Chapter 29 Anna
Anna
It’s always been you.
The words don’t just cling to me—they sink in, take root, fuse with every shattered piece of me that I never let heal.
My chest tightens. My hands feel unsteady at my sides.
I blink, but the club is a blur. The faces, the lights, the sounds—none of it feels real.
Only the weight of his voice, still reverberating inside me.
Still wrecking me.
It was worse this time around. Worse hearing it in its completion and knowing what he’s been trying to tell me.
I should be furious.
Hell, I should be anything other than this—standing here, caught in a moment that feels bigger than I know how to handle.
But I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because his song is a confession.
Every lyric, every note, a breadcrumb leading back to me.
I was too young to name it,
too scared to let it grow.
So I called it nothing, buried it deep,
but love has roots I didn’t know.
I exhale sharply, but it barely cuts through the tightness in my ribs.
Love has roots.
So does pain.
And for years, I thought I had dug him out. Thought I had torn every last piece of him from me.
But now—now I feel them.
The roots. Still there.
Still growing beneath the surface.
And no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, they never really left.
The crowd is roaring, but it’s nothing more than static behind the sound of his voice still echoing in my head. I should move. I should breathe. I should do something.
But I don’t.
Because I can’t.
I’m stuck in this moment, in his voice, in the truth I spent years trying to ignore and for some ungodly reason, I can’t anymore.
This is what he was trying to tell me earlier. It’s what shattered me at the party. I couldn’t listen—couldn’t hear it because I knew it would destroy me.
It’s always been me?
Even when he left? Even when he picked someone else? Even when he took my song and let me think it was nothing to him? That I was nothing to him.
I should be so goddamn wary of this—of him—of everything he’s just confessed in front of a packed club like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But I’m not.
Because I feel every single word of that song like a live wire running through my veins. They feel like a pulse just under my skin—like something I’ve been waiting for but never let myself name.
They circle my brain again.
Did you know?
Could you tell?
That I looked for you in everyone else?
I even helped him with the chord progression for this song—I don’t know why this is hitting different now.
Maybe because he only hummed the song then.
Maybe because I’m standing still for once.
Maybe because there’s nowhere left to hide.
Probably because, for the first time, I’m letting myself actually hear him.
You were the song I never finished,
the note that lingered in my chest.
My throat tightens.
Because shit—that’s exactly what he was to me too.
A song with no ending.
A half-written melody I’ve been singing for years, pretending I didn’t know the words.
But I did.
I always did.
Did you know?
Did you see?
That every almost
still led me back to you and me?
A shiver races down my spine.
Because yes.
I knew. Deep down.
Even when I didn’t want to.
Even when I tried to convince myself I was over it. Over him.
Every almost-love, every half-hearted relationship, every guy who made me laugh but never quite felt like home—it was always there. It’s why no one else ever felt right.
There was always a weight in my chest I refused to acknowledge.
A ghost in the background.
A lyric I never stopped hearing.
“Okay, Anna,” Lily’s voice cuts through the noise, low and urgent. “Get ready.”
I blink, my pulse thrashing in my ears. “What?”
Lily tilts her chin toward the stage, and I follow her gaze.
Straight to him.
To Joel.
Who drops his guitar and is heading directly for me.
Oh, shit.
Joel barely acknowledges the people reaching for him—the girl in the front row who tries to grab his arm, the guys who clap him on the back, the fans calling his name.
Another girl reaches for him, fingers skimming his chest. He doesn’t slow.
His focus doesn’t break.
And with every inch that closes between us, something inside me coils tighter.
A slow, suffocating pull low in my stomach.
My pulse stumbles, a rapid, uneven thrash in my throat.
I can’t breathe.
Or maybe I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard.
But I don’t look away.
His eyes are locked on one thing.
Me.
And holy fuck.
“Oh, girl. He’s got the look,” Myles mutters, sounding equal parts impressed and entertained from the other side of the bar.
London nods sagely. “That’s definitely the I’ve-made-up-my-goddamn-mind-and-nothing-is-stopping-me look.”
My pulse stutters.
Is it? Is that what this is?
Myles slides a shot glass in front of me with some sort of bartender-level wisdom.
“Babe,” she says, tone serious, “you look like you might need this.”
I stare at it. I stare at them. I can’t possibly even think about that right now.
Instead, I turn to stare at Joel, still closing the distance between us, still looking like nothing else in the world exists.
Something shifts.
Not in the club. Not in the crowd.
In me.
Joel moves through the bodies like a force field surrounds him, still brushing off hands that reach for him, barely acknowledging the people calling his name.
Every step pulls him closer, and my pulse kicks up in response—faster, harder, like my body already knows something I don’t.
Heat crawls over my skin, my breath catches, but I don’t look away.
My feet stay planted.
My body leans forward before I can stop it, like I’m being pulled by something outside myself.
Because this moment?
It’s what I wanted. Isn’t it?
What I’ve been waiting for. Why I’m here now.
It’s what I didn’t even realize I was hoping for.
When he reaches me, his chest rises and falls, his breath just slightly uneven, like he hasn’t come down from the song yet.
There’s sweat at his temple, at the hollow of his throat.
And his eyes—fuck.
His green eyes that I always thought were just that—green.
But now?
Now I see the brown flecks and just how deep they go.
And then—he moves.
His hands slide into my hair, fingers threading through the strands, cupping the back of my head.
Warm. Sure.
Steady.
I expect him to call me out. To say something. But he doesn’t.
He just holds my gaze and my head in his hands. I don’t know if he’s holding me still or holding me closer. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Hell, maybe he just needs to touch me as much as I need to be touched.
A breath hitches in my throat and soft growl escapes from his.
I barely have time to register the heat of his palms against my skin, the way his grip tightens like I might slip through his fingers—and then, his lips are on mine.
Soft at first.
Not hesitant—just controlled. Measured.
A press, a pull, a slow unraveling.
Like he’s testing the weight of this.
Like he’s making sure I feel every single second.
And I do. God, I really, really do.
I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in the way my knees threaten to buckle.
My fingers tighten in his shirt, gripping, anchoring, holding on.
Because I need this.
I need him.
And God help me, I don’t want him to stop.
Then, everything tilts.
Not just the room. Not just my breath.
Me.
He doesn’t rush us.
This kiss isn’t careful.
It’s deep. Steady. Certain.
A claiming of sorts. And it’s everything.
It’s like it’s a truth that’s been waiting for me to stop fighting it.
And now, it’s a slow burn that I feel everywhere.
I pull him closer, pressing myself to him.
His hands slide deeper into my hair, his grip tightening, but not to hold me still—to bring me in.
My chest is too tight, too full, too much.
My knees feel unsteady, but his body is right there, solid, sure.
Everything around us fades. It’s just us and my head is swimming in it.
He kisses me like he’s learning me.
Like he wants to burn this moment into his memory.
Like he doesn’t want to forget.
And I don’t want to either.
Heat unfurls inside me, curling into something dangerous, something I can’t name.
I press closer.
And that’s all he needs.
He makes a low sound, a quiet rumble in his chest, vibrating against my lips. His fingers curl against my scalp, and a full-body shiver rolls through me.
My stomach flips, my pulse is a wreck, my entire world is shrinking down to this moment.
This kiss.
Him.
This is nothing like before.
Not a reckless decision. Not a reaction. Not a mistake.
I was such an idiot for calling it that.
Because this?
This is undeniable.
I sink into it.
Let myself feel it.
Every shift of his lips. Every press of his hands. Every quiet, unspoken thing that lingers between us.
There are cat calls, and whoops around us. People telling us to get a room—but I don’t give a shit.
I feel the shift in his breath, the weight of his chest pressing just slightly against mine. The deep, rhythmic slide of his tongue over mine—not demanding, not rushed.
Just right.
Somewhere in the distance I hear Lily’s giggle of approval, but even that barely registers.
Heat licks up my spine, settling in the hollow beneath my ribs, something spreading through me that I don’t have a name for but desperately want to express.
My lips part on a soft, unsteady gasp.
He takes it.
Swallows it like it belongs to him.
Like it’s always belonged to him.
The kiss deepens, his hands sliding from my face, fingers pushing deeper into my hair. A quiet possession, a silent question.
I don’t answer with words.
I press closer.
And that’s all he needs.
A sound rumbles low in his throat, vibrating against my lips. His grip tightens just enough to send a shiver cascading through me.
My heart is racing.
Every nerve feels alive.
I don’t know how long we stand here, tangled in each other, drowning in something too big, too much, too fucking inevitable. It could be minutes, it could be seconds. It feels like eternity.
He takes up all of my senses.
His lips, his hands, the way he kisses me like he’s certain of this—whatever this is.
Like he knows I’m finally certain too.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his hands still cradling my face, his breath mixing with mine.
His voice is a hushed mess. Rough, frayed, barely above the noise. Like he doesn’t trust it to hold steady. “Come upstairs with me.”
My pulse stumbles.
I blink, still feeling the kiss on my lips, still trying to pull myself back into my body. The club is loud around us—people still cheering, music from the DJ now humming in the background—but all of it feels muted, distant, like I’ve stepped into some other reality where only Joel exists.
Upstairs.
I don’t fully know what that means, but I can tell it’s not about the place. It’s a choice.
A next step.
A turning point.
My fingers are curled into his shirt, still holding on like I might fall if I let go.
And maybe I will.
Maybe I already have.
Because this isn’t just about tonight.
This isn’t just about a kiss, or the heat still curling in my stomach, or the way his breath is mixing with mine.
This is about finally choosing him.
Choosing us.
Choosing to stop running.
And the weight of that realization presses into my ribs.
I force out a breath, my heart thumping in a frantic, uneven rhythm.
I don’t know what’s waiting for me up there.
But for the first time—I don’t need to.
I swallow hard, my grip tightening on his shirt, ready to say it.
Before I can say anything, before my brain can fully process what’s happening, Lily jumps in.
Too fast. Too bright. Too much.
“Oh, Anna,” she says, her voice climbing an octave. “You’ll love the after party. It’s going to be amazing. Just—so much fun. So much fun.”
I turn my head slightly, blinking at her, but Joel doesn’t move.
His hands stay firm, his thumbs still brushing along my cheekbones, keeping me locked in place.
London, standing beside Lily, crosses his arms and clears his throat.
“Yeah,” he says smoothly, his tone way too even. “Lily’s worked really hard on it. You should definitely check it out.”
Lily nods. Too much.
“Yep. Worked really hard. So hard. Weeks of planning, really.”
London full-on side-eyes her. “Lily—”
She steamrolls right over him. “There’s a playlist of all of Joel’s best hits and—uh—drinks. And I think snacks? Right, London?”
London shakes his head—just the tiniest fraction—but Lily keeps going.
“Anyway… Super exclusive. VIP only.” She finger guns at me. “Like, if you know, you know.”
Joel doesn’t acknowledge any of this.
He stays exactly where he is, forehead still resting against mine, gaze locked on me like he’s waiting for something.
A decision.
A sign.
A yes.
I blink again.
Something about Lily and London feels… off.
Not in a bad way.
Not in a way that makes me second-guess Joel or this moment.
But enough that my instincts hum with awareness.
They’re covering.
For what, I have no idea.
But right now?
I can’t focus on anything except Joel.
I swallow hard, my hands still tangled in his shirt, my breath still unsteady.
Upstairs.
The word echoes in my head, but not in the way it should. This isn’t about a party, about going somewhere to celebrate. This is about something else entirely.
And I don’t know what’s waiting for me up there.
But for the first time, I don’t need to.
I trust him.
Not in the way I used to—when trust felt like a fragile, dangerous thing. Something that could be given too easily and taken away just as fast.
No, this trust is different. It’s heavier, more real.
My stomach flips again, not from fear or doubt, but from something that feels dangerously close to anticipation.
Joel’s fingers flex slightly, his grip tightening for the briefest second—like he can feel the moment tipping, like he knows I’m on the edge of something big.
And maybe I am.
Maybe this is the moment I stop running.
Maybe this is the moment I finally, finally let myself believe this could be real.
For a split second, I think about what happens next.
Not just tonight. Not just upstairs.
Everything.
Because this isn’t just about saying yes to Joel.
It’s about saying yes to us.
To the version of me that’s wanted this all along.
To the roots that never stopped growing.
To the idea that maybe, just maybe, love has been waiting for me to stop running.
My breath hitches.
I meet his gaze, let myself get lost in it. Let myself fall.
And I nod.