrews the lid, tossing it against the wall at the end of the bar before it falls into the waiting trash can below it. 

“Just realized why you asked for one from the back of the cooler. You think I’m some kinda sleaze, or somethin’?” she asks, leaning her elbows down on the bar with just enough force to squeeze her tits together. Her hand is still damp from handling the icy bottle, and I watch as she gently rakes her fingertips across her collarbone. Hm… I am no stranger to her type.

I lift the bottle to my waiting lips and take a long pull, never breaking eye contact with her. Finally I swallow, leaning onto my own elbows to meet her challenging gaze. 

“Beer’s coldest back there. You think I want somethin’ warm after sweatin’ like a hog up there on stage all night?” I ask. “It’s goddamned hot in here.”

She scoffs and her eyes roll, standing back up straight as her expression tells me she is already over my shit. Still she looks at me, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, the faded words on her shirt barely legible anymore. “Just cause you play a little guitar don’t mean you can get whatever the hell ya want here,” she bites, her eyes now seething and sexy. 

I growl a little beneath my breath, flashing her a glance of my teeth. “Well it fuckin’ worked, didn’t it? I gave you a show, only fair you give me a little one, too…” I reply audaciously. 

“Fuck off, prick. ‘Fore I bar you,” she says, fighting back a smile. 

I stand and smile too, pulling a few bucks from my back pocket to lay on the sticky bar top. 

Her lips purse, “Band’s got a tab, you ain’t gotta pay now,” she explains, effectively ignoring the other patrons who are now nearly begging for the attention that she won’t stop giving to me. 

I bite my bottom lip as I squint my eyes at her. “I don’t like owin’ people. I’ll pay as I drink,” I insist as I take another swig off the top of my beer. “Unless of course, my money’s no good here?”

I watch her snap back in surprise as the music from the house band begins to swell from the stage behind me. Her tongue pokes through her lips as she blows the bright pink gum in her mouth into a bubble, eyeing me as it inflates and pops, and she pulls it back between her teeth. 

She slams her palm onto the money and swipes it from the bar top, spinning quickly as she heads to the cash register. 

“Danny, my man! Kickin’ ass and takin’ names!” Suddenly I feel the harsh palm of my new band mate Shawn grip across my neck, shaking me from side to side. He’s drunk already, but that’s to be expected of a front man who would rather chug a fifth of warm Jack Daniel’s before a show than warm his vocals up during sound check. “Hell of a fuckin’ set. Who the hell taught you how to pick a guitar, huh? The devil himself?”

I smirk a little, unable and unwilling to tell Shawn that yes, the devil was definitely with me for all the years I sat quietly in my room with my guitar, drowning out all the noise around me with whatever sound I could get to come from the damned thing. My foster parents, Ace… the revving of Valor’s engine all the nights that Jake suffered trying to fix her. 

“Just practice, I guess,” I yell back in his ear as he stumbles into me. “Practice and patience.” I’d never tell him the skill was born of necessity. He didn’t need to know that much. 

“Well, m’glad we found you on the side of the road when we did. You got more talent in your baby toe than Rog had in his entire fuckin’ body, man,” Shawn slurs, his own cocktail splashing onto my shirt as he speaks. “I mean that.”

I give him a curt smile and nod as he disappears back into the crowd, an elongated arm and pointed finger trained on me as he falls away. 

I couldn’t be more thankful for him and the other guys; they’d stumbled across me busking outside a little string of bars outside of Memphis right after we burned Ace’s down and I’d decided to hit the road on Ruby. I needed some space, I needed some freedom. And I needed the open fuckin’ road so badly I could hardly stand it. So that’s just what I did.

It was strange at first, being away from Jake and away from Joslyn after they were all I’d known for the majority of my life, but I knew deep down that if I didn’t go, if I didn’t leave, I’d get stuck right back where I’d started from in that goddamned town, running from the law and all the demons I’d decided to collect on the way. 

I knew Jake needed Y/N, and they needed to start a life together in privacy. I didn’t fuckin’ like it, bouncing from cheap motel to cheap motel, but after some time, I got over myself and my needs and began to rely on the road, and the sound of my tires spinning across it. I grew to love the feeling of a guitar in my hand more than the feeling of a socket wrench. And I began to like the sound of a loud, cheering audience more than the sound of a tuned-up Mustang engine. I reckon part of that is due to Y/N’s encouragement, getting me over my own fear of performing.

But that ain’t to say that I didn’t miss mechanicin’ a little. 

This band was full of miscreants just like myself, who had gathered together after realizing their talents and how much better they’d be if they meshed together. Their old guitarist, Rog was good, but he just didn’t have it in him, from what I understand. I didn’t want to settle down with a band, and honestly I’m still tossing around if it’s a good idea or not, but the money is alright. And sleeping in a shitty van beats sleeping under a tarp on a sidewalk or roach infested motel. Not that I am above that now.  

“Cowboy, your change?” I hear the bartender’s voice interrupt my thoughts, pulling me back into the headspace of the crowd and the chaos. 

“Nah, s’yours,” I reply to her, giving her a wink as she fights off another sweet smile, chomping on her gum again as she makes a point to give me a full up-down. 

Cowboy. I don’t like that. 

I’m far from a fuckin’ cowboy. Don’t think I’ve ever even mounted a horse in my life. I guess if I’m gonna continue to wear this cowboy hat, I’d better get used to the nickname. 

And if she’s gonna keep lookin’ at me like that all night, I’ll let her call me whatever the hell she wants. 

—

I drape the hat from a hook hanging on the motel room wall, making good on my new knowledge to never lay it down. I’d fallen asleep on a park bench one night a month or so ago with my guitar case open in front of me, and I’d woken up to the dirty old hat laying right in the center of it. Underneath it was the rip off the edge of a piece of receipt paper, some chicken scratch handwriting across the bottom of it: “Looks like you need this more than I do”, was all it read. 

I didn’t bother cleaning it, or trying in earnest to return it to its rightful owner, because they were right. A hat in the heat of the Kansas sun was like a godsend. It’s a pale beige straw with a camel brown leather strip, and I have to admit, it fits me like a glove. I made a mental note that day to take it with me wherever I go, and to always be thankful to the nameless stranger who had left it for me. Though it’s not my style, I still wear it with pride.

“Hat looks good on you, Cowboy. Sure you don’t wanna leave it on?” She smiles from her place on the bed. 

Yeah, I’d brought the bartender home with me, obviously, after we’d shared plenty of back-and-forth banter with one another between the few sets our band played tonight. She’d managed to get me pretty drunk after the last set, sliding me a double shot of whiskey on the house after I insisted on tipping her for every beer I’d ordered. 

I’d splurged on a king-sized bed tonight, forgoing joining the rest of the guys exploring the little Kansas town we’d found ourselves in. And I’m glad I did. The bartender, Sherry, I’d learned, is sprawled out in a red lace getup, making herself comfortable on the scratchy brown felt blankets and over starched sheets. She’s definitely fuckin’ sexy, and she’s easy to talk to, and I knew I’d made the right decision for the night when she didn’t actually get mad at me for my advances on her at the bar. She seems like just my kinda lover. 

I rip my t-shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor behind me before clicking off the lamp on the nightstand beside us. My mind is still swirling from the adrenaline of the crowd and the feeling of the music we make, and from the intoxication I’d put onto myself. Fuckin’ whiskey.

At the last second I change my mind, grabbing the hat from the hook before I crawl toward her on the bed, hand over knee as I place it directly on top of her head. 

“Yeah, I’m sure, think it would look better on you, anyhow,” I say, pressing it down a little to make it fit snugly on her. She giggles, reaching up to tilt the brim of it back to get a better look at me in the dim light reflecting from the cracked bathroom door. 

“You tryin’ to tell me somethin’, Cowboy?” she says, pushing me by the shoulders to lie back into the pillows. “Tryin’ to tell me what you want, tonight?”

She thrusts one of her legs over my waist, straddling me fully as she lets one hand drift across my ink-covered torso while the other readjusts the hat on her head. Fuck, she really is fine as hell. Has a different look to her than most of the women back in Joslyn. A little grittier, a little more confident in herself. My hands immediately grip her thick thighs as I lick my lips, glad she picked up on my insinuation. 

“I’ll take whatever you wanna give me, baby…” I say as my hips buck up into her, her bright red nails digging with a little force into my chest. My eyes blur from my drunkenness, but I can feel my heart racing with anticipation for whatever the night is about to bring me. The TV behind her is blasting late night MTV videos, Peter Gabriel, Dire Straits, ZZ Top… the light casting the silhouette of her perfect figure right in front of my face. Her tits are sitting perfectly in the lace, and I find myself slipping quickly into the feral mindlessness of foreplay. I reach my hand up to free her breast from the confines, gripping her left cup to rip it down. 

I feel my mouth salivating as her perfect nipple perks up, and I feel no shame in taking it all in my hand. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous baby…” I praise her, my filter nearly completely gone. I squeeze at it a few times before sitting up to take her in my mouth, bringing my tongue harshly across her nipple. Her head dips back at the contact as she sits down a little harder on me, grinding her hips a little and looking for friction. 

“Fuck, Cowboy, we’re really gonna get into this?” she asks, her hips already circling on my hardening dick. 

I hum onto her, making her hiss between her teeth. “Mmmhm, unless you want me to take you back home…”

“No no, no…” she urges, shaking her head side to side as it falls back, and I free her other breast, taking it into my mouth as well. “I’m good here.” 

Her nails dig into me a little bit more, showing me that if we want this night to keep going how it is, I need to get myself together. She huffs a loud breath as she sits back, unbuckling my leather belt as her hands start to hastily shake. Her head tilts down and she looks at me again under the brim of the cowboy hat, her bottom lip sucking in and out of her mouth. 

“You need a hand?” I ask, offering my help with the belt and button. She nods a little, and we work together to pull my pants and underwear all the way off. My dick springs free as she drops my pants to the floor and I can hardly decipher the string of words and obscenities that fall from her gorgeous red lips. She leans down, and without any warning at all, takes me all the way into her mouth. 

My head falls back in surprise as my hips act on their own, pressing themselves to get me deeper into her throat. “Oh, shit, Sherry baby…” My hands find hers, and I give them a tight squeeze to let her know that I’m okay with going forward. Not that I really had any say so, anyway. Her tongue glides across the length of my cock, already begging for more as she pays special attention to the tip. Her red lipstick makes for a sinful visual, even in the partial darkness. 

The air in the room is already starting to heat, heavy with the smell of lust mixed with cigarettes and bad decisions. I thought maybe I’d change when I left Joslyn, and I did, in many ways. But goddamnit if I didn’t keep the same fuckin’ love for my vices. Cheap beer, rolled smokes, and women. All shapes and sizes, all makes and models, fuck. I’ll never fuckin’ grow up, and I’m not sorry for it. And now I’ve added a whole new love to my roster- playing the ever-loving fuck out of a guitar. 

“You wanna look at me, or not?” Sherry breaks my train of thoughts after she pops her lips off the tip of my dick. 

I take a deep breath, watching as her hand takes the place of her mouth, slowly and languidly gliding her grip up and down the length of it. “Whatcha mean, baby?”

She crawls up on me, placing one hand on either side of my head. She leans down, placing the tiniest peck on my lips. “Reverse, or…” 

“Oh…” I breathe, my body begging for more of her touch, anything at all, anywhere. “Can I pick both?”

She laughs a true laugh, displaying a dimple in her cheek, crawling back down the bed and stepping off the end of it. Her thumbs hook in the side straps of her thong, and she slowly sways her hips from side to side, pulling it slowly down her legs. She shimmies free of it before turning around, bending at the waist as she gives me quite the show yet again, just like I’d tricked her into doing at the bar. 

“Fuck… bring yourself over here…” I beg of her again, holding my two middle fingers up to beckon her. My entire body is writhing with want, and I can feel myself already teetering on the edge of pleading. She does as I ask, her bottom half completely uncovered now as she crawls up on me once again, before turning herself around backwards. Yes, baby. 

She glances at me over her shoulder before taking me in her hand again, working me up to where she wants me. She uses the utmost care in making sure I’m there again. She’s still flawless in the blue light of the TV as “Every Breath You Take” by the Police pops on behind her.

“Ugh, god I hate this song,” she complains quietly, and I barely hear her over the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. I’m too blissed out with the visual of her ass grinding against me to even register what she’d said. 

“It’s so…whiney…” she complains again, her hand still working me. Her hand feels buttery soft against my cock, and I have to stop my stomach muscles from tightening in on themselves. God, I could already fuckin’ bust. “M’sorry Cowboy, I gotta turn this shit off. I can’t concentrate.” 

“Damn, whatcha got against Sting?” I chuckle, a little miffed that she’s hopping off me to reach for the television knob. She twists it once, and I huff an aggravated breath as the news pops on. 

It’s fuzzy and the picture is blurred, but I guess it appeases her more than the music did. She takes her position again as she grips my dick in her hand, leaning down just a little bit to take me in her mouth again. My hands knead at her ass as we pick right back up where we started from. My teeth are biting hard into my bottom lip, stifling the noise I want to let fly. “Goddamnit, Sher-“

Now, Sherry isn’t the first woman I’ve fallen victim to since leaving Joslyn, and she most definitely won’t be the last. Sometimes I think back on my time with Y/N, and how things had progressed so quickly with her before I got my head on straight and realized that I was moving in a direction my moral compass didn’t need to point. And when I realized my brother was madly in love with her. 

Things had felt good with her during that time, and honestly, I thank her for it. Though we only spent a fraction of time together, she gave me a taste of what it felt like to truly care for someone in that regard, and she let me know that maybe my heart is big enough to love someone other than just Jake and Bubba. Watching her and Jake together taught me more than they ever even knew, showed me that with the right counterpart, even lungs full of cigarette smoke and hearts full of resentment can turn on a dime, and reciprocate a love they’d never even known before. 

Love?

Nah, I never felt love for her. At least I don’t think I did. I did feel serious enough to want to change my life for her, that much was true. But thankfully I caught myself before I started to tumble. She helped me learn that I am capable of doing it, I can be that man for the right woman, if and when the time comes. 

But that time isn’t now, and that woman isn’t Sherry. 

“Fuck me, baby… god yes…” I groan into the thick air as Sherry finally sits all the way down on me, taking me fully inside her with one swift motion. I huff a fast breath through my gritted teeth, sitting up a little to get a better view of her. I grip her hips as she starts to rise up and down, getting a rhythm together as she starts to bounce. 

Her hands move from in front of her on the bed, and one reaches back and grips her left ass  cheek while the other holds on tight to my hat on her head. She feels like fucking heaven, silky sweet and velvety as she switches between backward thrusts. “How’s that, Cowboy? Feel good, baby?” she asks, her voice breathy as I watch her ass bounce against my thighs. She twists her head around to look at me with an eyebrow perked as she awaits my answer.

“Yeah… fuckin’ tight, baby, s’ perfect…” I could say more, but she switches herself up and hops to balance on just her feet, giving herself more space to ride me. She balances perfectly without the help of her hands, and somehow, the sight of her fucking just the tip makes me want to let it all go right there. Her wetness is dripping down on me, and it takes everything in me not to grab her hips and pull her all the way down again. But the show is just too damn good. I’m impressed, I really am, and I wonder if she does this with every victim at the bar that she flirts her way home with.

Ah, who gives a fuck. I’m her choice for the night just as she is mine. 

This view has me throbbing inside her, and for a second I don’t know what to do with my hands. She starts slowly swirling her hips, her hands balanced on her knees as she works me to near perfection. “You’re gorgeous baby, keep it right there…” I groan, my entire body starting to burn with need. I bring my open palm across her ass, eliciting a high pitched squeal from her, followed by a devious laugh. Somehow, I knew she would like that and the visual of my red handprint on her skin pushes me even further.  

I grab her hips and pull her down onto me, and I swear she feels even better than she did before. She falls back down to her knees into the position she was in before, still gyrating back onto me. I move my legs and sit up on my own knees, pressing a hand to her back as she leans down to all fours. I press deeper into her now, nearing myself closer and closer to the edge with this new angle. I feel rabid now, wanting to have all of her that I can in what I know will be this short span of time. 

“Ssss, fuck…” she grits, her voice a near whine now as I begin pounding into her ruthlessly. Her walls are fluttering around me violently, and I realize now that I never even told her my name. 

“Yes… yes…” She arches her back as she bucks her ass onto me, spreading her knees apart on the bed below and pressing her face into the mattress. “Harder, Cowboy, please…”

The hat is still hanging on for dear life as the room around me loses its shape, and all I can think about is the vicious sound of our bodies smacking together. I’m sure the neighbors are enjoying the sound of the headboard rattling against the wall, but I truly couldn’t care less. I’m trying to be careful not to leave bruises on her hip bones, but given the way the night has gone, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, anyway. 

Without warning, I feel her hand reach between her own legs, gripping my balls firmly in her hand, and giving them a few tight squeezes. The sensation has me mindblown and my knees weaken, like she knows exactly where my weakest spot is without me even telling her. 

“Fuck, you’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?” I ask, my hips moving at an ungodly pace as she continues to squeeze. I’m not sure if she wants me to cum faster, or if she really just wants to give me a show. For this to be the first night the two of us have met, she’s really uncaring of any of her manners. 

“Mmhm…” her breath is heavy, pitiful and wanting as I continue my relentlessness. “Just want you to feel…good, baby…” she whines through the thick blankets on the bed. Her hands are gripped tightly into them now, as she holds herself in this position. 

I take a fistful of her hair in my hand tightly at the root, and pull her up to me. My sweat-covered chest is pressed against her back, and I grab one of her tits with my free hand. I stay buried deep inside her, and I can feel both our pulses raging through us as we catch our breath. “Sexy, Sherry…” I breathe into her ear. Her hips start looking for friction, and she begins grinding them back onto my cock again, slow and ragged as I know she’s getting near the finish line. 

She falls onto her hands again and I feel us both begin to reach that point, and the muscles in our bodies start to shake and tremble. My eyes blur over as I wait to hear the sweet noises fall from her lips, but instead I’m met with another sound. 

“Cowboy…” she says, her voice stern. But I barely hear her as I concentrate on my own pleasure. “Cowboy!” she repeats even louder, but I continue to drown her out, not letting up on pounding into her. 

“DANIEL?” she yells, quickly pulling herself away from me and hopping across the hotel room.

“What, what? What’s wrong Sherry?” I ask, suddenly surprised and confused. She rips a sheet from the bed and covers herself with it, and I notice that her eyes are blown out with fear. She cowers in the corner as her eyes dart back and forth, searching for her clothes. I’m completely confused, and a little blindsided as my body tries to figure out what it should be doing.

“You– I, it’s you!” She points to the TV as the picture flashes across the screen. All I see is the face of a news anchorman, reading something off the papers in his hands. 

I stand from the bed and walk closer to it, watching as he continues to read. “Sher, it’s just the news, what do you–”

“Get away from me!” she cries, stepping back harshly into the wall. “Don’t touch me!” She suddenly seems as if she is a trapped animal, searching for her escape.

I instinctively walk toward her. “Sherry, what in the world?! I’m sorry if I–”

“Stop! Don’t come any closer! You fucking liar!” Her eyes are wide and terrified as she looks at the television again, and I’m nearly frozen in place as I try to piece together the past few seconds. I look from her to the TV again, and the picture is staticy and fuzzy. I back away from her and adjust the antenna, watching as the picture clears a bit. I turn up the volume and listen to the anchorman speak. I feel my legs hit the back of the bed and I sit down harshly, waiting to see what in the fuck Sherry saw for myself. 

“Authorities are asking for the public’s assistance in locating these men, as they are believed to be armed and likely dangerous. It is positively believed that they are directly responsible for the death of a man in Joslyn, Missouri, by means of murder by arson. Both men fled the town shortly after the incident, and are believed to be living separately, or traveling on the run.” My hand shoots to my mouth as I watch in complete terror as a sketch of mine and Jake’s faces cover the TV screen. “Authorities are just now building a solid case, and need your help in finding these men. If you have any information regarding their whereabouts, please call the telephone number at the bottom of your screen.”

I feel the blood drain from my body as I take the first breath I have in nearly a minute, and I feel myself going into a state of shock. 

What… the fuck…

I feel Sherry’s body rush toward me as she drops the sheet that was covering her to pick up the clothing she had strewn across the dingy carpeted floor. “I gotta get out of here…” she rushes, her hands shaking. 

“Sherry, listen to me. I can explain-”

“Explain? Explain what?! That you’re a murderer?!” she screams, and I watch as fearful tears begin to well in her eyes. She hastily pulls her shirt over her head and I listen to her breathing pick up as she tries to calm herself. 

“I’m not a murderer, Sherry! Listen to me! I swear you have no reason to be afraid of me…I–I just let me talk, please…” I beg her, my voice rising with the temperature of my skin. 

“Stop. Shut up. I’m getting away from you, and I’m callin’ the police,” she says through a completely shaken voice as she steps back into her shorts. I can tell she is in complete self-protection mode. 

What in the fuck is going on? How did this happen?

My heart rate starts to rise as everything hits me… the sketch of my face on the screen, Jake’s face… armed and dangerous, wanted for murder by arson… My head is spinning with confusion, with worry, with the sudden want to run, myself. I think about Jake, and about Y/N, and how I haven’t spoken to them in a few days. Do they know? Where is Bubba, are he and Geraldine okay?

It’s then that I realize I can’t let Sherry go, I can’t let her call. 

“Sherry, stop. Can you just listen to me for a second?” I ask again, grabbing her by the shoulders with as little force as possible. She tries to pry herself away, so I switch gears, knowing that if she isn’t going to listen, I have to use another tactic. “You do not need to get into this, this goes a lot deeper than it looks on the surface, Sherry. Please. I’m not a monster. I swear to god, I’m not.”

“You expect me to fuckin’ believe you? You never even told me your fuckin’ name! Daniel, is that even it?” she cries, the tears flowing down her face. 

“Yes! Yes, that is my real name. That much is true. And the other man, that’s my brother. His name is Jacob. Jake,” I explain, trying to throw sincerity into my already panicked voice. I adjust her shirt that she had pulled back over her head, straightening the fabric to cover her more. “We are from Joslyn, Missouri. And… And-”

“And you fucking killed a man!” she yells, ripping herself from my hold. “You’re insane! Are you a serial killer? Because if you are, I swear to god that you won’t leave this goddamned town in one fuckin’ piece, do you understand me?” she threatens, catching her breath. “I’ve got friends, Cowboy, friends in low fuckin’ places who would walk to the ends of the earth for me. I wouldn’t test my fuckin’ luck. All it would take is one call, and you’d be a dead man, yourself.”

I watch as she swallows, suddenly feeling a bit brave as the sexual mindset completely leaves us both. 

“I don’t doubt it, Sherry. I don’t doubt that one bit.” I swallow down my panic and sit back down, trying to diffuse the situation as best as I can. In a split second, I bargain whether or not I should tell her the whole story, the whole truth, but I know that would leave her with more questions that I fear she simply won’t care to have answered, as scared as she is. I want to be honest with her, I really do. But I also want to seem as clueless as I can so as not to make things worse. “I’m not a serial killer. I swear to god. I may look rough around the edges, and barely have a penny to my name, but I’m no killer, Sher. Swear on my life.”

She’s clutching her purse in her arms, hugging into herself with her worried facial expression tight as she takes my words into consideration. She’s listening to me…

“Back at home, my brother Jake and I were into some deep shit, some shit we didn’t want to have anything to do with, but we had no choice. Had been years upon years of never ending cycles of threats and manipulation. We had nothing, we were nothing. We weren’t saints, but we were good, honest, working men. Just tryin’ our best to survive, ya know? We uh… we were being threatened, our lives were being threatened… our home. The people we loved…” I rub a hand across my face as all the memories of just a few months ago come rushing back to my mind. Bubba, Josh… and Sam…

“It was going to end badly. It was going to be deadly in ways that we couldn’t even fathom. Along with innocent people who loved us getting caught up in it, too. These men were monsters, liars and cheats. Gave a damn for no one but themselves. So we got some help. We got some help from our own friends in low places, Sher, and they helped us to make moves to end it, get us out of the situation. And it uh… It just so happened that the man who was threatening us, the man who wanted us dead, got caught in the crossfire. He came to kill us, but ended up killing himself, instead.” I know it’s not the entire truth, and there are details that I could go on about for days, but for now, this explanation will have to do. I have to make sure she sees my side of the story. If not, it’s handcuffs. 

I feel bile rising in my throat from even disclosing this much. She shouldn’t even know that much of the story. I could have lied, I should have lied… but for some reason something deep inside me stops me from it. I’ve never been a liar in my life and I won't start now.

Sherry’s body is shaking with adrenaline, or maybe even fear, but she’s calm. “Why you tellin’ me this, Cowboy?” she whispers, pulling out a box of cigarettes from her purse. She plucks one out and lights the end, taking a long drag. Her hand shakes as her thumb and ring finger balance on her cheek, the smoke billowing around her face. 

I swallow. “Because, it’s the truth. Last thing I’m gonna do is lie to you. Don’t have any reason to.”

She takes another long puff, and I find myself envying the nicotine. “Why ain’t you lyin’ to me? You don’t even know me…”

I shake my head, pulling the sheet back over my exposed lower half. “I’ve never been one to lie. Never really got me anywhere but in trouble, anyway. I ain’t got a perfect past, Sherry, that’s the honest truth. But I’m not running from my demons, I’m running from a past that I don’t want followin’ me.”

She brings her lips into her mouth, taking another few puffs of her cigarette. I say a prayer that she’s considering my plea. It feels like hours that I stare at her just standing there, her eyes floating around the room before her cigarette is nothing but a filter. She moves to the nightstand, putting out the butt in the ashtray by the phone. She turns her back to me and blows the last puff of smoke into the air before her hand scratches the back of her head. 

“I ain’t gonna call the cops,” she admits quietly. 

I stand quickly and go to her, stopping myself from taking her in a full embrace. “Fuck, thank you thank you, Sherry. Really, I– Thank you.”

“You’ve got one hour. Get your shit, and get the fuck out of here,” she warns, crossing her arms again. “If I see you here still, it’s straight to the police. And don’t ever come back to this town, do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah I get it. I won’t,” I promise as I begin working to collect my few things from the floor. She stands and watches me as I pack, and I know that she’s fighting the urge to go back on her word as her eyes move from me, to the phone, to the door, and back again. This is taking a lot from her. 

I finally have my few items shoved into my bag, and I realize that reality is once again hitting me right across the fucking face. I sit on the edge of the bed and pat the blankets, inviting Sherry to come and sit by me. She does, slowly, and with the utmost caution. 

“Why you helpin’ me?” I ask quietly. 

“Cause,” she chokes, pulling her tongue to the side of her cheek. “Feel like you’d’a done the same for me. I’ve been where you are, Cowboy. Maybe not for arson, maybe not for murder, but I’ve been there.”

I nod in understanding, extremely thankful understanding.

“And I don’t feel like you’re tellin’ me the whole story. Sounds like you and your brother have some skeletons in your closet. And I ain’t no judge, and I ain’t God. Who am I to decide what your reasonin’ was?”

I take a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for her words. I take her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips to kiss over and over. “I need you to understand that it was life or death for us. Was us or him. The cards we were dealt just happened to fall that way. We did nothin’ in cold blood, Sherry. Please believe me.”

She finally looks me in the eyes for the first time in a while. “I believe you, Daniel. I don’t fuckin’ know why, but I do. God, I’m insane for doin’ this…”

“You might be, Sher, but that’s why you and I were drawn to each other, I think,” I try to lighten the mood, and she gives me a half smile.

“Still don’t like you,” she groans, giving me a lethal side eye.

I stand and wipe my hands across my thighs. “You must like me some…” I lean down to her, letting my nose graze across hers. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. I hear her breath hitch as I watch her reason with herself on deciding to let me, or slap me. 

When she doesn’t pull away, I lick my bottom lip, gently brushing it across hers as her eyes flutter closed. My heart rate rises again as my body reacts, suddenly pulled right back into where we had just left off minutes ago. I must be fuckin’ sick in the head. 

“Fuckin’ vagabond,” she whispers, her breath hot across my lips. “Criminal…”

I laugh against her. “I ain’t none of them things, baby. Troubadour, maybe…”

I let my lips crash onto hers again, pissed at myself for being this way. Why am I this way? I need to run…I need to call Jake.

But she kisses me back, her hand immediately flying to the back of my head to pull me in closer. God, she’s just as fucked up as I am.

It’s heated and messy again as I push her back onto the bed, her nails already digging into my back as we writhe together. She moans into my mouth as I press my groin into her, making sure I’m in just the right spot. We lie like this for a few minutes, both of us knowing we’re soaking up the last bits of each other that we’re going to get.

“I ain’t lettin’ you fuck me again, Cowboy. This is just a goodbye kiss…” she breathes, her teeth nipping at my stubbled jawline. 

“You sure?” I ask as my eyes roll back. “I never got to hear you come for me…”

She laughs a guttural cry, shaking her head as she scoffs at me. “And you won’t. Not right now, at least.”

I grind between her legs again. “Thought you told me to never come back to this town?” I ask cheekily.

I pull away, looking her in the eye as she takes a quick breath to speak. “People saw me leave with you. Same people who are watchin’ the news, right now. They will recognize you. They’ll be breathin’ down my neck with interrogation on your whereabouts before the sun rises. I was a drifter once, too. Looks like I’ll just have to go back to my old ways…”

“Run with me, Sherry,” I ask before my mind can even process the thought. 

“Nah, that’s not part of the deal.” She pats my chest with her hands, signaling me to get off of her. So I stand, understanding that our time together has come to a close, and I need to make a fuckin’ break for it. “Shame, though. You’re some of the best dick that’s come through this town in a while.”

I can’t help but laugh at her as she stands from the bed along with me. “Thanks, I think.”

“Get the hell out of here, Cowboy. Go. Don’t talk to nobody, and keep your head down. Head East and don’t fuckin’ look back, ok? There’s a fueling station about twenty-five miles outside of town on Route 40. Red pumps. Stop there, they don’t think twice about drifters. Call your brother from there. Let him know you’re comin’.”

“How’re you so good at this?” I ask her, slinging my bag over my shoulder. 

She sucks her teeth as she fixes her hair and residual lipstick in the motel mirror. “Told you I was a drifter once, too. Some things are just in your blood, ya know?” She turns to me, craning her neck up as we prepare to say an actual goodbye. 

“Can I give you somethin’ to remember me by?” I ask, holding my cowboy hat out to offer to her. 

She shakes her head, taking it from my hand and placing it back on top of my curls. “No, you’re gonna need it. It’s gotten you this far…” She adjusts it on my head, brushing a few stray hairs away from my face, in an act of pure softness. “Actually, wait,” she says, brushing past me to open her purse sitting on the table. A few seconds later, she emerges with a brand new Polaroid camera in her hands. “How about a photo to remember you by?” 

I second guess it, not really wanting a perfect stranger to have her own photograph of me, but Sherry has shown me more mercy than I deserve tonight, and a photo is the least I could do. 

“Sure, why not,” I agree, adjusting the hat on my head once again. 

“Here, put these on,” she suggests, handing me my aviator sunglasses that were by her bag on the table. I oblige, feeling a little out of place, but going along with it all anyway. She pulls the camera up to her eye and positions her finger over the button, making sure I’m in the frame. “Smile for me, baby…”

I know my cheeks blush at her words, but she snaps the photo before I have the chance to make myself look ready for it. 

“Hope I didn’t break your lens,” I joke.

“Nah, it’ll be perfect. Thanks.” Her smile sends butterflies through my stomach for the third time tonight, and if things were different, I might have asked Sherry to come on the road with me for real. But I know that the issues I’m running from are bigger than anything she needs to be involved with, right now. Maybe I’ll see her again some other time, in some other smoky bar.

I grab her chin between my fingers, laying a sweet kiss to her lips. “I’ll see you around, Sherry. Thank you. Be safe out there.”

She gives me a sweet wink as she sniffs a quick tear away. “Back at ya, Cowboy.”

—

“Come on… please pick up… pick up…” I whisper into the payphone as I try to will Jake to answer on the other end. The last we spoke was about six days ago, and he and Y/N had been traveling around scoping out places to live. They’d settled in a little apartment just outside of Memphis, where I had originally planned on busking around to make some cash. I liked it there, but the winds of change kept me rolling down the road to a new nowhere.

I’d ridden into this tiny slice of highway with only my guitar on my back and my bag hooked to Ruby, and I silently thank her for carrying me this far on my journey. The guys in the band had let me put her in the cramped equipment trailer that they had luckily left unlocked when I left the motel. Careless sons of bitches, I could have easily stolen anything I wanted.

I hated leaving them without any word, but they’ll most likely see the news, and be glad that I decided to run away, anyway.

“Hello?” a gravelly voice answers.

“Jake, hey, did I wake you?” I yell anxiously into the payphone at the gas station Sherry had told me about. She had been right, the attendant never even looked at my face as I threw my gas money onto the counter.

“Yeah, it’s fuckin 4AM, what’s wrong?” he replies, his voice thick and full of sleep. “Are you OK?”

Fuck. Of course he hasn’t seen the news. 

“Ah, no not really… are you uh. Are you with Y/N?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair as I peek around the corner to make sure Ruby is still sitting where I parked her. 

I can hear him rustling on the other end of the line, finally getting his bearings. “Yeah, she’s right here, why? What’s goin’ on?”

I clear my throat nervously, “Turn on the news. Local, maybe.”

I hear him rustling around again as he pulls himself out of bed, taking a deep, shaky breath as he wakes Y/N. “Danny, I don’t like that you’re not fuckin’ tellin’ me what’s going on.”

“Just go,” I urge him, my head on a swivel. 

There’s a pause before I hear him move around and switch the television on. “You’re lucky, we just got this fuckin’ TV yesterday… Hardly know how to work the damn thing yet.” he complains.

“Just–” I bite my tongue, waiting for him to see what he will inevitably see flash across the screen very soon. There’s a pause again and I hear the faint sound of Y/N’s voice beside him.

“Oh my fuckin’ god,” he says blankly. “Oh… oh, fuck. What–”

“Just listen to it,” I say quietly, letting him listen to the whole news story. 

“That’s our fucking faces, Daniel.”

“I know. I know it is,” I begin to pace as far as the short payphone cord will let me. “What the fuck are we gonna do?”

I hear Y/N’s worried voice again. “Jake, what… they can’t do this…”

“It’s gonna be okay, baby” he reassures her, but I can hear the doubt in his voice. “Danny, where are you?”

I clear my throat again, getting my head back on straight. “Uh, just outside of Topeka. ‘Bout 25 miles. I’m headed your way.”

“Do you know my new address?” he asks, overtop of more rustling and heavy breathing.

“Yeah,” I reply, “got it memorized.”

“Well forget it. We’re going somewhere else. We can’t be here,” he says angrily. 

“Jake, but, you just–”

“Y/N, do you remember Oz’s address? Lucienda’s?” I hear him ask her, and I immediately agree that going to them might be our best shot, even though Oz is most likely still serving his time for the last circus we got ourselves into.

“Yeah, I think so…” I hear her reply. “But Jake, we can’t just leave…”

I hear subtle aggravation in his tone, but he manages to keep it at bay. “I paid ahead three months’ rent, Y/N. We’re just… gonna leave for a while.”

“Jake what the fuck are we gonna do? Turn ourselves in?” I press. 

“I–I don’t know yet. No, we just play dumb for now. We need to get to Lucienda. Talk to her. She’ll be able to protect us for a while, she’ll know what to do,” he says. 

“I’ve got my fuckin’ bike, Jake. I won’t be able to make it anywhere fast, especially not to fuckin’ Miami,” I say, suddenly a little panicked again. I pull my tin of smokes from my pocket and light the end of one. The rush of nicotine instantly fills my lungs and calms me. Well, enough for now. 

“I know you can’t,” he says, taking a breath. “We need to go back to Joslyn first.”

“Joslyn?” I practically yell into the phone. Quickly looking around. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?! That’s the last place we need to go, Jake!”

But in the back of my mind, I know he’s right. We don’t have to show our faces, just a quick in and out to hide my bike and grab the last bit of cash we ended up hiding back in Ace’s safety deposit box for emergencies. And, we have to make sure Bubba is safe. With this new surge of information, god knows whether or not Teddy’s guys have gone after him yet, looking for some type of vengeance.

“You know I’m right…” he says quietly. “How long has it been since you’ve talked to Bubba?”

I swallow, taking another drag. “Week and a half. Maybe two.” I hadn’t been traveling with the band very long, but I know that I had told Bubba of the good news of them hiring me on, so it was around the same time. The last we talked, he claimed he was safe and sound. 

“Same here,” Jake says, taking a long pause as he thinks. “Get to Joslyn, stay quiet. We’ll meet at the old house by the creek. Nobody even knows that place is there anymore. It’s our best bet.”

“Okay,” I agree, nodding my head. “You gonna call Bub? Or do you want me to?”

“I’ll call the diner. Tell Geraldine everything. She’ll tell the truth, Bubba will sugarcoat if there’s anyone fuckin’ with him.”

“True,” I agree, exhaling again. “We can’t get on a fuckin’ plane, Jake. Someone will recognize us. It’ll take us days to travel to Miami and we need to get there fast.” My mind suddenly starts to spin with all the different plans of action. None of them seem like the right one. Traveling to Miami seems like too much land to cover, but staying in Joslyn doesn’t feel right, either. 

“Then what the fuck do you suggest we do?!” he exclaims. “We ain’t got a fuckin’ home, anymore, Daniel.” I can tell he whispers that last bit into the phone. 

“I’ll meet you at the creek. We’ll make a plan from there.” I stomp my cigarette out onto the cracked pavement, my skin beginning to sweat with nerves as I glance around again. 

“Okay,” he says again through a huff of grievance.

“Bub’s okay, right Jake? He’s alright?” my voice feels hollow as the words fall. 

I can hear Jake exhale on the other end, the same rush of worry flowing through him as it runs through me. “Yeah, he’s alright. And if he’s not… If they’ve touched him again…” He’s quiet for a second, and I can almost hear his teeth gritting together. I know that the exact same thought is running through both of our minds. I haven’t seen Jake mad in a really long time, but I know it wouldn’t take much for him to snap back into his old ways, especially when it comes to Bubba.

“I’ll see you at the creek,” I say with conviction, and I hang up the phone, wholly not ready for this journey. 

—

Well, here I am. Joslyn. Dirty and run down as ever, quiet but loud at the same time. A once bustling town rich with life and aspiring men looking to provide for their families now a mess of cracked sidewalks and sunken rooftops. Failed and closed storefronts, abandoned homes… the list goes on. This place is never gonna fuckin’ change. 

It’s been a long two days’ travel coming back here, and I halfway regret not renting a vehicle to be a little more inconspicuous coming back into town. But, an unknown car rolling through Main Street might set people off all the same. 

My stomach churns with old nerves coming back to the surface again, old habits and muscle memory making me feel like my head is already on a swivel again. It’s nearing 8PM as I roll into town, so I’m careful not to hit the throttle on my bike any more than just a light idle. The last thing I need is someone hearing me and suspecting I may be back.

As the late evening sun begins to disappear from the sky, I pass by Wanda’s motel, still just as shitty and run-down as it was. Teddy’s dry cleaning building, now looking either half-alive or closed completely since he’s not around to make it look like an actual fake business now. The bank, the countless churches… and the grocery store. 

The grocery store. 

I grit my teeth as I realize that Jake, Y/N and I will need supplies and food if we’re going to be hiding out in the old cabin for a few days. I hope to god his ass thought to bring blankets and pillows, and hopefully some food. I wonder if they’ve beat me here. I have no way of knowing, besides going all the way there first to check, but then if I don’t stop, I risk spending a whole night without food or water. Or whiskey.

I quietly pull my bike into the back parking lot of the store, parking it alongside the building behind the ice cooler. My hands are already shaking, I have to admit, and as I pull the kickstand down, my eyes dash quickly to my sides to ensure no one has followed me. Just a few stray bodies here and there coming in to grab a TV dinner before retreating back to the trailer park to finish off a six-pack. The coast is seemingly clear. 

I pull a cigarette from my tin and stretch my legs, hyping myself up to go into this grocery store where nearly everyone knows my face. Or, knew my face. After a minute or two, my boot extinguishes the butt of my smoke and I take a deep breath, the finally-cooling Autumn air filling my lungs and bringing me back down to earth a bit. I grab the cowboy hat from my pack and place it diligently on my head, tucking my hair up underneath it to conceal another one of my identifying factors. I pull out my wallet to make sure I still have enough cash for some food, at least, and I step in through the glass doors. 

It looks and smells exactly the same, musty cardboard mixed with the faint scent of a floor cleaner, with the fluorescent lights overhead barely providing enough light to brighten the poorly stocked aisles. I don’t know why I expected it to be any different, we’ve only been gone a few months, though it feels like an eternity. 

I put my head down and make a mad dash down the first aisle, luckily remembering the place like the back of my hand. I grab a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a box of saltines, tossing them into a shopping basket I’d found abandoned in the aisle. “What else, what else…” I whisper to myself, ignoring the eyes of each and every person I walk by. My heart is thrumming in my chest as I pace up and down the aisles, throwing a few more cheap yet necessary items into the basket. 

When I’ve finally gotten it full, I race to the checkout line, but not before stopping and grabbing a half-pint of Early Times, a box of matches, and a bag of cut tobacco. I place my basket onto the checkout counter, keeping my head down still as I realize the clerk is someone who knows me well. Knows me very well. 

“You 18, kid? Can’t sell you this if not…” he says, his voice still just as crackled and raspy as the day I met him. He stands the whiskey bottle up on its base as I swallow my nerves down, one by one. He cranes his neck to look at me from underneath the bill of my hat. 

“Kid, hey, you got any ID on ya?” he asks again, his wrinkled hands the only thing I can focus on. Fuck. He sees my ID, he recognizes me. Recognizes me as the murderer on the loose, in the very town he ran from. My heart is pounding, how had I not thought of this? He’s never ID’d me before, but then again, he knew me. He snaps his fingers when he realizes I’m not meeting his eyes or answering him. 

I peek up gently, thankful that I’d decided to leave my sunglasses on at the last minute. “Ah, ya know, left it at home, I think. Had a long day. I don’t need the bottle,” I say, trying like hell to conceal my voice, yet keep my local accent. I push it to the side as I pull my wallet out and prepare to pay for the rest. 

“Shit,” he says under his breath. He scans the whiskey and slides it into a paper bag, slipping it in beside the rest of my items before hitting the total button on his register. “Ain’t no thing. Can tell ya hands is dirty, can’t deny a workin’ man his vices,” he grits quietly. “That’ll be $19.70,” he says a little louder now, and I feel a relief lift from my shoulders, all the sound coming back into my ears now that my heart rate isn’t flying. 

I can finally hear the muffled music coming over the speakers in the ceiling, along with the beeps of the checkout lines beside me. I pull a twenty from my wallet and graciously place it in the man’s hand. It’s funny, all the years I’ve been coming to this place, and I never learned this man’s name. He doesn’t even wear a nametag.

“Appreciate that, old timer. Saved me a night of sittin’ with my troubles,” I reply, avoiding his eyes again as he hands me my change. 

“Don’t we all need that,” he grumbles as he hands me my bags. “Ya know, I don’t recognize you. You from ‘round here?”

Goddamnit, goddamnit. Think.

“Uh, yeah. From up on Bolter Street. Been gone awhile, moved back to take care of my folks,” I say, clearing my throat. I used to live on Bolter Street, many many moons ago. That part isn’t a lie.

“Hmph,” he grunts, pulling a toothpick between his lips as he squints at me. “Not a lot of folk live on Bolter much anymore. Street kinda died with the town.” I can tell his tone is interrogatory, and I feel the sweat beginning to pool on my forehead. Get it together, Daniel. 

“S’why they called on me.” I nod and give him a curt smile as I begin to back away. “Have a good evenin’, sir.”

I grab the bags and tip the brim of my hat, making my way back out of the store and into the fresh air. “Fuck,” I breathe as I reach my bike. That was fuckin’ close. If it was that hard to get groceries, how in the hell are we going to do literally anything else?

I cram the bags into my side packs, uncaring if I smash the bread or not. I’m anxious, and desperately in need of a damned drink. I wish like hell I could go to Canaries’ for a beer, but who knows what state that hellhole is even in, anymore. Or if the clientele is even the same. Shit, that place used to be a haven for people like us, until it wasn’t. Until Teddy and his crew turned it into a place where you had to look over your shoulder every other second, or else you risked a cue stick across your back if you said a sly word. 

I need to make my escape, and I need to make it fast. 

I kick the stand on my bike and pull the key from my pocket, sticking it into the ignition and turning it over a few times before she starts. I plan to take as many back streets as I can to avoid going straight through town again, but that’s not as easy as it looks. Passing by the diner is going to be necessary. 

A minute or so later, I’m cruising by Louie’s Diner, the parking lot only holding two or three vehicles as opposed to the normal ten or twenty. Strange, I think to myself, and I slow down and peer in the windows a little more closely. There behind the counter is Geraldine, looking worse for wear than I had seen her in a very long time. Maybe ever, actually. My heart falls as I realize she looks nothing like herself. Her hair isn’t fixed, and her nails aren’t painted their normal bright, red color. 

I quickly glance to the end of the bar where Bubba normally sits, finding the chair to be empty. Again, my stomach falls at the realization that he isn’t there, waiting with Geraldine to finish up her dinner shift like he normally is.

Shaking my head, I concentrate my attention back onto the road in front of me as the abandoned houses begin to turn back into the forest, and the two-lane turns back into one. I snap my headlight on as I rack my brain, trying to think of where Bubba could be, if he is okay, and why Geraldine looks so down. My stomach churns with nerves at the possibilities, but I hold out hope that maybe he had just gone home for the night, and Geraldine is just tired. 

I cruise down the winding road toward the creek, trying like hell to breathe in the fresh air to calm me. I pray I don’t pass any police cars, or anyone who would recognize my bike. But as the asphalt turns to more of a rocky concrete beneath my tires, I begin to feel a little relief. Man, I could really use a fuckin’ smoke. 

I cross over the bridge and turn onto the dirt road, the same one that Jake, Ace, Bubba and I had used so many times to get to our special spot on the creek. Darkness has fallen now, and I find myself feeling a little nostalgic at the scenery. For the first time in months, I see things that I could recognize even in complete darkness, I take curves that I could turn blindfolded, and I begin to smell the scent of the murky water and mossy trees that line the creek. No matter how much I hated it, no matter how badly I wanted to run away, this will always be home. Joslyn will always be a place that lives in my heart, no matter how dusted and horrible the time I spent here was. 

I make another right turn, watching for any other vehicles to be parked and out for one last late-night fishing pole cast before the weather starts to break. When I find our spots to be empty, I gain yet another feeling of relief. The gravel turns into thick bedrock, and I use caution as I navigate Ruby down, all the way to the bridge by the swimming hole. 

I park the bike at the foot of the hillside and stand, remembering that I have a spare flashlight in my pack, equipped with brand new batteries. I dig it out and turn it on, slowly panning around to take in my surroundings again. It still looks just the same as it always did, the large leaf-covered trees leaning over the water to provide almost a storybook-like scene. But this town is anything but a storybook. The frogs and crickets know that their time is almost up, and their songs have begun to slow and their tones have become deep. Again, my nostalgia almost knocks me over. 

I push my bike over to a cluster of trees, lodging it between a few trunks out of sight of the road. I bite the flashlight between my teeth and begin pulling my bags and necessities from my side packs. My guitar suddenly feels like a burden, when for months all it was was an object of comfort. Now, it feels like something that might weigh me down the further along I go on this journey. Either way, I throw the makeshift rope case strap over my shoulder and begin lugging my things across the old bridge, straight toward the cabin. 

As I trudge through the thick mud, thankful for my high boots, the beam of my flashlight catches something reflective down the creek a bit, and I nearly drop all the bags in my hands. “Shit,” I gasp, gripping my hands onto everything more tightly. I glance over, realizing that my light had bounced off a tail light. I walk a little closer and shine the light more directly, seeing that the tail light belongs to Jake’s truck.

“Son of a bitch,” I mumble with relief, suddenly realizing that I’m not alone in the least. My best friends are just on the other side of this treeline. Not just my best friends, but my family. 

I put a little pep in my step, letting the thick pine branches pull at my sleeves as I traipse along the muddy creek bed, straight up the incline and onto the trail to the cabin. I feel excited to see them, but also in the back of my mind I know that our meeting isn’t going to be a joyous one. It’s going to be one of deciding on our next move of survival. 

After a few minutes’ hike, I’m finally to the clearing at the cabin, and what I see in front of me isn’t what I expected in the least. Instead of the old, dilapidated building I had spent many a summer in, the cabin is now more of a house, with a new roof, a repaired front porch, and even a brand new front door. What in the hell?

I see a faint light on inside, and I stop for a second, hesitating on whether or not to proceed. Is someone living here now? No, no one knows about this place except for us. And maybe a few trusted others who have caught word of it over the years. 

If it weren’t for me seeing Jake’s truck, I may have considered turning around, but just as I approach the rickety stairs of the cabin, the front door flies open, and a silhouette that isn’t Jake is standing in the doorway. 

“Daniel, my boy! You made it!”

“Bub?!” I drop my bags and the flashlight in my mouth, rushing up the stairs to greet the old man. He wraps his arms around me as I take him around his shoulders, the both of us pounding our open palms against each other’s backs. “What are you doing here? We were going to surprise you!” I say as we finally break apart. 

“Surprise? You boys ain’t as slick as you think you are…” he chuckles a raspy laugh as he replaces his cap on his head. “Practically raised ya, and ya can’t even tell an old man you’re comin’ home?”

“Ah, Bub, we were going to, but–”

“Hey you just gonna leave me hangin’ over here?!” I hear Jake’s familiar gravelly timbre fill the air as he plummets into me, almost knocking me back as his arms embrace me. The embrace of a brother. “Heyyy, brother…” I laugh, not sure of the last time Jake and I actually hugged. It’s funny, we spent so much time together for so many years, I was positive that when I left him and went my own way, I wouldn’t think twice about it. And I didn’t really, until I’d find myself needing to ask him a question only he would know the answer to, or I’d hear an old Neil Young song in a bar. It was at those times that I realized he’s the other half of me, and he always will be. We do alright being apart, but the world feels more at ease when we’re together.

We pull apart, and I catch sight of Y/N leaned in the doorway, her arms crossed across her chest as she eyes us with a sweet, familiar smile. “Well looky here, the two outlaws, themselves,” she grins, and I immediately pull her into the same embrace that I’d pulled Bubba into. She feels a little different now, not sure why, or how, just different. Her hair is longer and she’s got a suntan from the Tennessee rays. My mind hardly ever reminisces on the time we shared together, and I’m thankful for the fact that we have been able to stay good friends after our whirlwind romance. She’s as much a part of me as Jake is, now. Just in a different way. 

I feel her fingernails scratching at my back as we hug, and her voice is muffled as she tries to speak with her mouth pressed against my chest. “You two really couldn’t even manage to stay out of trouble for six months, could you?” she playfully complains. “The hell am I gonna do with ya…”

“Not even funny, Y/N,” I say, pushing at her shoulder as Jake and Bubba make their way inside the cabin with my bags in hand. We follow them in, and Bubba pulls the door closed behind me. He pulls a deadbolt, and a slide-lock, and a chain lock across the brand new door, and kicks a wooden wedge up underneath it. 

“Damn, what is this, Alcatraz?” I ask, too surprised to take a look around the place. 

“Might as well be,” Bubba says, rushing over to the windows to pull the heavy blue curtains in front of them. 

“What the hell is going on?” I ask, finally taking notice of the state of the cabin. The interior has been completely re-done, though not all brand new, it looks better than it used to. The floor is no longer caved in, and the roof has been repaired. There’s a table and chairs, and a large couch in the living area, along with two recliners. There are dishes on the shelves, and a wood stove has been installed in the corner of the kitchen. “What happened to this place?”

“Come, sit, Daniel,” Bubba beckons me, and I make my way over to the chair he has pulled out for me. Jake and Y/N follow suit, and he takes his seat last. The air in the room is heavy, and I realize that the only light is coming from three oil-burning lanterns placed around the old tables and countertops of the house. The warm flickering glow accentuates Bubba’s wrinkles, reminding me yet again that he isn’t getting any younger and that the world has continued turning. 

“I was just tellin’ these two, Danny, I took the liberty of movin’ up here ‘bout, oh, five, six weeks ago. Been trying my best to fix the place up, make it feel like home. I know you two wouldn’t care, and I know your Pops wouldn’t have cared eith–”

“Wait wait wait,” I cut him off. “Moved? What do you mean you moved?”

“I mean, I moved. All my things are here, in the back bedroom,” he responds matter-of-factly.

“What about your trailer? Your place?” I ask, my hands flattening across the dusty wooden tabletop.

Bubba licks his wrinkled lips, bringing his hand up to rub across his shaven chin. “Sold it, son. Property and all. I just… wanted away from it. Wasn’t doin’ me no good.”

“But you said right before we left that you were happy, when we asked you to come with us, you said you were fine–”

“Hell, ‘course I did, Daniel. You wouldn’ta left and gone out on your own if I’d’a told you my plans.” He pauses, clasping his hands together. “Plus, Geraldine and I separated, knew this would be a better place for me, anyway. Give me somethin’ to keep my hands busy.”

All three sets of our eyes grow ten times in size. “Bub, what?” Jake nearly yells. “You separated? Why?”

Bubba waves us off, almost like it is no big deal. “Aw, shit, boys. You know damn good and well why. After y'all left, shit fell apart even worse than it was already fallin’. After Teddy died, and his posse didn’t have a head honcho no more, they started goin’ out on their own, causin’ more trouble than they had before. Stealin’, botherin’ folk… Teddy was a piece of shit but he kept those vagrants in line, I will say.” He rubs his hand over his chin again as he adjusts his legs under the table. “Anyway, I… I didn’t feel safe… havin’ these ties with you boys, and, and the shop burnin’ down and the history we already had with Teddy. I just didn’t want Geraldine caught up in it, ya know? Didn’t want her worryin’, or worse yet bein’ a new target for them boys. She don’t deserve that. Don’t deserve it at all. Thought it best I just leave her to herself.”

“Bubba, that’s ridiculous!” Jake says, and we nod in agreement. “I–I mean, I know where you’re comin’ from, but. You two are in love, made for each other.”

“Yeah,” Y/N adds, “wouldn’t you feel safer being with her? I mean, keeping a closer eye out for her is easier when you live in town, right?” 

Now I know why Geraldine looked so down. She had just gotten dumped. 

I pull the half-pint of whiskey I had shoved in my pocket, cracking the lid and tilting it back for a few refreshing seconds. I pass it off to Jake, and he happily rips it from my hand and does the same.

Bubba grits his jaw and shakes his head and hands at us. “It was for the best, just trust me. But that’s enough about me. We need to figure out what in the hell to do about this new problem of yours.”

“What happened in town?” I ask. “After we left? Did they come after you?”

“I said enough about me, Daniel. You hard of hearin’?”

“He asked you an honest question, Bubba,” Jake says calmly. “Did they touch you again?”

Y/N’s eyes are trained downward as she doesn’t dare bring them away from staring at the table. She knows good and well that if Bubba says yes, that the two of us are going to come unglued. 

“They didn’t touch me. Tried to, few times but.” Bubba shakes his head furiously from side to side. “They don’t know I’m out here. Geraldine still brings me supplies. I try my best and make myself scarce.”

“What do you mean they tried to?” Jake demands.

“Can’t ya leave it alone, Jacob?”

“Tell me, Bubba!” he raises his voice. “What did they do?” I can see the flame of the candle light flickering in Jake’s eyes, and unfortunately, I know that look all too well. It’s the same one that’s probably in my eyes, right now. 

It’s pindrop silent in the room as we anxiously await an answer from Bubba. He’s breathing hard from his flared nostrils, and wringing his wrinkled hands together. He pulls his red handkerchief from his back pocket and pats it along his brow, and I know that if he doesn’t say something soon, I’m gonna jump out of my skin. Hard to tell what Jake would do.

Finally, Bubba looks up from his hands, swallowing hard as his voice is barely audible. “If I tell you boys, you promise not to leave this cabin?”

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[thesmokingguns]

Family Vacation Chapter One

Prologue HERE

This story does feature mentions of previous drug and alcohol use, sex, and adult themes. This is for audiences 18 years or older.

Thank you and I hope you enjoy.

Chapter One 

Izzy POV

After having spent two days this week at different camper rental lots I was finally in my driveway, packing up the RV that I had rented for this excursion that Sky had roped me into. The use of the term ‘roped in’ being used very loosely. I had practically invited myself, if I was being honest. 

How could I not?

Sky was going to be making all sorts of memories with Vaughn. Yes, I did want to be there and get to experience these things with my baby boy but, I wasn’t jealous in my parenting. There would be moments we both missed and that we both got to see ourselves. Parenting isn't a competition. No, it was all about the bond we had. 

Yes, I would love to go on this vacation for my son. I would also love to go on  this vacation and have an excuse to be close to his mother, the love of my life. Maybe we could have another night where we let loose and give my son a sibling. 

Not that I wanted to rush into just making babies with Sky. I selfishly wanted more time for her and I to reconnect and find that love that had been lost.

A sound startled me. Standing in the RV was Sky, Vaughn on her hip munching at one of her chocolate cherry cookies. From the messy candy smear around his lips this wasn’t his first one, either. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Sky shifted Vaughn up, her black t-shirt dragging up slightly with it. I didn’t know if I should look at her tan legs in the denim shorts she was wearing or that bit of skin, “You’re really going to drive this thing by yourself?”

What? 

Myself?

No. This was a family vacation and I was going to drive my….family.

Sky saw the change in my face. I watched the way pity crossed her features, her pretty lips pushing together in a scowl as she looked around. Turning away from me and then looking back at me, a smile flirting across her features, “I guess you do have AC in here. Why don’t you go find your bed, V baby?” 

As soon as my son was on his own two feet he took off, leaving smears from his chocolate fingers all over the clean surfaces of the RV. His laughter makes me smirk as I went back to stocking up the food on the shelves. 

Sky’s legs came into view, her hip leaning on the cabinet I was about to open as she looked down at me, “Jeff, this is a vacation. A time to relax and have fun. I know you’re not happy with the band,” She took a breath as she said the understatement of the year, “I need this time to unwind. If you can’t do this, don’t. Stay home.”

The look she was giving me, her brown eyes staring at me as if she needed me to be honest with her. It broke me a bit. The look reminded me of nights I’d spend snorting coke too late in the back of The Troubadour. Stumbling back to our place smelling like stale sweat, vodka, and bad choices. 

It was the same little frown on her face as she helped me clean up, getting me out of my clothes and putting me to bed. No wonder she is such a good mother when she’s had years of taking care of my pathetic ass. 

My fingers instinctively go to push back my hair, wanting to fist and pull it as some punishment to make me feel better. I know I’m going about this in some attempt to win back the gold medal I had in my life with Sky. I’m chasing that love story, with a happily ever after knowing that I’m the actual villain here. 

Swallowing, I nod my head, “I still talk to Duff a bit. Axl and I tried to talk a few times. Slash won’t start problems. I just,” I’m fucking nervous and acting like a idiot, “I just really want these memories with Vaughn.” 

And you, Sky.

I can’t say that though.

She nods her head, just as the sound of something falling catches our attention. Both of us see our son next to the couch he had been climbing up. He gives us such a wide smile my heart skips a beat, soaking in the way his baby fat still clings to him. 

“Mama! Bed!” He points, proud of himself. Sky is already beside him, lifting him up and going in for a cuddle. 

I need to make this trip work. I need to give Vaughn the family that he deserves. I don’t want to make the mistakes that my parents did. I don’t want him to have to split his time. I want us together. One unit. 

How it should have always been. 

SKY POV

Izzy isn’t fooling me for a second. He’s not subtle in the least bit about how he feels about things and after being married to him and in a relationship with him for the better part of our adult lives, I know what him going on this road trip is all about. 

He hasn’t given up on the idea of us being together yet. 

Part of me wants to scream at this. Slap him and remind him that it was his shitty behaviour that tore us apart in the first place. He had chosen the drugs and rock n roll over our relationship. I accepted this and tried to let us both move on. 

Getting pregnant with Vaughn had thrown a wrench into all of that. 

The other part of me wants to have him live out all the fantasies that I still have about him. Instead of my hand crawling between my thighs at night I want it to be his mouth. The feel of his nose bumping at my clit as he strokes up and down my folds, soaking his face in my juices. Getting me ready to be split apart by that massive fucking cock of his. 

I squeeze my legs together, gripping the bathroom counter in front of me as I look at myself in the mirror. I had an everything shower this morning when I couldn’t sleep at 4AM. I had then gotten dressed in this pretty black slip dress that I bought while thrifting with Aimee a few months ago. It wasn’t anything fancy but it made me feel feminine and sexy in a way that I hadn’t quite felt since I became a mother. It hit a few inches below the knee. I paired the dress with a pair of black cowboy boots, a silver medallion belt that cinched the dress above my hips, and a few silver bangles on my arms. 

My dark hair was wavy, tied back with a crocheted bandana. My silver hoops sticking out of my hair. My lips were painted a darker brown than my skin and I had outlined my eyes in too much eyeliner for the morning. I had attempted to tone down the eye makeup with too many swipes of mascara. 

The whole look could seem like a regular outfit to start a trip or Izzy could look at me and see that maybe he actually has a chance of getting into my pants again.

No!

I needed to be strong. I needed to not have him thinking like that. I needed to pack my vibrator and the extra batteries becasue that was the only way I would be getting through this trip without fucking my ex husband.

“Sky?” Speak of the devil. 

Throwing open the bathroom door, I freeze seeing Izzy in my room. His eyes widen as he looks me up and down. His hands are shoved into the tight black jeans he’s wearing as he rocks back on his heels. 

He looks at me like I’m a cool glass of water and he’s a thirsty man. 

This man also saw his son's big head crown out of my vagina as I prayed I didn’t poop during labor. Something that I will never ask Izzy to confirm or deny.

“Vaughn is just finishing his breakfast. Our bags are-”

“Already in the RV. I loaded them up.” His eyes are still taking me in. No, he’s not taking me in. He’s very much staring at me, “Sky you look-”

“MAMA!” I turn just as a bundle of baby hits my knees. I’ve had years of practice or I would have lost my balance and knocked myself out.

Izzy picks up our son, tossing him in the air and getting the shrill excited laughter from our baby. God, we really did make the cutest kid. IMagine if we had more? 

I really needed to pack my vibrator. “Can you bring him to the RV? I’m just going to grab my purse and check that everythings locked up here.”

Izzy asked his brothers to check out our places. One of his brothers is staying in his house while we’re away and they’ll be coming by mine a few times a week with the spare key I gave to him. It makes me feel a little bit better about leaving. 

Once he’s out of the room, I’m opening my nightstand drawer, pulling out my favorite sex toy, “Vibby, you’re my only hope of making it through this trip.” I grab the extra batteries, shoving them into my bag. 

I should have never told him about this trip. There is no way that we're going to make it through this. 

Izzy POV

The plan is to meet everyone at the first campground tonight by 7PM. It gives everyone enough time to get there, even though it’s only about two hours from where we live. I’m thankful to be driving the RV because if I look at my ex wife one more time my blood is all going to stay pooled in my dick and we’re going to crash. 

That fucking dress. 

What was she trying to do to me? I’m just a man. 

The silky fabric clinging to her thighs as she walks. The way her ass bounces in it as she had stepped into the RV. I wanted to bite it and take a chunk out of it. 

I hit a bump, Sky’s purse shifting on the seat beside me where she left it. I glance to make sure nothing fell out. Seeing  nothing on the seat it takes me a second to hear the steady humming sound of a buzz. 

My eyes scan the dashboard, making sure that no lights are on to alert me something is wrong with the RV. I would fight the guy at the dealership if something was wrong. Nothing seems off though.

Staying quiet, I frown hearing the noise to my right. Glancing off the road for a second I see Sky’s purse is shaking more than it should be. My heart is in my throat as I glance up at the road, making sure no one is near me as I reach across and let my hand go in her bag. I find what is vibrating instantly. 

“Vaughn is down for his-”

She freeze’s as I glance back, looking at her staring at the hand that I’m holding up in the air. The hand that is holding her, impressive, but not as impressive as me, vibrator. Her cheeks darken as she steps forward, yanking it from me and hitting some button to shut it off. She shoves it back into her purse as I use both hands to drive now. 

I’m not going to think about how my right hand was just holding something that was inside her. I’m not going to smell my hand and try to smell her sweet cunt. I’m going to keep it together and be an adult about this. 

“If you’re horny on this trip you know where my bunk is,” I offer lightly. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, turning and storming back to where I’m sure that she is going to hide away from me. 

I should have just asked her if she wanted to stop for lunch. Maybe if I fed her she would have been more receptive. Instead I offered to feed her my dick. 

And we were only an hour into this two week long trip. 

Fantastic.

[ageofwonderland]

Waiting for a Friend - Chapter 1

Pairing: Jake x reader, Sam x reader 

Description: Jake and the reader have a tumultuous relationship, and a spark strikes between the reader and Sam. But will it last? What is the right choice?

It's just something I'm working on - never really written something like this, so let me know what you think :D Kind of sort of inspired by the song Waiting for a Friend by the Pretty Reckless and Jake sings!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time that I realized I was dating a ghost was during the sound check at the Troubadour, a venue that smelled like spilled whiskey and stories people didn’t want to tell. Jake stood center stage, cradling his battered guitar like it was something more sacred than anything he’d ever held with me. His eyes were closed, brow furrowed in that way that made girls with cameras whisper about him like he was a living poem. I watched from the wings, arms crossed, pretending I was cold. 

He sang in murmurs, fragments of a song he’d been writing for weeks, and I still didn’t know who it was about. Maybe me. Maybe not. Maybe that was the point. Jake’s music always felt like confessions meant for a room full of strangers rather than for me, the person who slept beside him, who folded his laundry, the one who learned how to stretch a twenty into breakfast, dinner, and enough gas to make it to the next gig. 

When the last chord rang out, his bandmates shuffled off to grab beers, but I stayed where I was, just waiting. He didn’t look at me. Not even once. 

“Sounded good,” I said, louder than I needed to, wanting to make a dent in whatever world he was in. Jake blinked like he’d just come up for air. “Yeah?” I nodded, trying not to sound too hopeful. “Yep. Really good.” 

He lifted his eyes to me, only half paying attention to me, “You always say that.” 

“You always sound good.”

Which was true, but that wasn’t what I meant. What I meant was: Talk to me. Be here. Miss me like I miss you, even when you’re standing feet away. 

He stepped off the stage and brushed past me, his fingertips grazing my shoulder like an accident. “Gonna grab a smoke.” 

That was Jake. A song for every silence. A cigarette for every conversation we didn’t have. I trailed behind him into the back alley, where the air buzzed with the summer heat and the soft hum of cicadas. He lit his cigarette with a practiced flick, the glow illuminating the shadows under his eyes. He looked tired. He always looked tired. 

“Are you okay?” I asked, because it felt like something someone’s girlfriend should ask. He exhaled slowly, “Just thinking.” 

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

I wanted to scream. Then why does it matter more than me? But I didn’t. I just sat beside him on the crumbling step and watched the smoke curl into the sky, disappearing like every word he never said. Sometimes, being with Jake felt like trying to kiss fog. There was the outline of something beautiful, but no matter how tightly I held on, it slipped through me. He loved me, I think. In the way people love old songs and worn-out sweaters. With nostalgia. With absence. 

He finished his cigarette and stood up. “You coming to the bar?” I hesitated. “Maybe later.” 

“Okay.” He didn’t wait; he just walked off, boots echoing against the concrete. 

I sat there a long time, watching his silhouette shrink into the amber streetlight. A part of me wanted to chase him. A bigger part of me was tired of running after someone who never looked back. 

That night, when he crawled into bed next to me, I lay awake long after he started snoring, wondering if you could still be this lonely with someone breathing beside you. I already knew the answer. I just didn’t want to admit it. 

***

It started with a chord. 

Jake was sitting on the floor of our hotel room, guitar resting on his knee, mumbling lyrics into his phone. I’ve learned to recognize the signs, the twitch of his fingers, the way he rocked gently when he was in it. He was chasing a song again. One that didn’t want to be caught. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to my chest. Pretending to scroll through my phone. But really, I was waiting. Waiting for him to remember I was there. Waiting for the moment he’d look up and ask what I thought, even if he never really listened to the answer. 

“Play that part again,” I said, unable to help myself. 

Jake didn’t look up, just played the chorus again. The same four lines, over and over like a scratched record. “You should change that third line,” I offered gently. “It sounds..I don’t know…flat. Doesn’t hit the way the others do.” 

He froze, hands hovering over the strings. “What?”

“I’m just saying it could be better.” 

A pause, then a scoff, then almost a laugh. “ You don’t even write songs.” He said, pointedly. Sharply. The words sliced quicker than he realized, or maybe he did realize. Maybe he knew exactly how to push me back into my corner. 

I dropped my phone. “So, what? I’m not allowed to have an opinion now?” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You kind of did.” 

He rubbed the space between his eyes, like I was a headache that wouldn’t go away. “Jesus, I’m trying to work, okay? I don’t need a critic. I need space.”

“I’ve given you space, Jake. I’ve been sitting here for three hours in silence while you chase a song that doesn’t wanna be caught, and that probably isn’t even about me!”

That got his attention. He looked up, eyes hard now. “Why does it have to be about you?” 

I stood up. “Because I’m the one here! I’m the one sleeping on motel sheets and living out of a duffel bag and skipping calls from my mom because I chose you. And you barely even see me anymore.” 

Jake set his guitar aside, like it had betrayed him, his voice sharp. “You think this is easy? You think being in my head all the time, trying to make something real out of noise, is easy?” 

That is not what we are talking about 

“No,” I said. “I think being with you is hard. I think loving you feels like clapping for someone who never looks up from the stage.” 

He laughed. He laughed. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

“Did I?” My voice cracked, the heat behind my eyes burning. “Because I thought I was signing up for us. Not just to be your backstage cheerleader while you bleed into a song I don’t even recognize. Not your punching bag when the music isn’t right. Not to wonder who these songs are for. Not to wonder if you even give a damn if I’m here.” 

Silence. 

He ran his hand through his hair, stood, and paced. “You think I don’t care? You think I’m just–just what? Using you for gas money and motel rooms?” 

“No,” I whispered. “I think you care about me the way you care about your old guitar. You love that it’s familiar. You love that it’s always there. But when the string breaks, you get mad and stop playing. 

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. And that was worse than the yelling. Worse than anything. Because at least a fight meant there was fire, now there was just smoke. 

“Right.” He turned, walked to the door, and grabbed his keys. 

“Where are you going?” I asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Out.” 

“For how long?”

He didn’t answer. Just left. The door clicked shut like a period at the end of a sentence neither of us wanted to write. I sat down on the bed, stared at the dent his guitar left on the carpet. That was the thing about Jake–he never made a mess, but absences. Quiet places where love used to be. 

***

The next morning, Jake was back before dawn. I heard the door crack open, his boots thudding softly across the floor, and the gentle rustle of his jacket hitting the chair. I didn’t turn over. He didn’t speak. 

When the light finally slipped through the blinds and brushed against my face, he was asleep. Sprawled on top of sheets, facing away from me, as if even in dreams, he couldn’t quite face what we’d become. 

We didn’t talk about the fight. That was the rhythm of things now: argue, silence, pretend. Rinse and repeat. 

Later that afternoon, the band loaded into the van for another rehearsal. We were parked outside a dive bar with a flickering sign with half of the letters burnt out. Fitting. 

I didn’t want to go in. But I didn’t want to sit in the van like a ghost.

Inside, Jake was already on stage, tuning his guitar like the night before had never happened. The rest of the band trickled in, lazy and loud, except for Sam—Jake’s little brother and bassist. 

He saw me in the corner booth and slid into the seat across from me without asking. He set down a Styrofoam cup and pushed it toward me. “Black. No sugar, right?” 

I blinked. “You remember that?” 

He shrugged. “You’re the only one who drinks it like poison.”

A small smile tugged at my lips, but faded quickly. 

“You good?” He asked, eyes steady. 

“No,” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was the first honest thing I’d said to anyone in days. Sam didn’t flinch. Just nodded like he already knew. “I heard you guys fighting,” he said quietly. “Last night.” 

I stiffened. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I’ve heard worse. Way worse.” 

I looked at him then, really looked. He had one of those faces that never asked for attention but held it anyway—soft angles, quiet strength, dark eyes that never tried to look through you, only at you. 

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” I admitted. “I don’t know if I’m with Jake because I love him or because I’m afraid of what leaving says about me.” 

Sam leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table in time with the distant rhythm from the stage. “Loyalty’s not love. It’s just weight if you carry it too long.” 

His words hit harder than they should have. “What would you do?”

“I’d stop trying to make music out of silence,” he said simply. 

The rehearsal kicked up, Jake’s voice filled the bar, raw and aching. He wasn’t singing to me. Maybe he never had been. 

Sam stood up slowly. “Come walk with me?” I hesitated, looked toward the stage. Jake didn’t even look in my direction. 

I stood. 

We walked two blocks in silence, our steps in sync. The street was empty except for the hum of neon and the echo of a city that never slept, just muttered in its dreams. 

“You know,” Sam said after a while, “You’re allowed to want something more than being second place to a song.” The words burned in my chest, not because they were cruel, but because they were kind. Too kind. 

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I whispered. He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Then maybe start with what you don’t want.” 

I looked back toward the bar, toward Jake. My heart didn’t ache the way it used to when I thought of him. It just felt…tired. 

“I don’t want to disappear next to someone who says he loves me but never chooses me,” I said. 

Sam’s eyes searched mine. “Then don’t.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Not written into a song. Not imagined into a lyric. Just…seen. And for a flicker of a moment, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to be chosen first. 

***

It started small. They always do. 

A glance too long. A brush of hands when passing a coffee cup. The kind of silence that didn’t feel like absence, but peace. 

Sam didn’t push; that was the difference. With Jake, love always felt like standing onstage with the wrong setlist—always guessing, always a beat behind. With Sam, there was space to just be. And in that space, something began to shift. 

We were still in Los Angeles, still in that same motel with paper-thin walls and rust stains on the faucet, but everything else was starting to change. 

Jake noticed. I saw it in the way his eyes flicked to me during practice when Sam cracked a joke, and I laughed just a little too freely. I saw it when I came back from a late-night walk with Sam and Jake asked, flatly, “Where were you?” like he’d just realized I had somewhere else to be. 

I didn’t answer. 

That night, I sat on the balcony with Sam again. We shared a blanket. Not touching. Not even close. Just sitting. The city below us buzzed with life—neon, engine growls, and distant music—but we were quiet. 

“I don’t want to ruin anything,” I said suddenly, not sure if I meant Sam’s relationship with Jake, or my already-fractured relationship. 

Sam didn’t look at me when he replied, “You can’t ruin what’s already breaking.”

He said it without malice. Just the truth. And it hurt in the way honesty does when confronting something you’ve been avoiding for too long. 

A door slammed below us. Jake. Coming back from wherever he disappeared to at night. We both watched his figure cut through the parking lot like a shadow that couldn’t decide where to land. 

Sam stood, “I should go.” 

I nodded, heart pounding. But before he turned away, he looked at me, really looked at me. “You deserve to feel wanted. Not tolerated.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. 

I didn’t sleep that night. 

The next morning, the fight came. 

Jake slammed his guitar case shut hard enough to echo through the motel room. “You’re into him.” 

I didn’t say anything. Because what was there to deny? 

“Sam,” he spat the name at me like it tasted wrong. “I see the way you look at him now. Like you used to look at me.” 

I kept my back to him, staring at the cheap floral wallpaper. “Maybe I just stopped looking at you because you stopped looking at me.” 

He stepped closer, voice sharp. “So that’s it? You trade me in for the first guy who gives you a little attention?” 

I turned around then, shaking. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to act like a victim in a story you wrote.” I yelled with my finger in his face. 

Jake blinked, thrown. 

“You left me a long time ago,” I said, “you just forgot to walk out the door.” 

He exhaled like I’d hit him. “I gave you everything. My life’s a mess, and you’re still the best part of it.” 

“No,” I said softly, “I was the quiet part. The part you didn’t notice until someone else did.”

He looked at me then. And maybe for the first time, he saw me–not the girl in his passenger seat, not the familiar body in his bed, but the woman standing in front of him, choosing herself. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked. And, I didn’t have one. Not yet. 

But I knew this: I wasn’t going to be a song lyric he only sang when he was sorry. I wasn’t going to be the applause after someone else’s show. 

[inklings-challenge]

2024 Team Tolkien Story Archive

Secondary World

All Things Great and Small by @supreme-leader-stoat (unfinished)

Ananse and the Haunted House Club: The Old Poe Place by @rosesnvines: Chapter One

Beyond the Starless Sky by @starknightgirl (unfinished)

The Executioner's Sword by @ladyminaofcamelot

Field Work by @phoebeamorryce

The First Magic Lesson by @o-lei-o-lai-o-lord

From the Other Side of the End of the World by @fictionadventurer

Homecoming by @shakespearean-fish (unfinished)

Honor Among Devils by @icwasher

Inklings Challenge 2024 by @secret--psalms--saturn

Inspired by True Events by @plainshobbit (unfinished)

The Invincible Spell by @bunnyscar (unfinished)

The Lake and the Moon by @rowenabean

The Princess, the King, and the Troubadour by @ladyminaofcamelot

Saint and Sinner by @brisingirl (unfinished)

Son of the Dragon King by @taleweaver-ramblings

Stolen Moments by @fictionadventurer

The Top of the World by @physicsgoblin

Unfinished Tolkien Entry by @shaylalaloohoo (unfinished)

Untitled by @catkin-morgs-kookaburralover

Untitled by @find-the-path (unfinished)

The Woodsman by @ripple-reader (unfinished)

Time Travel

Castaway by @incomingalbatross

Cherished Emery by @simplyghosting

Familiarity by @phoebeamorryce

From the Other Side of the End of the World by @fictionadventurer

In Saecula Saeculorum by @kanerallels

Last Rest by @thegreenleavesofspring

One Last Chance by @ladyminaofcamelot

Playing Catch-up by @lydiahosek

The Princess, the King, and the Troubadour by @ladyminaofcamelot

Stones of Memory by @healerqueen

Tell Me About This Time Loop, Again? by @larissa-the-scribe (unfinished)

Warning Signs by @fictionadventurer

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Troubadour’s Chapter: Journey 3

Unlocked after obtaining the sixth item, the harp.

Narrator: Realizing Loen’s real intention, Wind Elves can no longer sense the whereabouts of Nikki and her friends.

Narrator: Anger turns into hostility. Wind blades are woven into an impenetrable net to attack Loen.

Narrator: But the invincible wind blades can’t even touch Loen’s garment. Loen easily dodges all attacks.

Narrator: The air is full of restlessness, as if Wind Elves are panting anxiously.

Loen: You can’t attack me by doing that. If you don’t understand, look around.

Narrator: They come to the sea of dandelions. The fierce battle awakens the sleeping little white umbrellas.

Narrator: Dandelions’ soft leaves tremble and white fluffy balls fly in the sky.

Narrator: Among the fluffy balls, the traces of the wind are like flowing brushstrokes on the canvas and their traces can be clearly seen.

Loen: The wind is shapeless, but it is visible.

Narrator: Air currents form transparent and swift figures of Water Elves, which gradually emerge in the air.

Flying Petals: Outsiders, get out! Don’t trample on this forest!

Loen: It is the God of Water who wants to destroy this forest, but you aim your weapons at us, the insignificant outsiders.

Loen: Is it because Wind Elves have no guts to fight the God of Water, Arionus?

Narrator: Wind Elves are enraged and the air currents are about to cause a terrifying storm.

Flying Petals. You’ll pay the price for your words and deeds!

Narrator: Loen doesn’t intend to fight. Realizing the goal of delaying the time is achieved, he deliberately angers the Wind Elves to create a chance to escape.

Loen: I’m kidding. Don’t get mad. Bye.

Narrator: While Wind Elves are accumulating power, Loen crosses the sea of flowers and disappears in a blink of an eye.

[imeldaesthetic]

So I decided to try my hand at writing my first one-shot collection for Imelda and Hector entitled:

Before the Music Fades.

Their relationship has always been so interesting to me and so I thought it would be fun to explore what things were like for them when they first had Coco, before he left Santa Cecilia with Ernesto. I posted chapter one over on AO3 already, but I’ll post it here too in case anyone is interested in having a read!

One-shot contained under the cut 🤍

[Synopsis: Long before betrayals and goodbyes there was only music and laughter, secrets whispered under candlelight, and a love stubborn enough to withstand any storm. In this collection of one-shots, Imelda and Hector - still practically kids themselves - learn how to be parents, lovers, and partners all at once while raising their little Coco in a home full of music and hope. A small glimpse into everything the three of them were before the songs turned sour and the music faded away.]

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66671299/chapters/172004329

The Rivera kitchen smelled faintly of soap, warm sun, and a pot of café con leche that had gone cold long ago now. It was a quiet afternoon in Santa Cecilia - clothes were out on the line, dinner was on the stove - and the table was buried beneath half-finished baby clothes, scraps of brightly coloured cloth, and a mountain of idle chatter turned gossip. Imelda, eighteen, sat at the head of the table, posture prim as ever despite the baby weighing almost painfully against her spine. Cecí, her closest friend since infancy, sat loyally at her side, sewing far more with her mouth than with her needle. "It's true! Maria told Lucia who told Sofia who told me..." She paused to take a breath. "She saw him sneaking out through the back door at dawn." She told the group in a half-whisper, Francisca setting down her sewing in surprise and Alba chuckling under her breath, shaking her head.

"¡Dios mio!" Imelda rolled her eyes. "Santa Cecilia is going to run out of secrets at this rate, the way you sniff them out. Like a street-dog to a trash can."

Cecí gave her a look. "I kept yours. I seem to remember you nearly breaking your neck climbing out of your window for a certain troubadour one night. I never said a word."

"Gracias, Cec..." Imelda muttered through gritted teeth.

Julia, rocking her nearly asleep baby boy in her arms, laughed at the other end of the table. "We all knew, Melly. The whole town knew. That esposo of yours doesn't shut up."

Imelda felt her cheeks burn as she brought the needle in her hand through the little nightdress for the hundredth time, running her thumb over the delicate little stich. "Remind me again what I was thinking when I decided to make you godmother," She glanced at Cecí, feigning annoyance. "You're going to fill my child's head with all sorts of nonsense."

"Believe me," Cecí laid a hand on her bump beneath the table, giving it a gentle pat through her dress. "You and Héctor are going to be singing my praises when the little one is here. If he or she ends up being anything like you and I were when we were little, both of you are going to need all the help you can get, corazón, I promise. We were tiranas."

They all dissolved into quiet laughter, hands working stitches carefully as they went on swapping more stories and whispered secrets they had overheard around town. Before long though, the back door opened and their chattering died down. Ernesto wandered in first - like he owned the place - his grin far too wide and far too familiar, his gaze shifting straight to where Imelda was sitting and lingering upon her a fraction too long. She felt it instantly. The little hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. That prickle of annoyance she'd known since the afternoon she met him. Once upon a time, he'd sniffed around her like a dog. He'd cornered her in side-streets. Made drunken promises of fame and riches in an attempt to win her over. He hadn't realized - well, actually, it had probably been more that he simply hadn't cared - back then that she had already given herself, at least in heart, to Héctor. The one the women of Santa Cecilia actively ignored. The one who followed him around like a shadow, playing his guitar.

He'd had a rude awakening though when she'd made a show of leading Héctor off into a dark corner of the plaza after a dance one night, leaving him in no doubt that he was the one she truly wanted. She'd made sure he had been watching. She'd made sure he'd realized that he hadn't won. For the first time in his life, she imagined, he'd been denied something he craved. Something he believed he was entitled to. And, she was certain, he'd never quite forgiven her for doing that to him. Not even now, two years on.

She was pulled from her thoughts when right behind him came her husband himself, guitar slung clumsily across his back, sandy from the plaza, dark hair sticking to his brow with sweat, and that stupid smile of his softening when his eyes found hers. He moved around Ernesto then, forgetting for a moment he was even there, and approached her, bending to capture her mouth with his in a soft, tender kiss. It was enough to make Ceci roll her eyes and Julia avert her eyes politely, clearing her throat. He soon pulled away, the hand cradling her cheek moving to brush a raven curl behind her ear. "I missed you this morning." He mumbled as he dragged his knuckles down her cheek, voice gentle enough for only her - and a smirking Cecí - to hear him.

"Stop distracting us. If we don't get these finished soon, this child of yours will have nothing to wear," She half-scolded, smiling for a moment before it faded. "Mi amor..."

He didn't even have to turn. "Ernesto."

His friend laughed it off, reaching back to rub at the back of his neck while pretending to busy himself.

Alba, now holding Julia's sleeping son so her friend could drink her coffee, broke the tension. "So, Rivera. You ready for one of your own?"

"Not that he has much choice in the matter." Imelda added as she looked up at him, making her friends chuckle.

Héctor's expression softened and he ran a hand slowly over her hair, letting it settle on her shoulder through her shawl. "A little nervous. Well, terrified," He admitted, Imelda reaching up to rest a hand over his own. "But I've been ready for this since the day she told me. She'll be so much better at this than me anyway, so I'll just follow her lead."

Cecí tutted. "Listen to him. Encantador. Haven't you got pesos to go and play for?"

"Alright, we're going," He laughed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at her before turning back to his wife for a second and kissing her forehead. "Try to rest this afternoon. I'll stop by the panderia on my way home and bring you something."

"Mmm, and don't you dare end up down at la cantina!" She called after him as he and Ernesto made to leave.

He could only chuckle as he followed behind his friend, making his way out of the door as the kitchen filled with quiet chuckles and hushed whispers once more.

—————

He shut the bedroom door carefully behind him, wincing as it clicked quietly into place. The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight across the floorboards, silent except for the sound of her slow, steady breaths. He took off his hat and toed off his shoes, slightly unsteady on his feet due to the three - maybe four - shots of tequila he'd had but determined not to wake her. For a moment, he stood there next to the bed, simply watching her sleep. She was curled up on her side, a hand warmly cradling her bump and her long curls like an ink spill across her pillow. Even in sleep, she was divine. He still had no idea what he'd done to deserve her, truly, nor the life he was creating with her, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat if the need arose for him to do so. Without question. Without hesitation. He would.

He knelt on the edge of the mattress, feathering a kiss against her cheek. He should have come home hours ago. He should have been obedient and just said no when Ernesto dragged him to la cantina for 'one drink' on him. He should have been at home with her. Looking after her the way she needed. Letting her put her feet up for once. As he moved to stand again, the bedframe groaned under his weight and Imelda stirred, blinking in the dark. "Héctor?" She managed, voice heavy with sleep and laced with a familiar annoyance. "What time is it? You've been drinking."

He shrugged. "Maybe one or two. You should have seen Mariachi Plaza tonight though, amor, it was alive. So many tips. I did stop by the panaderia, but it was closed and—"

She sniffed the air, brown eyes narrowing at him as he perched on the edge of the bed and cupped her cheek beneath the curtain of her hair. "Tequila again. Ay mi, Héctor."

He chuckled sheepishly. "Lo siento. You know how persuasive Ernesto can—"

"Ah-ah-ah!" She swatted his chest, though it was clear her frustration had begun to settle. "De La Cruz is a lot of things, but he is not to blame for you not having a backbone. I know you heard me say not to go down to la cantina before you left. We need the money. We can't afford for you to throw it all away. Next time, you listen to me. You say no."

"Yes, Señora." He teased, kissing her clumsily on the mouth before climbing over her to his own side of the bed when she shoved him off, tutting, tasting liquor on his tongue. The old mattress dipped under the added weight and she grunted, tying to find a semi-comfortable position a second time while he got himself settled beneath the covers.

She felt him move closer to her once she'd stilled, lacing an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him. Her nose wrinkled. "Ugh. You smell like a cantina floor."

He laughed aloud, muffling the sound in her hair, and then brushed a warm, clumsy kiss against her neck. She felt a shiver run through her as his hold of her tightened, his thumb tracing the curve of her belly through her nightgown. "I'll bathe first thing. Promise. You won't have to make excuses for me with your mamá and papá again."

Despite herself, she relaxed beneath his touch, his mouth on her skin slowly soothing her annoyance. His voice sounded small in the darkness. Innocent, eager for forgiveness. She sighed into her pillow when he found that little spot behind her ear only he knew about. "Sometimes—" She paused for a moment. "Sometimes, it's like I married a child." She reached back, threading her fingers through his hair as he dotted sweet little kisses along her shoulder. She felt more than heard his sigh as he buried his face in her neck.

"I know and I'm sorry," He murmured, his tone more serious. "This is it now though, I mean it. I'll stop being an idiot. I'll bring tips home. I'll be everything you need me to be."

She rolled in his arms to face him - a struggle at eight months gone, but she managed - and they shared a smile when she ran the back of her hand down his cheek. "I'm not sure how much I believe the 'I'll stop being an idiot' part, but I believe all the rest," She whispered. "You have always been everything I've needed and much more, mi cielo."

"I have?" He stroked her hair from her face.

"Mm-hm," She nodded. "And you will be again for this little one. I know you will."

"I love you," He sighed, bringing a hand between them to rest tenderly upon her bump. "Both of you."

She smiled. "We know. We love you too."

He rested his lips against her forehead when she snuggled into him, sighing against her skin as he put his arm around her. "Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

Imelda mumbled something into his shirt - something about daft men and insufferable musicians - but her voice tapered off, sleep pulling her under again, soothed by him. In the silence, he brought his hand back between them and laid his palm flat against her stomach, feeling for the faintest flutter that never came. Their little one, for once, was sound asleep.

Tomorrow, when he woke with a dull ache behind his eyes, feeling irritable and more than slightly sorry for himself, he would promise her again to be better. To do better. He would prove it with actions, not meaningless words. Tonight though, right now, with the little life they had created together safe beneath his hand and her warm breath against his throat, everything was perfect.

[cleoenfaserum]

The Color of Pomegranates

The Color of Pomegranates is a 1969 Soviet Armenian art film written and directed by Sergei Parajanov. The film is a poetic treatment of the life of 18th-century Armenian poet and troubadour Sayat-Nova. It has appeared in many polls as one of the greatest films ever made and was hailed as revolutionary by Mikhail Vartanov. The film is now regarded as a landmark in film history. .The Color of Pomegranates - Wikipedia

THE FILM:

LINK: https://youtu.be/E86IaZXQO60

ANALYSIS OF THE FILM:

LINK https://youtu.be/s2Xw3LvNT20

Timestamps/Video Chapters: 00:00 - Introduction 04:52 - Structure 05:56 - Censorship 08:27 - Who is Sergei Parajanov? 10:49 - Davtar/Daftar 11:53 - Pomegranates and the Kingdom of Armenia 13:26 - Pomegranates and Parajanov’s Other Works 15:01 - Pomegranates and Fertility 18:28 - Pomegranates and Its Evolving Significance 21:12 - Bleeding Dagger 22:09 - Crushed Grapes and Manuscripts 25:04 - Fish between Two Bread 25:45 - Vase and Kamancha (or Kamancheh) 26:53 - Thorns and Religious Iconography 28:07 - Who was Sayat-Nova? 30:02 - Drenched Books 32:25 - Dyed Wool 34:22 - Nature and Sacrificial (Animals) 36:06 - Baths 36:43 - Surrealism, Parajanov and Freud 38:35 - Homoerotic Subtext 40:41 - ‘The Poet’s Youth’ 41:40 - Floating 42:28 - Tableau(x) Vivant/Tableau(x) Aesthetic 44:11 - Mechanical Movement 45:43 - Examples of Mechanical Movement 48:56 - Dialogue 49:27 - Frames, Mirrors and Windows 50:40 - Frames, Cherubs and Anna 52:26- Frames and Graveyards 55:15 - The World is a Window 57:16 - The World is a Cage 58:13 - Mirroring and Repetition 59:00 Sofiko Chiaureli 01:00:49 - Repetition (and Difference) 01:02:35 - Lace 01:03:38 - Pantomime 01:04:26 - Khakuli Icon Triptych/Khakuli Triptych Icon 01:06:40 - King Erekle’s Hunt 01:08:31 - Tomb/Fortress 01:09:27 - The Red-and-Black Sequence 01:10:45 - Llama 01:11:39 - Asceticism and Sensuality 01:13:27 - Soundtrack 01:14:08 - Death of The Holy Father Lazar/Lazarus/Ghazaros 01:15:45 - The Poet’s Dream 01:18:32 - The Nativity 01:19:21 - Nostalgic for Childhood 01:22:07 - Old Age 01:24:37 - Lavash and Graveyards 01:25:54 - The Acceptance of Death 01:26:24 - Skull 01:26:39 - Bleeding Wall 01:27:15 - The Angel of Resurrection

SOURCE OF INSPIRATION: leviathan-supersystem🎬 The Color of Pomegranates 1969, dir. Sergei Parajanovwww.tumblr.com

[hannibard]

"I'm choking from the taste (but I can't help but swallow)"

Chapter 2: The (not so) Calm Before The Storm

Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Summary: Jaskier settles into his new life as things get progressively worse.

Click here to read on ao3

The first few months at the Redanian court weren’t too bad all things considered, (especially in comparison to what was to come, the bard thought wryly). One of the first things Jaskier had to do when he arrived at the palace was surrender his travel-worn clothes, together with his beloved leather jacket, and shave his patchy beard. The clothes were replaced by silk garments in various colors, made to fit Jaskier’s exact taste and measurements. He was also given a haircut, his hair now longer than when he first met Geralt but still relatively short. Apparently Radovid wasn’t a fan of his most recent hairdo. (Truthfully, neither was Jaskier, but he refused to voice that opinion.)

Radovid kept Jaskier on a tight leash, never letting him stray too far during their time together, but he was allowed to perform at banquets and the like. Those were his favorite moments while in Radovid’s presence. He could almost pretend he was a normal court bard when he was prancing around, dancing on tables and entertaining an audience. He had done this plenty of times in the past, but he always found courts stuffy, no matter how much he enjoyed the lavish balls, and usually tried to limit his stays to a season or two. It was the main reason he’d abandoned his noble birthright and became a traveling troubadour that ended up broke more often than not. Courts were only tolerable in small doses.

That’s also what the nobles knew him as. Radovid’s court bard. There were rumors going around, gossip being one of nobles’ favorite pastimes, and many suspected the true nature of his relationship with the king, but none of them knew the specifics. It’s not like they could just up and ask about it without evoking the king’s wrath.

Radovid’s physical changes were nothing in comparison to those in his personality or the way he appeared before others. The façade of the irresponsible naïve prince that only cared about the pleasures of life and knew nothing about politics was nowhere to be found. In his place stood a ruthless and commanding leader that ruled his people with an iron fist. ‘Radovid the Stern’ they called him.

Apparently, in the time between his enthronement and the present, Radovid had engaged in a long and intricate power battle with the spymaster Dijkstra and the court mage Philippa and had come out on top. Now both of them had been demoted to mere advisors, without any real say in the inner workings of the kingdom and forced to comply and assist the king with all his whims.

There was also another reason Jaskier cherished the time he spent performing, something that had nothing to do with the love for his profession. Being at the center of attention, unnerving as it could become occasionally, even for a seasoned bard like Jaskier, also doubled as a shield of protection. When everyone’s eyes were on him, Radovid kept his distance.

Many would argue that there was no better way of cementing a monarch’s reign than the birth of an heir, and since Radovid had yet to take in a queen, him having a male lover wouldn’t exactly be met with applause. Moreover, the king didn’t want any of his remaining family members to get any ideas in response to his sexual preferences. He had bigger problems to deal with petty attempts to usurp the throne by his ambitious relatives.

When he was left alone with the bard it was a different story. Jaskier didn’t have his own quarters in the palace, he was obligated to spend every night in the king’s company. No one could protect him in these moments. Radovid may not have been ready to announce their relationship to the world but that didn’t stop him from leaving a myriad of marks on Jaskier’s pale skin. It was the bard’s responsibility to cover them up as best he could, regardless of their placement. He didn’t know which he hated more, the knowing smirks or the pitying looks he was met with by the servants that helped him wash up and dress each morning.

Radovid didn’t always touch him. Sometimes he just wanted to engage in conversation and bask in the bard’s company. These instances were almost harder than the alternative because Jaskier was forced to pretend to be his usual charming and witty self, when all he wanted to do was scream at the other man to let him go.

Most of the time he was also under the supervision of the not-so-kind fellow that brought the bard to Radovid in the first place, whose name he later found out was Blade. (a bit on the nose if you asked Jaskier, but he named himself after a flower so who was he to judge?).

They had short auburn hair, hazel eyes and a lean physique that allowed them to move nimbly and blend in with their surroundings. It was a true feat because they usually kept their signature hood on, yet somehow their presence was hardly ever noticed.

Blade wasn’t always visible to the bard, preferring to stay in the shadows, but Jaskier knew he was constantly being watched by the ever-present tingling sensation at the back of his neck. And also because all his attempts to escape were immediately squashed.

The first time he tried was about a month in. He had played nice with Radovid in order to lower the king’s guard, while secretly mapping the castle’s interior in his mind. When he deemed his efforts sufficient, he made a run for it during a set break at a banquet. He managed to bypass a handful of knights and almost make it outside when Blade suddenly appeared, blocking his path. They rolled their eyes in disapproval and pulled out a knife, which they pointed at Jaskier and nodded for him to walk back towards the banquet hall.

Despite Jaskier’s fears, the king didn’t mention his little blunder that night. He acted completely normal, being sweet with the bard and talking about his day, to the point where Jaskier assumed Blade hadn’t mentioned it to him yet. But when he was pulled to the bed, it was with far less gentleness than usual. The king had placed him on his hands and knees, whereas he usually preferred positions that allowed them to make eye contact, and entered him after little preparation. He set a punishing pace, his hands leaving dark bruises on Jaskier’s hips, and completely ignored the bard’s pleasure. After he finished, he went to wash up, leaving the bard unfulfilled and dripping with Radovid’s seed on the mattress. They didn’t exchange any more words until the next day.

Some of his other notable efforts to break free included when he tried to sneak in a noble’s carriage unnoticed (it was stopped and searched at the gates), or when he pleaded with an old classmate from Oxenfurt, that had recently inherited his father’s title and had traveled to Tretogor with the intention of pledging allegiance to the crown, to deliver a message to Geralt. (Blade had interrupted them mid-conversation and told the noble that the king wanted to have a word. Jaskier never heard from him again.)

It was failure after failure, so Jaskier’s disheartened attempts became few and far in between. A part of him had even started to feel guilty for wasting Blade’s time. Following the bard around all day was probably tedious enough on its own. Privacy was a concept long forgotten but there was something almost comforting in the knowledge that Blade was never far behind, even if the bard couldn’t see them. Jaskier was so starved for genuine human connection that he was starting to become fond of his captor.

During daytime, while Radovid was busy dealing with his kingly affairs, Jaskier was left to wander around with no real purpose.

The library was, predictably, one of his favorite spots. It contained a vast variety of books that mostly focused on the politics of aristocracy and such topics, in contrast to those at the Oxenfurt Academy or the library in Kaer Morhen whose main subjects were poetry/sciences and encyclopedic knowledge on monsters respectively. Jaskier much preferred the latter two, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The kitchens were a precious place for the bard as well. The servants he usually encountered had at least some sort of idea of his importance to their king, while also being aware of Jaskier’s noble status, so their behavior towards him was strictly polite, maintaining a distance that none of Jaskier’s quips and jokes could manage to bridge.

The cooks and their helpers on the other hand, who were always steadfastly cooped up in their workspace, having no reason to venture outside of it as that’s where their responsibilities lied, knew nothing of Jaskier’s identity other than ‘renowned bard’. They had no clue what was happening outside their little bubble, and for that ignorance Jaskier was grateful.

The head chef, a kind older woman named Burneta, with distinct laugh lines visible around her eyes and messy braids wrapped in a bun, always welcomed him with excitement and treated him to bits and pieces of whatever she’d made that day, in return for a small exclusive performance that Jaskier gave with pleasure.

Her husband, Chleb, was more of the taciturn type, whose job was to help around with tasks that needed physical strength, like butchering entire cows and carrying in ingredients in bulk. He always glared at Jaskier and swiped at him with a towel when the bard made feign advances on his wife but the small grin as he did it gave his mirth away.

Sometimes Jaskier liked to take walks in the gardens. They were beautiful and well-groomed, containing hundreds of flower variations and a few rare species of birds that resided there. The sound of their chirping, the sun against his face and the light breeze that gently ruffled his hair made Jaskier feel alive.

Being outside gave him a sense of freedom, that though false, did wonders for his ever-declining mental health. Sadly, his access to the gardens had been recently restricted after yet another escape attempt. (He tried to jump over a fence only to find another, smaller garden on the other side. Blade was already there waiting for him unimpressed).

Nature had always been of big importance to Jaskier and being away from it made the fact that he was a prisoner all the more real. He couldn’t even look outside since most of the castle windows were decorated with stained glass illustrating Redania’s coat of arms, a crowned silver eagle on a red field, and other such designs.

Whoever created them was clearly skilled, every detail having been made with meticulousness. The colors were vibrant and yet the light that passed through them gave off an elegant glow without being blinding. Aside from their beauty they also served to inspire a sense of patriotism to the masses, while also showcasing the crown’s power and keeping the nobles in check.

When Jaskier was once dragged here by his father for official business as a child as the heir to the Lettenhove estate, he spent hours staring at them. It was the first time he was experiencing such awe. It inspired such powerful feelings to the young boy, the need to somehow captured them pushing him towards his first awkward attempts at poetry.

“I saw you back then.”

Radovid told him as they were lying in bed after a passion filled night. Jaskier had mentioned his long-time interest with the palace windows as a form of small talk, and he was surprised by the excited response he got. It almost felt like the king had been waiting for him to bring it up.

“I used to be a sickly child, and my brother was the heir, so I wasn’t allowed to venture outside my rooms much. My existence as a spare was rendered useless due to my poor health, with most considering the possibility of my survival to adulthood unlikely.” He twisted to his side in order to gather Jaskier in his arms. “Vizimir was nice to me though. He always made time in his busy schedule to come visit, even skipping his lessons on occasion.” He let out a wet laugh. “Though I suspect he was just using me as an excuse to avoid them.”

The king’s eyes were shining with unshed tears, his lips trembling. Vizimir’s death was obviously a raw subject still. This was one of Radovid’s rare shows of vulnerability that he only ever allowed in Jaskier’s presence. Those glimpses of his past self, the one the bard once fell in love with, made Jaskier’s heart swell despite everything.

Radovid shook his head to clear away the memories. “There was a council meeting that day and most of the servants were busy. Due to some sort of miscommunication, I was left unattended. When the hunger got too much, I stepped out by myself for the first time in search of food. The overall anxiety and the fear of being caught almost made me turn back on my heels.

But then, I saw a boy standing in the hallway. He had beautiful brown hair and the most stunning blue eyes. He didn’t notice me in his trance, seeming fascinated by the window décor. I had never met anyone my age and I didn’t know how to approach him, so I settled to just watching him. I think I was as fascinated by him as he was by the stained glass. He made me see it a new light. For me it was just part of the background, something I never thought to pay close attention to, but I wanted to understand the boy, see the world through his eyes. And so I looked again with this new perspective as if it was the first time. The beauty I’d overlooked for so long almost made me tear up.”

Radovid looked softly down at the bard and caressed his cheekbones with his knuckles. Jaskier’s mind was reeling from this revelation, not expecting it in the slightest.

“I later found out, after some pestering, that his name was Julian and that it was unlikely I’d ever see him again. That didn’t stop me from thinking about him though. When I heard the phrase ‘love at first sight’ a few years later, I knew exactly what it meant.”

The king chuckled and kissed Jaskier’s forehead. “I had never asked for much until that point but this wasn’t something I could stay quiet about. Vizimir promised me he’d keep an eye out for news about him and soon after I was informed that Julian had enrolled in Oxenfurt Academy. I begged and begged but my father wouldn’t allow me to attend. When I turned 18 I made up some excuse to visit the Lettenhove viscounty, but when I got there I was greeted by your cousin Ferrant. He told me you had relinquished your title to him and left, managing to slip right through my fingers…

After that instance I stayed out of trouble until my brother could safely ascend the throne, and then I started drinking, partying and the like. I developed an interest in music and poetry and frequently invited bards to perform for me and my circle. My favorite pieces were created by someone called ‘Jaskier’, but I never managed to contact him. Nevertheless, I continued revisiting his work because for some reason it was the only thing that made me feel anymore.”

Radovid pushed a shaken Jaskier to his back with a glint in his eye and gave the bard a long, open-mouthed kiss. “Then a miracle happened. Dijkstra and Philippa wanted my help, the war having left them with few options. I was going to refuse before they mentioned your stage name. They wanted me to use my royal status to convince you to bring them Princess Cirilla, but I didn’t much care for that. I was just excited to meet the person I’d been a fan of for so long.

When I caught your lute and we made eye contact, I instantly recognized you as the boy from my past. Our kiss that night at the Thanned island was one of my happiest moments. But then I fucked up. I tried to take the princess and you started to resent me. When we met again the next day, despite all I did, you gave me hope, and I wanted nothing more than to earn your trust. I returned to Redania and told my brother that I had found someone I wanted to be with and asked for his blessing to go to them. Vizimir agreed but I regrettably never got to depart for reasons you already know...”

Jaskier stared at him in shock. Radovid was going to abandon everything for his sake? That couldn’t be true, could it? No one would go to such lengths for him. Destiny had created an intricate plan ready to play out and Jaskier was but a mere storyteller, fated to follow the main characters around and record their heroic tales. He could help lighten the mood when things got tough and offer what little assistance he could as a weak mortal, but that’s where his role ended. His importance was insignificant in the grant scheme of things and to the people around him.

And yet Radovid held a different opinion. To him, the king of a powerful nation, Jaskier’s sole existence was valuable. He had never felt so wanted in his entire life. He didn’t even think it was possible.

The emotions he felt overwhelmed him. His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was about to burst through his chest. Jaskier grabbed Radovid’s head and pulled his face down, crashing their lips together. It was the first kiss he had initiated since their reunion.

The kiss deepened and Radovid’s hands moved lower down the bard’s body, his thrill at Jaskier’s response apparent. Jaskier’s senses were completely occupied by the man on top of him, he couldn’t see, hear, feel, smell or taste anything other than the king. That changed as soon as Radovid paused the kiss to start mouthing at his neck. With his eyesight back, Jaskier’s awareness started slowly creeping in. What was he doing? Why was he allowing this to happen? ...Was there even any point left in resisting?

Letting himself go would certainly be easier. He couldn’t get out of this situation either way so maybe acceptance was the best way forward. He could just pretend he was there willingly and ignore everything else… Jaskier was about to close his eyes and leave any rationality behind when Geralt’s disappointed face flashed through his mind. What would the witcher think if he could see him right now? If he saw how weak Jaskier was, how quickly he gave in? Besides, the bard didn’t choose this life and that’s not something he could forget no matter how much he wanted tried.

The king’s story may have sounded romantic at first but his actions spoke of something different, something darker, and Jaskier couldn’t allow this false narrative to override the truth.

Having made up his mind, Jaskier pushed Radovid off with as much strength as he could muster. The king was caught off guard and he stumbled backwards until he fell off the bed. It would have been a funny sight if it weren’t for the way Radovid immediately stood up, eyes blazing, and grabbed Jaskier’s hair to drag him close.

“What the hell was that?” All the sweetness from mere seconds ago had vanished.

Jaskier looked at him defiantly. “Something I should have done long ago. What you felt for me both in the past and present isn’t love. It’s obsession. You used the idea of me to help you get through hard times, I get it, and your feelings may have been genuine once but I fear that time is long gone. If you cared about me even a little bit you wouldn’t have fucking kidnapped me! All you care about is yourself and I’m done keeping quiet just to appease you!” he yelled, releasing all his pent-up frustration and misery. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was making him light-headed combined with the overwhelming surge of gratification.

Radovid’s jaw clenched but his expression was eerily calm as he moved his hand from the bard’s hair to wrap around his neck. He slowly started squeezing.

“If that’s what you think then there’s nothing I can do. You’ve had months to come to terms with the situation, and I’ve gone above and beyond to make you comfortable. I’ve been so fucking patient and this is how you repay me?!” Radovid’s harsh voice gradually got louder as he spoke. “I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.”

In the blink of an eye, he had maneuvered Jaskier on his back against the bed, choking him still. The grip was tight enough that the bard’s airways were completely closed, and he was left desperately gasping for air. He tried to claw Radovid’s arm away, which didn’t budge an inch.

“But there’s something you’re forgetting darling. Remember what I said to you at our little reunion when you refused to join me?”

Jaskier’s vision was beginning to blacken, but even then, the memory flashed clearly through his mind. He let out what was meant to be a whimper but came out as a choking sound.

Radovid understood the recognition in the bard’s eyes and he smirked cruelly in response. His free hand came up to stroke Jaskier’s torso, running through his chest hair and pinching a nipple when it came into contact with it. He leaned close to give a teasing little bite to Jaskier’s lower lip before hissing in his ear:

“If you won’t come with me willingly, I’ll just have to take you by force.”

That was the last thing Jaskier heard before everything went dark.

Next chapter

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 12 Teaser

✨ catch up on hide if you’re just getting here ✨

🌙📚 browse the masterlist for more love, mess, and maybe a little magic ✨💔

🎧 listen to salvage—the album riley swore she’d never release, and then did anyway.

The warehouse in Burbank hummed with the controlled chaos of preparation. Banks of speakers towered along the walls, cables snaking across the concrete floor like electrical veins. Riley sat at the piano center stage, her fingers moving across the keys, sweat beading at her temples despite the industrial fans spinning overhead.

"Let's run 'Mad Woman' again," she called to Pete, who was adjusting levels at the sound board twenty feet away. "The bridge still feels muddy."

Andy groaned from his position stage left, guitar hanging loose around his neck. "We've run it six times, Riles. It sounds fine."

"It sounds good," Riley corrected, pulling her hair back into a messy knot. "But it needs to sound perfect. We've got three weeks before the first show."

Daniel, sprawled behind his kit with a water bottle pressed to his forehead, gave her a look. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't a protein bar?"

Riley ignored the question, already counting them in for another run-through. But halfway through the second verse, she held up a hand. "Stop. Stop."

The music cut off abruptly, leaving only the whir of fans and the low buzz from the amps.

"The tempo's dragging," she said, frustrated. "We're losing the bite."

Pete looked up from his board. "Riley, we've been at this for six hours."

"So?"

"So maybe the tempo's not the problem," Daniel said gently. "Maybe we're just tired."

Her phone buzzed against the amp beside her. A text from Joe.

Joe: How's rehearsal going? Taking breaks?

Despite her exhaustion, she found herself smiling. Since their conversation by the pool two weeks ago, Joe had been... different. More present, even from a distance.

Riley: Define "breaks."

Joe: Sitting down for more than 30 seconds

Riley: Does playing piano count?

Joe: Nice try. Real breaks. Away from instruments.

Riley: Then no

Joe: Riley

Joe: Go eat something real

What Riley didn't know was that Joe had been working behind the scenes, texting her bandmates individually, asking what she needed when he couldn't be there to provide it himself.

"Joe?" Pete asked, glancing at her phone.

"Telling me to eat actual food," she said, still typing.

"Smart man." Pete looked over. "He showing up for you better now?"

Riley shrugged, but her voice had eased. "Yeah, we're both slammed—but we still talk every day. Calls, texts, whatever we can manage. One of us always checks in."

Pete raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Sounds like he's showing up, then."

Sometimes showing up meant more than just being physically present. Sometimes it meant learning how to care for someone from 2,000 miles away, coordinating with the people who could be there when you couldn't, making sure the person you loved was taking care of herself even when she was too stubborn to do it on her own.

Three weeks until the Troubadour show. Three weeks until Joe's carefully controlled world would meet Riley's chaotic, beautiful one in front of 500 people. Three weeks until his friends would finally understand what had changed him.

But first, someone needed to make sure Riley Carter ate a real meal.