chapter thirteen #2
Willa looked away first. Not because she wanted to. But because if she didn’t, she’d fall too hard into whatever that was.
Still, her eyes kept drifting back. No matter how many photos she took. No matter how many times she reminded herself that this was work.
She was watching. Always watching. And Frankie kept giving her something to see.
* * *
Once the house lights came up, Willa let the wave of post-show energy pass her by. She stayed off to the side of the venue, packing up her gear slower than necessary. Giving herself space. Letting her heart settle.
She didn’t even remember deciding to go out afterward.
But half an hour later, she was pushing through the door of a bar with a too-loud jukebox and a pool table lit by neon beer signs.
She walked in late—everyone already there.
Frankie and Ember were at the table, playing pool. Frankie had peeled off her outer layers again, just in a tank top now, tattoos exposed, curls damp and wild. She was leaning over the table to line up a shot, one hand braced on the felt, her grin lazy and smug.
Juno, Kara, and Malik were already tucked into a booth, drinks in hand, deep in some kind of heated debate about karaoke strategy or band tee rankings or both.
Willa made her way to the bar, ordered a beer, and turned just as Frankie looked up from the table.
Their eyes met for a second.
Then Frankie looked away.
Willa didn’t smile.
But something about her chest felt a little too full.
She took a sip and headed for the table.
Willa had just taken her second sip when Frankie peeled herself away from the pool table.
She didn’t say anything at first—just walked over, slow and loose. Her curls were a mess, her eyeliner a little smudged at the corner. She looked unfairly good like that. Loose and warm and golden from the stage lights still clinging to her skin like memory.
Willa arched a brow. “Did you win?”
Frankie shrugged one shoulder, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Let’s just say Ember owes me a drink and a public apology,” Frankie leaned her forearm on the bar beside her. Close. Casual. But not too close.
“You wanna play darts?” she asked. “Or are you just here to document my downfall from a distance?”
Willa turned toward her, beer bottle held loosely in one hand. “Are you any good at darts?”
“Absolutely not.” Frankie laughed.
“Well, then yeah,” Willa said. “Let’s go.”
Frankie’s grin widened like it was involuntary—like it surprised her too—and Willa tried not to feel that tiny spark of pride in her chest as she followed her toward the dartboard in the back corner.
Frankie leaned into her and murmured, “Just don’t embarrass me too hard. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Willa didn’t look at her. She didn’t have to. “Pretty sure the glitter eyeliner already took care of that.”
Frankie huffed a laugh. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
The dartboard was crooked, and the darts were old and dull, but it didn’t matter. They took turns—Frankie throwing dramatically and missing entirely, Willa pretending to be unimpressed, then sinking a bullseye when Frankie wasn’t looking.
“Oh my goddess,” Frankie laughed shaking her head. “Did you just hustle me?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Willa said innocently.
Frankie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer. “You’ve got that smug thing happening.”
“I always look smug,” Willa said. “It’s my face.”
Frankie tilted her head. “It’s not always. Sometimes you look soft.”
Willa blinked.
The moment hung there—quiet, suspended, real.
And then Frankie tossed a dart with zero aim and hit the wall three inches to the left of the board.
“Jesus Christ,” Willa muttered, covering her mouth as she laughed.
Frankie winced. “Okay. Rude and smug. Noted.”
Willa smiled and picked up another dart, flipping it in her fingers.
Frankie watched her. Not the dart. Not the board. Just her.
The game didn’t matter after that. They kept playing, but neither of them was really keeping score. They kept tossing darts and taking slow sips of their drinks, talking low, teasing gently, drifting closer with every round.
And it wasn’t charged. Not exactly.
It was just easy.
Comfortable.
The most normal they’d ever been together—no walls, no cameras, no interviews, no chaos.
Just Willa and Frankie, side by side, flirting like maybe they didn’t hate each other after all.
Like maybe they were starting to like each other too much.
* * *
Before Willa realized it, she’d been there nearly two hours. Now she was sitting at the high-top table, the condensation from her half-finished beer pooling under her fingertips as she watched Frankie from across the bar.
She was back at the pool table now, leaning over to line up a shot with Ember, Juno laughing nearby, Malik dancing in place to whatever was playing from the jukebox.
Frankie’s curls had started to fall from whatever messy twist she’d thrown them into post-show, and she’d taken off her leather jacket now, so she was just in her worn tank, and Willa couldn’t stop looking, She looked… happy.
At ease.
Like she belonged there, in the center of it all—eyes bright, mouth moving fast, her laughter big enough to carry over the music.
Willa forced herself to look away.
“You good?” Kara asked from beside her, not looking up from her phone.
“Yeah,” Willa said, even though her chest felt like it was being pulled too tight around something she hadn’t seen coming.
Kara finally glanced over. “You sure?”
Willa nodded. “It’s just late. I have an early train tomorrow, and I should probably pack up my stuff before I crash.”
Kara smirked like she knew better but didn’t push. “You want me to tell them?”
“Yeah,” Willa said, sliding off the stool and grabbing her jacket. “Tell Frankie I said goodnight.”
Kara arched a brow. “Just Frankie?”
“And the rest of them,” Willa said, shooting her a flat look.
But Kara’s smirk only grew. “Uh-huh.”
Willa didn’t respond. She just gave a little wave, turned, and walked toward the door.
The air outside hit her like clarity. Cool and sharp. She took a long breath and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, boots hitting the pavement a little harder than necessary as she headed back to the hotel.
Because the truth was, it wasn’t too late.
And yeah, she had an early train, but that wasn’t the reason she’d left.
The reason was the way Frankie had looked at her during darts. The way she’d smiled, soft and genuine. The way her voice had dropped when she said Willa looked soft sometimes.
The way it had made something shift deep in Willa’s chest—something warm and unsteady and terrifying.
She liked Frankie Monroe.
Not just professionally. Not just from a distance. Not just in the way she admired her work or found her infuriatingly magnetic.
She liked her. Her laugh. Her brain. Her stupid aimless dart throws.
And that was the problem.
Because this—whatever it was—it was starting to matter.
And Willa wasn’t ready for it to matter. Not yet.
She wasn’t sure she could trust that she wouldn’t get hurt again. That Frankie would stay.
* * *