7. In Tune
In Tune
Natalia
Iget ready for soundcheck with purpose. Not the hormonal, reactive energy of last night, not the heat that crept under my skin and tried to derail me. This is different. This is intentional.
I stand in front of the mirror longer than necessary, not because I’m unsure, but because I’m recalibrating.
The outfit matters, but not in the way it did yesterday.
Today isn’t about shock or spectacle. Today is about disarmament.
I choose something effortless, flattering without screaming for attention, the kind of look that says I woke up like this and didn’t need to try.
Hair loose, makeup light, the sort of soft polish that invites conversation instead of confrontation.
I smile at my reflection, practiced and thoughtful.
Last night rattled me. I don’t like that.
I don’t like how easily he slipped past my defenses, how quickly my body remembered things my brain was busy denying.
That can’t happen again. So I'll just change the game. Instead of cold, I’ll be warm, trading distance for closeness.
I'll stop being silent and start being relentless.
I’m going to be friendly, doe-eyed and in awe.
I'll act innocent, open and curious. I’ll ask questions before he can ask himself any.
I’ll laugh at his sarcasm, lean in, and listen like I care.
It'll keep him off balance, too busy responding to notice how carefully I’m steering.
He won’t know which version of me he’s dealing with, and that confusion will do more damage than any icy glare ever could.
This angle is safer, cooler. I won’t give him space to analyze me, because I’ll be filling every quiet moment with warmth and interest and just enough intimacy to make him question everything.
I’ll poke and pry, reach in gently, like I’m checking the seams of something fragile.
I’ll toy with his heart until he forgets where it is, then set it down like a plaything and walk away without a backward glance.
He won’t see it coming.
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and take one last look in the mirror. I look calm, composed, like someone who's already decided how this ends.
That’s the best part.
By the time I head down to meet them for soundcheck, the plan is locked in place. Whatever happens today, it won’t be because I lost control.
It’ll be because I chose exactly how to use it.
Kiri
I’m pretending to tune my bass even though it’s perfect. It’s been perfect for at least an hour, maybe longer. At this point, I’m not tuning anything, I’m just turning pegs by fractions and listening for problems that aren’t there because I need something to keep me occupied.
Backstage is chaos in the usual way. R?vind's soundcheck is bleeding through the walls while some techs are arguing about lighting cues. Ronan keeps pacing like a caged tiger, tapping out rhythms on his thigh like it might answer back. Rafe is near the stage door, set list in hand, keeping the whole machine from catching fire through sheer force of will. Rithy is sprawled on the couch with his guitar across his lap, playing lazy riffs like he isn’t ready to clock any stupid move I make.
Normally, all this grounds me. Noise like this is easy, big enough to drown out anything inconvenient floating around in my head.
Then the door opens, and Natalia walks in.
My fingers tighten around the neck of the bass.
I can feel the wood press back into my palm.
The bite is just enough to remind me that I’m standing here, in a real room, and that she’s not some stunning hallucination I manifested.
She lifts her chin and scans the room like she’s deciding whether it’s worth her time.
That proud, stubborn little angle of her face.
That’s fine, I can handle her like this.
I can handle snappy, like the freshwater crocodiles in Cambodia that Ma swears she saw once when she's had too much palm wine.
No, her snapping doesn't scare me, it's kind of cute in its way, which is another kind of problem. And I can ignore her treating me like a mistake she’s still pissed off she nearly made.
What I don't appreciate is the way my body reacts anyway.
The elevator flashes through my head. Dinner.
Last night in the gym, her under that bar, trusting me enough to let me stand behind her even while she acted like she wanted to bite my head off for it.
Then the older memory cuts in, of my phone hitting the floor.
Rafe’s face, pissed, hurt, even shocked.
The way he looked at me like I’d crossed a line I had no right getting near in the first place.
Like I’d been sneaking around with his baby sister instead of a grown woman who knew exactly how to use her mouth like a tool of seduction even through a phone screen.
His voice comes back to my mind, jarring as a broken glass.
What do you two even have in common, huh? Cartoons and coloring books?
I’d promised him I'd stop talking to her and I did. No more DMs or late-night voice notes. No more letting myself pretend it was harmless because it hadn’t turned physical, or telling myself I was only being nice.
I'd shrugged it off as only flirting, only passing time when I was bored between cities or on the tour bus, but Rafe was right about it all.
I'm a mess, I've never come close to settling down and the last thing I need to do is drag someone into it.
Especially someone already tied to the band that's so young and hasn't been fucked up by all the shit that's out there.
By the life of a traveler, a musician, a…
man who has no idea what he's doing, let's be honest.
So I backed off, I did the right thing. That should matter, shouldn't it? I've gone out of my way to avoid her, to leave this alone, but now she’s here, laughing with Kasia about something, and so close to every version of myself I’m trying not to be.
She turns, and her eyes find me. That throws me more than the anger did.
I expect the ice, I almost prefer it. Ice gives me something to push against. Anger gives me rules and tells me the walls are still intact. This is different.
She studies me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m the same man she built in her head.
Bomos, the bassist, a stage creation with the veil and makeup.
Me, with my bass slung low, selling the illusion of danger because danger pays better than honesty.
Her gaze moves over my face, slower than it should. My throat works.
I don’t like it, not the curiosity or the softness tucked underneath it. I really don’t like the way it makes something in my chest lift toward her before I can kill it. Instead of avoiding me or looking at me like something on her shoe, she walks straight toward my corner.
Fuck’s sake.
She stops in front of me, arms crossed, gaze intense with that drill-through-your-skull focus she’s apparently decided I deserve.
“What're you doing?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Tuning,” I say.
Even I don’t believe me.
Her eyes drop to my hands. “It sounds in tune.”
“Right.” I twist a peg that doesn't need twisting. “That's how tuning works.”
She steps closer, so close that I catch the faint shimmer of eyeshadow near her lashes.
Enough that her perfume cuts through the backstage mess of sweat, cables, and industrial strength tape.
That fruity peach sweetness that pisses me off immediately because I notice it.
I don’t want to know or remember her scent up close, a private detail filing itself away in my head like it belongs there.
Her brows pinch as she looks at the tuning pegs, like she suspects them of lying. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.”
“All you musicians talk in the same bizarre language,” she says. “It makes Polish seem easy.”
I look back down at the bass. I've ignored louder things than Natalia Sawadzka.
“So why exactly are you doing it all again?” she asks.
“Something to do with my hands.” I glance up before I can stop myself. “You should know all about that.”
Her words from the elevator, thrown back at her.
I think I’ve fixed it. Put the edge back between us, reminded her we’re not doing whatever this is.
Her lips twitch, and that suppressed laugh hits me harder than it should.
It’s tiny. A crack in her armor so quick anyone else would miss it but I don't. I wish I had.
Then she reaches out without hesitation and plucks one of my strings. The deep note hums through the room. It vibrates through the bass, into my hand, straight into my chest. My heartbeat jumps with it and I go still.
“Listen,” I say, fast and rough enough that it sounds like a warning. “You shouldn’t touch a musician’s instrument without permission.”
Her eyebrow lifts. Of course she hears the implication I didn’t mean to hand her.
“Funny,” she says. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
She grins when I stare at her.
I want to laugh but I don't. Laughing would be a mistake.
It'd let her think she can come over here, lean in, touch my bass and torture me with her perfume, like this is normal. That she can make jokes with her mouth while I stand here pretending I’m not thinking about it all over me.
That I'm not pretending I don’t remember her voice in my ear or all the messages I never deleted.
“Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat like she isn’t pleased with herself. “It sounds fine.”
“It sounds like a bass,” I counter. “That’s all you know. You lack the knowledge to make an informed assessment.”
“No.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “You're just talking nonsense. This is a waste of time.”
There it is again, the whiplash. She looks at me like she wants to pick a fight, but she’s standing close enough that I can feel the heat of her. She talks like I’m irritating her, but she doesn’t move away. She acts like she can’t stand me, then leans in like she wants a better look.
It’s annoying. She’s annoying. That’s all this is, annoying. Except that's starting to feel like another word for something I don’t want to think about.
Something I can’t name, because I’m not supposed to be thinking about her like this. I’m not supposed to care whether she’s angry or just curious. I’m not supposed to notice the way her voice changes when she isn’t trying to cut me open with it.
She tilts her head again. “You look different than I expected.”
I keep my face blank. “Do I?”
“Without the makeup and the veil and all the…” Her hand makes a vague motion. “Stage stuff.”
“Disappointed?”
Her gaze flicks over me once.
“You looked…” She pauses, searching. “Taller with it on. In the pictures.”
A laugh gets out of me before I can lock it down.
“I doubt the veil adds inches,” I say. “So I don’t know what to tell you. They say you should never meet your heroes.” I shrug.
Her eyes spark at that, like she’s glad I played along. Like she didn’t come over here only to punish me. That knocks me off balance. The gentleness. I don’t want her gentle with me.
Rafe shouts for lineup, and the moment snaps clean down the middle. Natalia steps back, slipping away like she didn’t just put her hands all over the shape of my self-control. She drifts toward Kasia, phone already out, filming the chaos like nothing happened.
Maybe nothing did and I’m just an idiot standing here with a perfect bass and a pulse that won’t behave.
Then just before she disappears around the corner, she glances back at me. I feel it like a hand tightening around my heart.
I promised Rafe I’d back off.
I meant it then and I still mean it now. I just wasn’t prepared for her to be this close. I wasn’t prepared for her to go from ice to fire to something almost soft in the space of twenty-four hours.
As I watch her walk away, I’m starting to think keeping that promise might mean breaking something else.