Chapter twenty-nine #2
But tonight, she didn’t want routine. She didn’t want breathwork and solitude.
She wanted Willa.
So, when the knock came—soft, hesitant—and the door creaked open just an inch, Frankie didn’t hesitate.
She moved.
Crossed the room in two urgent steps, grabbed Willa by the wrist with a surety that left no room for second thoughts, and pulled her inside before the door even fully closed.
Didn’t say a word. Just looked at her. For one suspended, breathless second. And then—kissed her. Hard.
All mouth and need and longing that had nowhere else to go.
Pinning her back against the dressing room door, one hand cradling the sharp line of Willa’s jaw, the other gripping the curve of her waist like she was terrified she might vanish.
Willa made a soft, surprised sound—half gasp, half moan—and then her arms were around Frankie’s neck, clutching at her, threading into her hair, pulling her impossibly closer like she needed her just as badly.
Frankie kissed her like she meant it. Like it meant everything. Like it was her anchor, her prayer, her last breath before going under.
Willa kissed her back just as fiercely.
“You,” she said between kisses, “look so fucking hot in this.”
She let her eyes sweep up and down for just a moment before crashing back into Frankie’s mouth.
Their hearts were pounding too loudly, the sound echoing between them, drowning out everything else.
Finally, Frankie exhaled and whispered against Willa’s cheek,
“You’re better than any ritual.”
Willa huffed a laugh—breathless, giddy—her hands slipping down to Frankie’s hips, squeezing lightly, grounding them both.
“I’m honored,” she said, lips ghosting over Frankie’s.
They kissed a while longer. Hands wandering. Moans escaping. Everything hot and urgent and real.
Until Kara knocked on the door.
“Five minutes, Frank.”
Willa kissed her again.
“You want to do your mantra?”
Frankie nodded, eyes still closed like it physically hurt to pull away, even just for a second.
“Yeah. With you.”
Without missing a beat, Willa placed her palms flat over Frankie’s chest—right over the rapid, frantic beat of her heart.
Frankie covered them with her own. Warm hands on warm skin.
“Let it be love. Let it be real. Let it be mine.”
They said it together, voices low, steady, nearly in perfect sync. The words vibrated between them.
Frankie opened her eyes first.
Willa was already looking at her. And there was no fear there. No distance.
Just everything.
No crowd. No cameras. No distractions. Just them.
Frankie leaned in and kissed her again—this time slow, deliberate, worshipful.
Full of something so raw and holy that Willa felt her chest cave in a little.
Willa kissed her back with just as much reverence. Lingering. Savoring. Like she didn’t want to let go.
When they finally broke apart, Frankie didn’t move far. Stayed close. Noses brushing. Her breath warm on Willa’s mouth.
“Wish me luck?” she asked, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, shy in a way that made Willa ache.
Willa kissed her again—soft and certain—her thumb stroking the sharp line of Frankie’s jaw.
“You don’t need luck, Mae,” she whispered.
“You are the show.”
Frankie’s heart did something dangerous in her chest—something wild and hopeful and unbearably soft.
And this time, when she turned to leave the dressing room—shoulders back, head high, mouth pink from kissing—she felt ready.
Because Willa was by her side.
The lights came up, and the crowd roared as Frankie stepped into the spotlight like she was born there. The noise hit her in a wave—deafening, electric, wild. She let it roll over her, soak into her skin, lift her higher.
She grinned—wide and reckless—and leaned into the mic.
“Atlanta!” she shouted, voice ringing clear across the arena.
The floor vibrated with the sound of thousands of people screaming back.
“Damn, it’s good to be back.”
The roar got louder—impossible, tangible—a physical thing that shoved into her chest and made her heart hammer.
“This city always shows up—and I’m trying to show out tonight. Y’all ready?”
They screamed so loud it rattled the rafters.
She launched into She Said/I Said.
The beat dropped heavy, vibrating through the floorboards, and her voice came out smooth and sharp as a blade.
She said, “That’s just a phase”
I said, “Watch me blaze”
Painted nails and power chords,
Kissing girls behind locked doors.
She said, “You’ll grow out of this”
I said, “You wish”
Tried to pray it outta me—
Sorry, babe, I came out free.
She stalked across the stage like a storm with hips, tossing her hair, her boots slamming the floor in time with the beat.
Every step was power. Every breath was fire.
The lights flashed across a sea of faces—glitter and hands thrown into the air—people screaming every word back at her like a prayer they hadn’t realized they knew.
Frankie scanned the crowd—grinning, spinning, feeding off the energy.
Until she found her.
Her usual spot, in front of the barricade, just left of center.
Willa.
Camera cradled against her chest like a heartbeat.
That same black cropped hoodie with Frankie’s name across the chest, riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin.
Her mouth parted, her eyes wide—locked on Frankie like she was the only thing worth looking at.
Frankie’s stomach flipped so hard it nearly knocked the air out of her.
She tried to play it cool.
Failed instantly.
Her gaze snagged—got stuck—and she couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even want to.
Their eyes caught.
Held.
And Frankie felt something inside her chest snap—like the string she’d been holding everything up with finally gave way.
She smirked—just for Willa—and launched into the next song.
Pretty Girls.
Slower. Dirtier.
She dragged the mic stand across the stage, her fingers tight around it, every step a deliberate tease.
She sang it like a threat wrapped in silk.
I like girls who wear leather
Over floral cotton skirts,
Girls who laugh too loud in diners
And say fuck when something hurts.
I like soft hands holding coffee,
Messy buns and lipstick stains—
Girls who smell like cedarwood
And wreck my quiet brain.
Frankie prowled toward the edge of the stage.
Right toward her.
Right toward Willa.
She crouched low, the mic nearly brushing her lips, and sang to her:
I want pretty girls with sharp teeth,
Midnight thoughts and sunburned cheeks.
I want long hair, short hair, no hair, dyed—
Girls who kiss like they’ve got nothing to hide.
Willa’s camera dipped slightly, her mouth falling open.
Frankie smirked—sharp, slow—and winked.
The heat between them was a live wire stretched taut across the stage.
Willa blinked, frozen in the lights, and Frankie knew she’d hit her mark.
Frankie straightened, tossed her hair, and swaggered back to center.
“Some of y’all might know this next one,” she said, spinning the mic in her hand, her breath coming a little faster now. “And if you don’t, now’s your chance to learn something.”
The crowd screamed.
Frankie let it build, smiling that sly, dangerous smile that made headlines and hearts break.
She paused.
Let it breathe.
“It’s about a girl,” she said casually, her eyes cutting through the lights to find Willa again.
Direct hit.
The roar hit another decibel.
Frankie winked at her. Quick. Private.
“This one’s called Stay Right Here.”
The energy shifted.
Her fingers found the chords on the acoustic guitar, grounding her.
The lights dimmed to deep indigo, soft and intimate, like a heartbeat slowed.
The first notes fell like rain.
And then she sang—lower, rougher, achingly vulnerable:
I dream about you coming undone
Think about your hands when you’re the only one
And maybe you think about me too
In the dark, like I think of you.
The crowd faded.
The stage faded.
It was just Frankie—and Willa.
Willa, standing dead center, her gaze locked like nothing else existed.
I know you’re scared ‘cause people leave
And I’ll never ask for more than you can give me
I’m not walking away
I’ll stay right here.
Frankie let the last line linger—soft and open, a vow in four small words.
The room exploded—cheers crashing over her like a tide.
But she barely heard it.
Because all she could feel was the heat of Willa’s eyes on her—steady, unflinching, like she was the only person in the room who mattered.
Frankie let the applause roll, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth as the synth kicked up again for the final number.
She jogged back to center stage, adrenaline racing through her veins.
“Atlanta, I love you!” she shouted into the mic, voice hoarse with feeling.
The crowd screamed back—wild and loud and endless.
She laughed, breathless, drunk on it, high on it—and threw one last glance toward Willa.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t have to.
Just smiled.
Soft.
Certain.
Alive.
And then sang like she had never been broken at all.
* * *