Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Cam
The roar hasn’t finished cresting when she steps back to the mic.
Lila wipes at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. Quick. Almost embarrassed. Like crying in front of forty thousand people wasn’t on the schedule.
“And now,” she says, the whole stadium leans forward, “for the show.”
The crowd explodes.
Sound slams into the walls. Into the ceiling. Into my ribs. I stay just offstage, half-hidden by curtains and cables, my heart still out there with her.
And then she sings.
The first note is strong. Clean. Muscle memory kicking in. The pop star persona sliding into place.
But I can see through it now.
I see her.
Real. Raw. Lit from the inside out by everything that just happened between us.
She moves across the stage like she belongs to the light. Like it knows her. The sequins catch and scatter, turning her into something unreal, but her voice is human. Warm. Vulnerable in the soft places she's not used to letting anyone hear.
Even distracted and cracked open because of me—she owns the stage.
Completely.
She glances toward the wings.
Toward me.
Not obvious. Just a flick of her eyes. A small, secret smile she hides in the corner of her mouth before turning back to the crowd.
Oh, how I love her.
By the final chorus, the stadium is screaming. Jumping. Losing their minds like this is the best night of their lives.
Maybe it is.
But all I can hear is my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. Loud. Steady. Terrified in the best way.
The curtain comes down like a held breath finally released, and suddenly the sound changes. The roar of the stadium dulls, muffled by fabric and concrete.
Manny is already in motion.
“Clear,” he says into his mic, and the security team fans out like muscle memory. Efficient. Protective. No wasted motion.
Lila steps offstage and nearly collides with me.
She grabs my forearm. Like she needs to confirm I’m still here. Still solid.
“That was…” She swallows, searching for the word. Her voice drops to a whisper. “…a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You did incredible.”
She shakes her head once, a disbelieving little motion, then huffs out a breath that sounds half like a laugh and half like a sob. Her fingers don’t let go.
Behind her, the hallway floods with movement.
Crew members. Assistants. Headsets barking questions. A photographer edging too close, camera already raised. Her team surges forward, all talking at once, voices overlapping.
“What’s next—”
“Are we confirming—”
“Lila, we need—”
Her shoulders tense. I feel it through her grip.
Manny steps in like a wall dropping from the ceiling.
“Not now,” he says, voice calm but unmovable. He cuts a sharp look at the photographer, who immediately backs off. “Route’s changing.”
“This way,” he says, already moving.
Manny leads us through a narrow service door and down a concrete staircase that smells like dust and old paint. The steps echo under our feet. The noise from the stadium fades with every level, the sound thinning out until it’s just a low, distant rumble.
Like weather far away.
At the bottom, a long loading-bay hallway stretches out, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Quiet. Cool. Empty.
The door shuts behind us.
Lila exhales, long and shaky, like she’s been holding her breath for an hour. She stumbles a step and presses her back to the wall, eyes closing.
Her grip finally loosens.
I step closer without thinking. Not crowding. Just there. Close enough that if her knees give out, she won’t hit concrete.
Her eyes open.
They’re still bright. Still glassy. Still carrying everything she just gave away onstage.
I hold her gaze, steady as I can make it.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods once. Then again. Like she’s convincing herself.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Just…give me a minute.”
I shift closer, a silent offer.
The glitter at her temples is smudged now. Proof of tears and lights and everything she just accomplished.
I shrug out of my jacket and step closer. Then, I drape it over her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She pulls it tighter around herself immediately, fingers curling into the fabric at her chest. The sleeves swallow her hands.
She looks up.
Her eyes catch on my face and stay there, soft and searching. The way she looks when she’s exhausted enough to stop pretending.
“You always do that,” she murmurs.
Her voice is quiet. Not accusing. Almost wonderstruck.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Make me feel…” She trails off for a second before she continues, “…not alone.”
Her shoulders relax another inch. She steps closer without looking at her feet, like she trusts the space between us not to disappear.
Her hands fist in the lapels of my jacket.
My jacket.
Her forehead drops forward until it rests lightly against my sternum.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for me to feel the weight of her there.
Her breath evens out. Her body warms. The shaking fades to a low hum.
I look down at her and think, absurdly, that no one should ever be allowed to frighten her again.
I know that’s not how the world works.
But it doesn’t stop the instinct.
Footsteps echo at the far end of the hallway.
Security appears in the doorway, one of Manny’s guys giving us a respectful amount of distance.
“Route’s clear,” he says. “Car’s ready.”
Neither of us moves.
Lila lifts her head.
She reaches for my hand.
Not hurried. Not desperate.
Deliberate.
Her fingers slide into mine, warm and steady now.
“Cam?” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.”
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. Tentative. Hopeful. Brave in the quietest way.
“Come home with me?”
The words hang between us, fragile and enormous all at once.
“Always.”