29. The Afterparty
The Afterparty
Rafe
The shower runs hotter than usual, steam fogging the mirror until the room looks like a dream I’m still half inside.
I stand under it until my heartbeat gentles and the adrenaline turns into a pulse I can almost reason with.
The roar of the crowd still echoes in my chest; the taste of sweat and stage dust clings to my tongue.
When I finally kill the water, the quiet hits too hard.
I towel off, drag my fingers through my hair, and go through the motions, the ritual that’s supposed to ground me.
The black shirt first. This one’s got red streaks in the stitching, something Rithy discarded last tour.
He said it was “too suburban” for him, which probably means it still had both sleeves attached.
I roll them up, unbutton one at the collar, try to look like I don't care about any of it.
Then the bracelets, silver and leather, each one heavy with the ghosts of different cities. Berlin, Prague, Seoul, London. The rings come next, one for every tour stop from the first year we survived. I spin them on, one at a time, like armor. The mirror clears just enough for me to see myself.
Hair next. Always a battle of wills. I towel it again, let the waves fall over my shoulders, trying to convince the stubborn strands to behave.
They don’t. They never do. Cologne, just a dab, then another, because apparently my hands don’t trust moderation tonight.
Lastly, the lip balm, Rithy’s fault. He once handed it to me after a set and said, “You look like you’ve been stranded on Mars.
” I’d laughed then but now it's a habit.
A swipe across my mouth, mint fighting against the nerves.
I glance at the clock. Too early to leave, too late to undo any of it. I should sit down, I don’t. I pace, adjust a sleeve, check my phone. Nothing, check again. In the mirror, I try to reason with the idiot staring back.
Be cool. You’ve done this before. It’s an afterparty, not a proposal. You’re going to talk about the show, introduce her to Szklane Serce, have a drink, that’s it. She’s just a friend.
My reflection raises an eyebrow. Even he doesn’t believe me.
Because the truth is, I’m not Obelus of The Riven Altar right now.
Not someone who commands crowds or writes songs that strangers tattoo on their bodies and hearts.
I’m just the nervous kid from high school, who used to sit in the back of class scribbling lyrics he’d never sung.
Every time she looks at me, she manages to look right at him, instead of the creation.
I get the text, she’s ready. I grab my keycard, one last glance in the mirror. “You’re fine,” I tell the boy in the reflection.
He smiles back, like he knows I’m lying. I tell myself I’ve calmed down since the show, that the shower helped, that I’ve done this a hundred times before. Then I see her waiting in the lobby, and whatever I was telling myself collapses.
She turns, and it’s like everything inside me just stops. The dress is a rich, deep purple that shouldn’t exist outside of myth, wrapped around her like a vine. She looks like she’s stepped out of an ancient story. The kind of beauty not meant to be seen under electric lights.
“Hey,” I manage, somehow. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “You look…” I can’t form a word that does her justice, so my brain abandons the effort, making it worse. “Uh, yeah. It’s this way.”
I swipe the keycard for the private elevator. The security light turns green. She follows, the soft scent of her perfume finding me before she does. Inside, she glances at the mirrored wall, then at the floor indicator, then at me.
“Nervous?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
She gives a half-smile. “A little.”
“No big deal,” I promise. “Mostly label people, the stage crew, groupies Rithy or Kiri probably invited. Szklane Serce’s the real draw tonight. They’ll love you. You’ll be the only person who can actually communicate without an online translator, our hero.”
That earns me a laugh, the kind that bubbles up like a melody, the sound alone is enough to make me weak.
When the elevator doors open, I let her step out first, hold the door.
It’s instinct, maybe a little awe. The penthouse sprawls before us in soft gold and glass, a panoramic view of Miami slicing open the skyline.
Usually I’m numb to it all, the luxury, the excess but with her beside me, the whole room breaks into color, like she’s re-tuned my senses.
The second we step inside, the roar hits.
“Look who finally showed up!” Ronan yells, draping an arm over my shoulder, his grin as wide as his arm span. “Didn’t think you’d ever crawl out of your hotel room.”
Kasia’s lips twitch, amused. I nod toward her, silently grateful he’s keeping it playful.
Kiri is already in his corner, flanked by women who look like they fell out of a perfume ad.
Same pattern every tour: he falls hard instantly, promises forever, and ends up half-dressed in a lobby three nights later chasing after them when it implodes because Kiri remembered forever is a long time.
Rithy’s perched on a barstool near the back, hair messy, expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, he looks away fast, suddenly fascinated by his drink. There’s something tight in my chest I can’t name. I let it go.
Before I can linger, our manager, Stefan, materializes, herding me toward a group of execs.
I give Kasia a helpless glance, but Ronan swoops in, already charming her, cracking jokes.
She laughs again, bright, effortless and I have to drag my attention back to the people talking contracts and numbers I don’t care about.
Eventually, Szklane Serce makes their way over.
Perfect excuse. I wave Kasia through the crowd.
She moves gracefully in that way that doesn’t look like trying.
“This is Dr. Kasia Sawadzka,” I tell them. “She’s the reason I can still see well enough to perform. I figured the least I could do was bring her to meet the band whose song she led me to. I’ve been listening to it on loop for weeks.”
That gets a round of smiles and a few jokes in accented English. They’re warm, easy to talk to, grateful for the collaboration. We talk about blending the two languages, the tone of the record, in broken English and zero Polish on my end. Kasia starts helping translate immediately.
“You’ll come to the studio tomorrow?” one of them asks in broken English.
Kasia nods, smiling softly. “Here until Sunday.” Then a string of Polish follows, excited, certain. I don’t need translation, I understand: she’s a hit already.
Then someone else is calling me, someone important, apparently, by the way Stefan’s gesturing.
I force a smile and step away. The women waiting there are the usual, flawless, curious, used to being the center of attention.
I let them take a picture, laugh when they ask if the veil’s at the dry cleaners, play the part I’ve been rehearsing for years. But over their shoulders, I see her.
Kasia’s surrounded by Szklane Serce now, animated, expressive, hands moving as she talks.
The way her face lights up when she laughs, it’s enough just to get to observe it.
I still can't believe I get to watch her again, in person, right here like some stupidly gorgeous miracle. She’s in her element, vivid and alive, her language threading through the noise.
I nod when someone beside me says something.
All I'm thinking about is how many steps it'll take me to be back by her side. She excuses herself from Szklane Serce, heading over to grab a drink and something catches the corner of my eye. I glance over and see them. Two label execs who’ve been around long enough that everyone knows the stories. I’ve had to shake their hands before, smile through the bile, pretend not to hear the things they say when women walk away.
They circle her like sharks scenting blood.
She’s being polite, of course, smiling a careful, nervous smile I’ve seen her wear before when I was a patient in her exam chair. I don't think, I just act.
“Excuse me,” I say to whoever’s still talking. My feet are already moving.
I slide in beside her, hand at her waist, pulling her in with enough authority to startle us both, making myself a human barrier between her and them.
Her breath catches, I feel it run through me, and her hand comes up, instinctive, resting flat against my chest. Half on fabric, half on skin.
The heat of it sparks along me like a live wire.
“Evening fellas,” I say, voice loud enough to carry. “How are we tonight? Enjoyed the show?”
They blink, smile too wide. I don’t give them the chance to recover. “I see you’ve met my date, Kasia.”
The word date lands like punctuation. Final, a boundary with bite. They mumble something, nod too fast, and find somewhere else to be. The silence they leave behind is electric. Her hand is still on me, my arm still around her waist. The air between us charged.
I lean down, close enough that my breath stirs her hair. “Sorry,” I murmur. “Reflex. Didn’t mean to grab you like my mic stand, but those guys are assholes. They don’t keep their hands to themselves if there’s something they want.”
She tilts her head up, eyes meeting mine, and just nods. That’s it, but it’s enough to obliterate any ounce of control I’ve tried to hold onto tonight. Everything touching is fire, her fingers, her skin, her scent, her pulse beating so close I can feel it sync with mine.