Chapter 2
SAWYER
“I’m telling you it was nothing!”
Macee gives me the look—the one that says ‘Liar, liar, black lace on fire’.
We’re tucked behind a barricade near the crew entrance, catching our breath while the next band sets up. She’s nursing a bottle of water like it’s holy.
“Righttt,” she says, dragging the word out like it’s heavy. “You’re really going to pretend that Jasper freaking Reign wasn’t eye-fucking you from center stage?”
“I’m gonna pretend I imagined it.”
“Yeah?” She nudges me with her elbow. “Then explain how he just wandered over to the bar and started talking to you.”
I glare at her over my bottle of water. “He didn’t wander…he slithered.”
“Slithered straight to you,” she sings under her breath, smug as hell.
I groan. “Jesus, Macee.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “You rarely go quiet unless something gets under your skin. And you’ve been jumpy ever since he looked at you like you were his favorite sin.”
I roll my eyes. “He looks at everything like it owes him an orgasm.”
“Yeah, well…he was looking at you. And you didn’t look away.” She pauses. “That’s new.”
My fingers tighten around the bottle. She’s not wrong. I hate that she noticed.
“I’ve got enough going on,” I say. “I don’t need to add a rockstar with serial killer eyes to the list.”
Macee gives me another look full of truth and no judgment.
“Maybe,” she says. “But something tells me he’s already added you to his.”
I open my mouth to reply, to brush it off with a joke, anything—
Bzzz.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
My phone lights up in my pocket, like it knows it’s not wanted.
I pull it out and immediately regret it.
Blake ??
8 Missed Calls.
12 Messages.
My stomach knots.
Macee leans over to peek at the screen, and her whole face twists. “Ugh. Seriously?”
I don’t answer.
The first message preview appears across the top, followed by the next one.
Blake: “You’re really doing this? Ignoring me now? After everything?”
Blake: “I didn’t realize radio silence was part of your new job.”
Blake: “Hope you’re not too busy for the people who actually care about you.”
Blake: “Would be nice to hear something other than crickets.”
Blake: “I know I messed up, but you’re not innocent either.”
Blake: “You always do this. You shut down, make me the villain.”
Blake: “I’m just trying to be there for you. Why’s that so hard?”
Blake: “I’m at your apartment. Fix your attitude before you show up.”
I stare at the screen as if I don’t blink, the words will disappear.
Macee leans over, reading them without asking, and her whole body goes still.
“The fuck did he just say?”
I try to tilt the screen away from her. “It’s nothing.”
“No,” she snaps—louder than I expect. “It’s not nothing!”
I glance around, but she doesn’t care who’s listening. Her voice is fire now, she’s not even yelling, but every word lands like a punch.
“You don’t get to tell me he’s ‘just upset’, or ‘just being dramatic’, or ‘just tired’ or any of the other bullshit you’ve used to defend him for the past two years.”
“Mace—”
“No.” Her eyes are bright now, but mostly furious. “You don’t deserve that. Not because you’ve had a screwed-up childhood. Not because you’re scared of being too much or not enough or whatever lie you keep telling yourself to get through it.”
She grabs my wrist firmly. “You. Don’t. Deserve. That.”
My throat tightens. I want to argue, to say something that makes it all smaller than it is. But the words get stuck somewhere between my guilt and her truth.
“You’re not broken,” she says, softer now. “But even if you were, that doesn’t give him the right to punish you for it.”
Silence.
Then—like the world knows exactly how to twist the knife—my phone buzzes again. We both already know who it is.
Macee stares at me. “Please don’t go home tonight.” Macee’s eyes are pleading, but I can’t meet them.
“I have to go home,” I whisper. “Blake probably won’t even be there when I get back,” I say too fast. “He just…gets dramatic. He’ll get tired of waiting for me to get home.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I hate myself for saying them. They sound pathetic. Weak. But it’s not weakness—it’s survival logic. The kind you learn when love comes with conditions and apologies come with strings.
Macee crosses her arms, jaw tight. “And if he is there?”
I shrug, “Then I’ll handle it.”
She shakes her head. “Sawyer, this isn’t something you ‘handle’. It’s toxic and controlling. This is showing up at your apartment uninvited and demanding obedience like you’re a damn possession.”
“I just...” I grip the edge of my camera bag like it might anchor me. “I can deal with everything tonight. It’ll be fine.”
Macee steps closer. “You keep saying that, but you’re not.”
My eyes sting, and I turn away—just to catch my breath so I can pull myself together before I crack in the middle of the backstage chaos.
That’s when I see a flicker of movement in the corner of my vision, half-hidden behind the thick velvet curtain near the rigging. At first, I tell myself it’s nothing—just a shadow, a trick of the light catching on black fabric.
But shadows don’t watch you.
And he’s watching.
Tall. Unmoving. Waiting.
Jasper.
And he’s looking at me exactly like he did earlier—steady, sure, like he’s already decided I belong to him and is just waiting for me to realize it.
A chill slithers up my spine, curling beneath my skin, but it isn’t fear. It’s awareness—like I’ve wandered into one of those stalker romance novels I love to read.
Macee doesn’t notice. She’s still focused on me, her voice tight with worry, trying to fix me with the only tools she has—words. But I can’t hear her anymore.
I recognize that look. Hunger and anger. He heard every word, and I don’t know what he plans to do with it.
***
At the end of the night, I give Macee a quick goodbye and promise to let her know when I make it home. Macee is still muttering something about crashing at her place, but I don’t respond. I wave as I slip my camera bag over my shoulder, and push through the back exit.
I slide into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of leather wrapping around me like a comforting hug. I turn on my favorite metal playlist and turn the volume almost all the way up. Too bad my mind’s louder.
He won’t be there.
He always threatens and puffs up his chest like some big bad wolf, but by the time I get home, he’ll be gone. He’ll have calmed down, moved on, convinced himself I wasn’t worth waiting for.
That’s what I should hope, but all I’ve ever been shown is that nobody stays.
So when I pull up to my apartment and see that he’s still here, I can’t help but feel relieved.
I kill the engine and just sit. Watching the glow of my headlights bouncing off the curb, I kept one hand still frozen on the key. I know I should feel dread. I know I should be worried, but I sit there convincing myself this means I matter. That I’m worth staying for.
Even if he yells at me.
Even if I pay for making him have to wait.
Every step lands heavier than it should in the quiet hallway.
I round the corner at the end of the hallway, and then I see him.
Blake always looks like trouble disguised as charm. Sharp jaw, messy brown hair, soft lips that lie better than they kiss. He’s got that boy-next-door smile, the kind that wins trust before it twists, and he uses it like a weapon.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled low over his eyes like he’s trying to look casual—but I know that stance. I know what comes next.
“Look who finally came home,” Blake mutters as I get closer. “Thought maybe you got lost on your little ‘photo job.’”
I ignore the jab and pull my keys out of my pocket. My hand shakes just enough that I miss the lock the first time.
“I said I’m sorry,” he offers behind me, voice softer now. “Okay? I shouldn’t have freaked out. It’s just…when you don’t text back, I overthink. You know that.”
I glance over my shoulder. He’s already softened his features, already tilted his head, and stepped in closer.
“Baby…” he sighs, pressing a palm to my lower back. “I just wanted to see you before you left. I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it. You know how much I hate fighting with you.”
“Mm.” I nod, small. “I’m just… tired.”
I want to believe it. God, I do. And maybe that’s the worst part.
When I finally get the door open and step inside, he follows without being invited. He always does.
I drop my bag just inside the door; the strap slipping from my shoulder with a thud I feel more than hear.
“I hate fighting with you,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck, like the weight of it all is his to bear.
“Yeah.” I keep my voice soft. “Me too.”
I don’t say more. Not until I figure out which version of him I’m getting tonight.
He steps closer, gentler now. “You’ve been pulling away for weeks. Please don’t act like I’m crazy for noticing. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m just trying to hold on to the only good thing I’ve got.”
“I know.” My stomach knots. I swallow it down with an ugly twist of recognition I wish I could hide better. I hate how easily his words find the places I keep buried.
“I didn’t mean to blow up your phone, alright? I just…” He drags a hand through his hair, stalling, eyes searching mine like the correct expression might erase everything that came before. “I thought I was losing you. And maybe I am.”
“I’m here.” The words come out fast, automatic. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
He lifts his hand to my cheek. Warm. Familiar. The kind of touch that makes the floor feel safer than it is.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispers. “Let me be the one here for you. The one you need.”
“Okay,” I breathe, even though it isn’t. “We can… talk later. It’s fine.”
It isn’t fine. But the word buys quiet.
His lips brush mine before I register he’s leaning in—soft, apologetic, the way he always starts.
“Just don’t be mad,” I murmur, almost to myself.
And just like every other time… I let him kiss me.
Because it’s easier than arguing. Easier than leaving. Somewhere inside, a part of me still wonders if love is supposed to feel like this.
He kisses me again, slow and deliberate. My body answers before my head does; it always has.
“I don’t want to fight,” he says against my mouth.
“We won’t,” I promise, because promising is faster than surviving the fallout.
I don’t kiss him back—not really. But I don’t pull away either. Pulling away has a cost I can’t pay tonight. Pulling away means explanations and reworded history and me on the bathroom floor with mascara tracks, rehearsing apologies I don’t owe.
So I let him kiss me. Let him hold my waist like I’m something precious—even though I know what happens when he’s angry. I let guilt slide in and sit where my voice should be.
He stayed.
He waited.
He said sorry.
And somehow it feels like enough. Even if I know it isn’t.
Even as another part of me still feels that stare from earlier. The one that saw through me like I was glass.
JASPER
Of course she has a boyfriend—fire like that doesn’t go unclaimed. I should’ve walked away, but I don’t. I watch.
I’m on the steps outside the building next door, high enough to see through her window. The glass is slightly fogged, softening the view, but not enough to dull the anger twisting beneath my ribs.
She’s inside, moving like she’s trying to hold herself together.
He touches her like she’s his, but there’s no real care in it.
Just habit. I see the way she leans back first, the tension in her shoulders before she forces herself still.
She’s not kissing him; she’s enduring him. And that’s not the same thing.
Her friend’s voice from earlier cuts through my head like broken glass—impossible to ignore.
“You. Don’t. Deserve. That.”
“This is toxic. This is controlling.”
Something ugly twists in my gut. Not jealousy, but possession.
That kiss didn’t mean a thing, but it told me everything I needed.
She doesn’t feel safe with him. And when she’s mine—because she will be—she’ll never feel that way again.
I’ll strip every shadow he’s left on her, twist her fear into something she chooses, something she craves.
I’ll ruin every man who ever made her believe she deserved less than worship.
Let him kiss her now.
It’s one of the last times he ever will.