Epilogue
Evie
One Month Later
The first thing I learn about “home base” is that it’s quiet in a way the world isn’t.
Not small-town quiet. Not hospital quiet.
A curated, expensive quiet—thick carpet swallowing footsteps, soundproofing in the walls, security glass that doesn’t reflect well. The whole building feels like it was designed to keep secrets from leaking through vents.
Eon owns it. Of course they do.
The lobby is all marble and soft lighting and a receptionist who could probably kill someone with a stapler.
There’s security at every choke point, men and women in plain clothes with earpieces and eyes that flick over you like you’re a package being tracked.
Nobody here is “a fan.” Nobody here is “a civilian.”
Everyone is… inside. The elevator opens onto our floor with a soft chime.
Kaia’s door is three doors down from mine—except it isn’t mine.
Not really.
My name is on the paperwork. I have a key card. I have access like I belong here.
But the place I actually sleep—the place my toothbrush lives, my hoodie hangs, my grief is allowed to exist without being watched—is Kaia’s apartment.
Ours.
That fact still hits me sometimes, out of nowhere, and I feel like I'm waiting for someone to yank it away and tell me I didn’t earn it.
Kaia’s door clicks open before I can knock. She’s barefoot and dressed in cotton shorts and a matching shirt. Hair damp at the roots, not styled, just hers. No glitter, no lights, no mask. She looks like a person who might steal your fries, not a person with billboards.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I answer, like this is normal.
It still isn’t.
Behind her, the apartment is warm and lived-in in a way the rest of the building isn’t.
My shoes are by the entry bench where I keep leaving them.
My jacket is on the hook because I never remember to put it away.
There are throw blankets on the couch, a bowl of clementines on the counter, and a stack of lyric notebooks near the coffee table like the words just… happen here.
And then there’s my stuff threaded through it in small, stubborn evidence: a mug I stole from the common suite, a framed photo of Grandma on the shelf, my hair tie on the end table because I keep taking it out and forgetting where I put it.
Kaia steps aside to let me in. I toe my shoes off out of habit—like I’ve been doing it here forever.
She watches me with that look—the one that makes me want to throw something at her and kiss her in the same breath.
“What?” I demand, already defensive.
Kaia’s mouth twitches. “You’re settling in.”
I scoff. “I live here.”
Kaia’s smile softens. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “You do.”
My cheeks warm. I turn away, shrugging my jacket off. “Where are the others?”
“Common suite,” Kaia says. “Blaire’s doing schedules. Mina’s making tea like we’re in a Victorian novel. Remy’s listening to music, and Jules is—” She pauses. “Jules is trying to smuggle takeout in.”
“That tracks,” I mutter.
Kaia’s eyes flick toward the hallway leading deeper into her apartment, like she’s debating something. Then she exhales.
“I have… something for you,” she says.
My chest tightens automatically. “If you say ‘surprise’ I’m leaving.”
Kaia snorts. “It’s not a surprise. Well, not… like that.” She hesitates, then adds, smaller, “It’s something I wrote for you.”
I cross my arms to hide my hands. “Oh. Okay.”
Kaia leads me down the hall into a small room that isn’t quite a studio and isn’t quite a spare bedroom. A keyboard tucked against one wall. A mic stand, plain and unshowy.
There’s a couch against the back wall, plush and wide.
She gestures at it. “Sit?”
I sit, back to the cushions. Exit in sight even in a luxury tower.
Kaia stands by the keyboard for a second, not touching it yet.
I blink. “Are you… nervous?”
Her jaw tenses—yes, she’s nervous, and she hates that I noticed. “Shush.”
I almost smile. “No way.”
Kaia exhales and finally reaches for the keyboard, fingers hovering as if she’s afraid it’ll bite.
“This is—” she starts, then stops. Her throat works. “You know the storm song? The one I wrote when we were teens?”
My pulse trips.
I keep my voice flat because that’s safer. “Yeah.”
Kaia nods once, eyes on the keys, not on me. “I rewrote it.”
I stare at her hands. “Why?”
Her voice is quiet. “Because the old one was… me trying to love you without choosing you. Trying to make it safe… And then the Chorus stole it from us.”
My throat tightens.
Kaia looks up at me then. No stage polish. No bright smile. Just Kaia.
“And I don’t want to sing the old lie anymore,” she says.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
I force my voice to work. “Okay.”
Kaia nods, taking that as permission. Then she plays. Soft chords. Familiar melody. It lands in my chest like a hand finding an old bruise.
Kaia sings, quiet as a confession. Not a performance. Not projecting. Just letting the sound exist in the room with us.
“Breathe with me—just breathe with me, if your chest gets tight, count one, two, three…”
Her voice is steady. Warm. The sound that used to make me feel like the world could be bigger than this town.
Then the revision comes.
The part that wasn’t there when we were sixteen.
“I said I didn’t have a choice, that’s what fear sounds like when it dresses up as fate. But I did. I did. I chose the world because I was scared to choose you.”
My eyes sting so fast it makes me angry. Kaia’s gaze stays on me as she keeps singing, holding eye contact like she’s done hiding.
“So breathe with me, breathe with me, if your chest gets tight, just count to three. If you wanna run, I’ll run with you, but if you want the truth, I’m telling you: I’m here on purpose. I’m not letting go. I’m not a storm that leaves you broken.”
My throat aches.
The building’s quiet presses in around the notes, catching them, keeping them safe. No cheering. No cameras. No crowd noise. No demon hunger.
Just her voice.
Just me, sitting on a couch in a building I never imagined I’d step inside, letting a girl I love ruin me with truth.
Kaia’s final chorus softens, almost a whisper.
“No promises like chains. No ‘prove it.’ No rules. Just me—still here—when the sky breaks loose.”
The last chord fades.
Silence settles.
Kaia doesn’t move. She doesn’t fill it with a joke. She just stands there, hands still on the keys, watching me like she’s waiting for the verdict.
My voice comes out rough. “You’re showing off.”
Kaia’s mouth twitches, relief flickering. “Maybe.”
I blink hard, furious at my own face. “That’s… unfair.”
I breathe once, twice, like the song told me to. Then I look up at her. She’s still. Open. Real. And something in my chest unclenches just enough to speak.
“You know what’s stupid?” I say.
Kaia’s brows knit. “What?”
“I’ve seen you sing in arenas. I’ve seen you on screens.” My voice wobbles. I hate it. “And this—this is the thing that makes me want to cry.”
Kaia’s throat works. Her eyes shine.
“Your voice,” I add, quieter. “Is still my favorite sound.”
Kaia goes still like I punched her and kissed her at the same time.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
I roll my eyes because if I don’t, I’ll fall apart. “Yeah.”
Kaia crosses the room in two steps, drops to her knees in front of the couch like she’s done being careful, and presses her forehead to mine.
Her hands cup my face, warm and steady.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not leaving.”
My chest aches. I manage, “You’re literally leaving next week.”
Kaia huffs a breathy laugh. “Okay. I’m not leaving you.”
I swallow hard. “Better.”
Kaia smiles—real, whole-face smile—and kisses me. Slow. Intentional. Like we have time. When she pulls back, she stays close, breathing the same air.
Outside, somewhere down the hall, I hear muffled yelling—Jules’ voice, probably arguing with security about noodles. Life continuing. Ridiculous and ordinary and yet also not very ordinary at all.
Kaia brushes her thumb over my cheekbone. “Want to go to the common suite?” she asks, soft. “They’re going to start a fight without us.”
I snort. “Let them.”
Kaia’s smile turns wicked. “Or we could spend the rest of the day in here. In bed.”
Kaia kisses me again, quick and bright, then stands and offers me her hand.
I take it.
And as she pulls me up off the couch, the building’s quiet wraps around us like a shield, Eon’s velvet cage, sure, but inside it, for once, there’s something that belongs to us.
Not a montage.
Not a PR storyline.
Just a girl who rewrote her own song, and meant it.