Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sadie
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
John Mayer
I sleep like garbage. Not because I’m not tired. I am. But because my body won’t stop replaying the way he kissed me last night. Slow. Deliberate. Like something he chose instead of fell into. Which somehow makes it harder.
I stare at the ceiling while the air conditioner rattles against the Florida humidity, thinking about the way we stopped before things tipped too far. How neither of us pretended it didn’t matter. How he didn’t run, but he didn’t stay either. It leaves everything… suspended.
By the time my alarm goes off, my eyes burn and my thoughts feel carefully stacked, like one wrong move will send them sliding everywhere. I shower, dress, and pull on my professional face; the one that says I’m fine even when I’m anything but.
Backstage that afternoon is a blur of heat and movement. I slip into it easily, camera up, focus narrowed to frames and light and angles. Work is the one place my brain behaves.
I don’t look for Dean. I don’t need to. He’s at stage left, guitar in hand, head dipped as he runs scales. He looks calm. Grounded. Like someone who slept better than I did. He glances up when he senses me because he always seems to, and our eyes catch.
There’s no distance there. Just awareness. Something steady flickers through his expression before he looks back down at his guitar, like he’s choosing not to push. I let him.
At some point I’m crouched near the pedal boards when a shadow falls over me. “Hey Sadie.” His voice is quiet. Careful.
“Yeah?” I don’t look up yet.
“You okay?” he asks. The question isn’t loaded. That’s what startles me. I straighten slowly, camera strap sliding against my shoulder.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
He nods. “Me too.” A pause. Not awkward. Just unfilled. “I meant what I said last night,” he adds, low. “About taking it slow.”
I meet his eyes then. “Me too.”
Relief flickers there. Not triumph. Not hunger. Just relief.
“Okay, good,” he nods, a small smile appearing. That’s it. No dramatic exit. No spiraling. He steps back, giving me space, and goes back to soundcheck like a man who’s trying to learn a new rhythm instead of blowing the song apart.
I exhale. That night after the show, I go straight to my room. Shower. Upload photos. Let the quiet settle.
My phone buzzes.
Dean: You awake?
I stare at it for a second longer than necessary.
Me: Yeah.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dean: Can I come by? Just to talk.
My heart stumbles, but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation.
Me: Sure.
When I open the door, he’s standing there like he’s aware that this matters. Hands loose at his sides. No bravado. No armor.
“Hey,” he greets me with a shy smile.
“Hey.”
He steps inside. The door clicks shut. Silence stretches but it’s not heavy. Just expectant. “I didn’t want today to feel weird,” he spits out finally.
“It didn’t,” I answer honestly. “It felt careful.”
His mouth curves faintly. “That’s a new one for me.”
“Same.”
Another pause. Then he exhales. “I don’t want to lose whatever this is. But I also don’t want to rush it just because I’m bad at sitting with tension.”
That lands. “You’re not losing anything,” I reassure him softly. “You’re just learning how to stay present without panicking.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “When you put it like that…”
I step closer. Not touching yet. “What do you want, Dean?”
He doesn’t dodge this time. “I want to try doing this without wrecking it.”
Something warm settles in my chest.
“Okay,” I say. “Then we try.”
He nods once. Steps forward. Close, but waiting. I don’t stop him. The kiss is gentle. Exploratory. Nothing like the hallway fire. This one feels like intention. When he rests his forehead against mine, his breathing is steady.
“I want this with you,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes. Lean into him. “Good.”
Because we’re not healed. But we’re not running either.
And for tonight—
That’s enough.