Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Sadie
All I Wanted
Paramore
I wake up knowing three things:
One, I slept like garbage.
Two, my lips still feel like him.
Three, there is no universe where I’m normal around Dean Ross today.
The sheets are crisp and too white and expensive in the Sapphire way, like even the fabric expects you to behave.
My room is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint city noise leaking in through the window.
There’s some delivery truck grumbling, a siren far away, a bird squawking, Nebraska being Nebraska.
A safe, boring morning. Except my body won’t stop replaying last night in microscopic, traitorous detail. The elevator. His mouth. His hand on my waist like it belongs there. The way I kissed him back before I even thought about it. The way I said we can’t, but what I really meant was, I want more.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Professional detachment, Sadie. I can do this. I have done this. War zones. Riots. Backstage stampedes. Two presidents and a pop star who tried to invite me into an afterparty I absolutely didn’t want.
One lone guitarist in a rock band shouldn’t rattle me. I’m not built to fall apart over a kiss. Except, dammit, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a crack in a dam I didn’t know I’d been holding.
And today is their first show in Lincoln. Meaning I will see him in ten different versions of almost-naked, almost-feral, adrenaline-soaked Dean Ross and pretend I’m fine.
Sure, right. I can do that.
By the time I get downstairs, the lobby looks like a touring circus hit a luxury hotel head-on.
Road cases stacked in neat rows. Crew members hustling through coffee lines.
Cherry at a marble table with her tablet, tapping out causality chains like she’s running a war room.
Lily in a cute sundress with Larkin on her hip, hair still damp from a quick shower.
Luc hovering beside her, hand on the baby’s back like he’s counting breaths.
My chest does that annoying little twist of affection. Their universe is so different now. Softer. Healed. I’m happy for them. And maybe a little jealous in that way you never admit out loud.
“Morning.” Lily smiles, spotting me. I walk over, her eyes scanning my face like she’s taking my temperature. “You sleep?”
“Like a corpse,” I lie.
She gives me a look. A very Lily look. One that says you don’t have to tell me, but I already know.
“Do you want coffee?” she asks.
“Like I need my next breath,” I joke, but in my reality, I crave coffee like a vampire needs blood.
She laughs and gives me the cup she’s already holding. “Here, take this one.”
“Thanks.” I accept her offering with open hands. Bless her. I take a sip and let the bitterness slap me awake. “Where’s Dean?” I ask too casually.
Lily doesn’t miss a beat. “Soundcheck in an hour. He’s probably already there brooding over a loose guitar string.”
My stomach plummets in the dumbest way, like I’m about to step into a storm without a roof. “Cool.” I shrug, trying to act nonchalant, but know it doesn’t fly when I realize how breathy it comes out.
Lily’s smile is gentle, not smug. “We don’t have to talk about it, you know.”
“About what?”
“Sadie…” She arches a brow as her head cocks to the side. “I saw you leave together last night.”
I look down into the coffee. “There isn’t a what.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Okay,” she acquiesces softly in that way that lets me keep my mask without lying to her and also myself. “But if there is ever a what, I’m here.”
I nod, heart tight. Then I do what I do best; I disappear and bury myself with work. Backstage smells like heat and metal and the sweet sting of electrical equipment warming up. The arena crew is already running cables and checking monitors, and someone is tuning drums in short, sharp bursts.
I move through it like a ghost. I shoot pre-show stills: Luc pacing, Hayden leaning on a case with headphones on, Mikey bouncing like a labrador who found caffeine.
I don’t point my lens at Dean. I am not brave enough to point my lens at Dean. Because every time I look up, he’s there in my peripheral, a dark gravity at the edge of the world.
Black jeans. Bare forearms, that red and black tattoo peeking out on his bicep.
That necklace he always wears - the thick rope chain with a silver pick charm that taps against his clavicle when he moves.
I’ve seen it after shows, during soundchecks, in hotel lounges when he forgets people are looking.
It feels stupidly intimate to notice. He doesn’t look at me.
Not directly. But his presence is a steady pressure in the room, like the air before a storm.
I’m swapping lenses when I hear Cherry bark, “Sadie, can you come here?”
I turn, expecting a camera need or a runner issue. Instead, she’s pointing at Dean. Oh, shit. He’s standing near the side-stage stairs, guitar slung low, looking mildly annoyed and very much like someone who has never once fixed his own cable in his life.
A mic cord is caught on his necklace, looped right at the charm and tugging his collar every time he moves his head. Dean notices me noticing. His expression goes still.
Cherry dips her head in his direction. “His headset keeps snagging. Can you fix it before he rips his own throat out?”
Dean mumbles loud enough for both of us to hear, clearly annoyed. “I’m not going to rip my throat out.”
Cherry levels him with a look. “You will if you tug on that cord one more time.” Then she turns to me. “Please.”
Please? I could say no. I want to say no. But I’m not leaving a man on the verge of showtime with a cable trying to choke him. Also, I’m not a coward. “Yeah,” I hear myself speak. “Sure.”
I cross the few feet between us. Every step is louder than it should be. Dean watches me approach, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to,” he mumbles.
“I know.” I nod, then tut out an order. “Stand still.”
He huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one who keeps running away.”
“Dean.” I dart a warning glance up to his mocking stare.
He shuts up. Good boy. I lift my hands. The necklace glints under the stage lights.
The cord is snug against it, twisted in a stupid little knot that of course had to happen to him.
My fingers brush his throat as I find the loop.
His skin is warm. Heat shudders through him like a live current.
He goes so still I can feel him holding his breath.
“Sorry,” I murmur automatically, though I don’t know what for.
“For what?” His voice is rough, too close.
“For… tugging on you.” My nose crinkles in concentration. “Be normal.”
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “Normal’s not really our brand.”
I work the cord loose with careful fingers, trying not to notice what it feels like to stand this close to him.
Trying not to notice the way his pulse trips under my thumb.
Trying not to notice that cedar and mint scent that always surrounds him.
Trying not to notice that the faintest scrape of stubble shadows his jaw and makes my palm itch to…
Stop. Stop. Stop. I make myself take a breath.
“About last night,” he starts, and the sentence lands like a match in gasoline.
I freeze. My fingers are still curled lightly at the base of his throat. He doesn’t move. If I pull away right now, it will be obvious. If I don’t, it will be worse.
“What about it?” I squeak, my voice thin, and I want to disappear again.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Then dart back up to my eyes, his voice dangerously low. “What would’ve happened if the doors hadn’t opened?”
The air in my lungs disappears. I should answer.
I should make a joke. I should say something sarcastic and safe and Sadie-shaped.
Instead, though, for once, I’m silent. Because I know exactly what would’ve happened.
Because I wanted it to happen. Because my body is still labeled with the memory of his hands.
Dean’s expression shifts, just a fraction, like he expected to be wrong and found proof he isn’t. “That’s what I thought.” He chuckles, then let’s out a small sigh. “You smell amazing.”
My heart stutters just as I finally manage to untangle the last loop. The cord drops free. I swallow. Step back too quickly. “Fixed,” I declare, and it comes out like a warning.
His mouth twitches like he’s not sure whether to smile or scream. “Thanks,” he whispers instead.
“You’re welcome.” I take another tentative step back, but there’s a beat where we just stare at each other.
Then a stage manager calls, “Five minutes!”
Dean gets pulled away by gravity and obligation and whatever else keeps his life spinning forward. But the question stays; what would have happened if the doors hadn’t opened, and it sticks between my ribs like a knife.
The show is loud enough to rearrange molecules.
Lincoln crowds are hungry in a way that’s almost sweet - like they’ve been waiting for this night to mean something bigger than their week.
The pit surges, the seats glow, and Devil’s Halo hits the first chord like they’re throwing a match into dry grass.
I shoot from the pit for the opener. Then side-stage for the next three.
Then up in the seats for wide shots of the crowd.
The sweat. The hands. The lights. Dean is pure fire tonight.
Every riff is sharper. Every step more aggressive.
Every glance thrown to the crowd like a challenge.
And every time he turns, I swear his eyes find me. Not always. Not in an obvious way.
But enough that my stomach keeps somersaulting like an idiot.
When he hits a solo and closes his eyes, head tilted back, that pick charm tapping his skin, I have to lower my camera for a second because my hands are shaking. I would delete the photo if I took it. I don’t take it.
Instead, I keep working. Keep moving. Keep being the ghost that doesn’t belong in the frame. Except I’m not a ghost for him anymore. And that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no guardrail.
When the final song ends and the crowd erupts, I do the thing I’ve always done after shows - I slip out before the afterglow becomes a mess of bodies and adrenaline and too-easy intimacy. Only this time, it doesn’t feel like habit. It feels like survival.
I don’t stop in the hallway. I don’t linger by the dressing rooms. I don’t look for Lily. I walk straight back to the hotel with my camera heavy on my shoulder and my heart heavier. My room is the safest place I know right now. Four walls. A locked door. A shower hot enough to scrub off desire.
I get inside, kick off my boots, and head into the bathroom like it’s a bunker.
The water pounds down, steam rising in thick waves, and I let myself breathe for the first time all day.
Let myself think. The question he asked in my ear keeps circling; what would’ve happened if the doors hadn’t opened?
The honest answer terrifies me. We would’ve ruined ourselves. I would’ve let him. He would’ve kept going. And I would’ve asked for more. I shut the water off before my brain gets any louder.
I pull on a soft T-shirt and panties from my mess of a suitcase, and towel-dry my hair as I sit on the edge of the bed. I open my laptop and start backing up photos. Work. Focus. Distance. It’s the glue that’s keeping me together.
Knock. Knock.
I freeze. There’s no reason for anyone to be at my door.
Lily would text. Cherry would call. Mikey would kick it down and shout something dumb.
Hayden would call out after a light tap.
This knock is loud. Controlled. Insistent.
The second knock comes before I move. My pulse goes feral.
I cross the room and look through the peephole.
Dean. Of course it’s Dean. I knew without even having to check. Damp from his own shower, hair shoved back, black tee clinging to him like a sin. His necklace is still on. The pick charm resting against his throat like it belongs there and I’m not allowed to notice.
I shouldn’t open the door. I open it anyway.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
His eyes track over me. It’s one swift, hungry glance that makes my knees go weak. “Can I come in?” His voice is rough, gravely.
I should say no. I don’t. I step aside and pull the door wide. He walks in, and the air changes with him. The room feels smaller. Like oxygen gets rationed when he’s this close.
I close the door. The click too loud. Dean turns slowly to face me.
“Sadie…” he starts.
“Don’t.” I hold a hand up, because even though I don’t know what he’s about to say, I also don’t trust myself to hear it.
He takes a step closer, ignoring my plea, his gaze locked entirely on me.
“That was a hell of a show,” I try, voice thin. “You played great.”
He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t let me skate. “I’m not here to talk about the show.”
I swallow. “Why are you here?” I try not to stutter.
His eyes flick to my mouth again. Then lower. Then back up. “Because I’ve been trying to be reasonable all day.” His voice quiet. “And I’m done with that.”
My breath catches. “Dean…” I whisper.
He closes the distance. One hand bracing on the door beside my head, caging me in without touching me. The other hangs at his side like he’s fighting the instinct to grab me and doesn’t want me to see how hard. He leans in, so close now that I feel his breath on my cheek.
“I don’t care if this is a bad idea.” His declaration comes out on a growl. “I don’t care if Cherry would kill me. Or if Luc will shove me off a roof. Or if you’re going to hate me tomorrow.”
“Dean, please.” I’m not sure if the words are a plea or a challenge.
His mouth twists. “I’ve had a taste of you, Sadie.” My entire body goes hot. His gaze stays on mine, fierce and wrecked and honest in a way that makes my ribs ache. “And once,” he murmurs, his tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip like he can still taste me, “is not enough.”
My back presses into the door. My hands are at my sides, clenched so hard my knuckles sting. I should stop this. I should say no. I should shove him away. Instead, my next question comes out like an invitation. “Then what do you want?”
His eyes darken. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
I don’t. I don’t need him to. Because I want it too, I’m just not sure I’m strong enough to survive the answer.