8. Fireproof
Fireproof
Natalia
Soundcheck is supposed to be boring.
That’s always been my understanding of it, something technical and necessary that happens before the real spectacle begins. I lean against the side of the stage with Kasia, half watching, idly scrolling, until the music pulls my attention in whether I want it to or not. Kiri starts playing.
His head is tipped forward, eyes closed, body loose in a way that makes it clear this is where he goes when everything else falls away.
The bassline rolls through the space, steady and deep, threading itself into the bones of the room.
I hadn’t realized how physical it would feel, how it would land in my chest instead of my ears.
Someone watches behind him and I notice her then, a girl I hadn’t noticed before.
She’s young, confident in that quiet way musicians get when they know exactly where they belong.
She’s holding her own bass, cradling it like something alive, watching him with a kind of respect that’s impossible to miss.
She mirrors him in silence, plucking the same strings, following his hands, tracking the path of the groove like she’s learning his language in real time.
I lean closer to Kasia. “Who’s that?”
Kasia glances up, distracted but smiling. “Liv. R?vind’s bassist.”
Right. R?vind. The all-girl band from Sweden that’s been opening for The Riven Altar on and off for the last few years. I’ve seen Liv before, just never paid enough attention to register much beyond blonde hair, bass, competent.
Now I can’t help noticing her.
Liv watches Kiri like he’s a blueprint. Not with hunger, exactly, but with respect.
Awe, maybe. The kind one musician has for another when they know precisely how difficult what they’re watching actually is.
And apparently, she has an extremely healthy appreciation for her fellow bassist. It’s professional.
Clearly earned. Even I can hear that in the way he plays.
And for reasons I don’t immediately understand, it irritates me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. I’ve always known he was talented.
Of course he is. You don’t end up where he is without being good at what you do.
The music itself has never really been my thing.
That’s always been Kasia’s world. I’m more pop, more rhythm and movement, songs that make your body react before your brain does.
This is heavier, slower, something you sink into instead of dance to.
But watching him get lost in it changes something.
His fingers move with practiced ease, confident and precise, flexing and releasing as the sound bends under his control.
There’s a focus in him, like the rest of the world has gone dim, and the intensity of it slides under my skin before I can stop it.
I’m suddenly aware of his hands, of what that strength and control would feel like anywhere else, against skin instead of strings.
I shake it off, tell myself this is just soundcheck, it's no big deal. Then he opens his eyes. The pull is like a magnet snapping into place. His gaze finds mine, without searching, like he knew exactly where I’d be.
I don’t have time to look away, not that I try very hard.
We hold it for a moment too long, the sound still rolling through the room, his fingers still moving even as his attention locks onto me.
This is the plan, I remind myself. This is what I wanted—to get his attention.
But when his eyes drift closed again, when he slips back into that private place inside the music, the thought rings hollow.
I don’t buy it anymore. Because whatever this is, whatever just passed between us in that glance, it doesn’t feel like control.
It feels like I’m standing too close to a fire and pretending I’m not about to get burned, again.
When we arrive for dinner, it’s well past midnight.
The post-gig buzz under my skin, ears ringing, adrenaline refusing to let go.
It's easy to understand how musicians start living for this sort of high.
The first thing I see is a gate, stone walls, lanterns glowing against the dark.
When I step out, gravel crunches under my shoes, the sound is loud in a place this quiet.
It’s empty except for us. It’s been held open, a favor Rafe called in.
I feel his eyes on me as we walk, like he’s checking for approval, for awe.
I give him neither. I smooth my face, tuck the reaction away, refuse to let him have the satisfaction.
Every time Kiri puts on that cold mask I get more angry over the fact that Rafe decided what was best, who got kept at arm’s length on my behalf.
Inside, I'm struck by the simple beauty of the wooden beams and sliding doors. The staff bow slightly, voices already lowered. The doors slide shut behind us and the world disappears. The ladies of R?vind have joined us tonight, and the dynamic changes completely, like someone’s tilted the axis of everything from the previous night.
Freja arrives first, her wild blonde curls and leather jacket announcing her before she says a word.
She moves powerfully, boots planted wide like she owns the floor.
She drops into the chair between Ronan and me, knee knocking into his.
They fall into drummer language instantly, talking in shorthand and rhythm like it’s their native tongue.
He lights up around her and I totally get it.
She’s badass. They're completely wrapped up in each other and I can see why.
Signe takes the other seat beside me, shaved side of her head catching the candlelight, silver rings flashing as she gestures.
There’s something about the way she moves, all swagger and ease, the kind of confidence that makes you want to watch her do literally anything, not just play guitar.
I catch her sneaking glances at me. When I meet her eyes, I give her a small smile.
Ingrid settles in like she was born onstage, dark hair perfectly undone, silk dress just so.
Her voice sounds like every word is delivered with intention, like she knows exactly how it lands, just as she sings.
Mina sits wide-eyed and bright, absorbing everything, like the world hasn’t had time to harden her yet.
She plays the piano with that same gentleness. And then there’s Liv.
Liv plants herself beside Kiri like she’s staking a claim and this is war for territory.
She’s soft-spoken, steady, her bass calluses visible when she gestures, fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of her glass.
She smiles at him with genuine admiration, laughs easily at everything he says, plays with a strand of her hair when she listens.
She talks his ear off about gear and sound and touring, and he responds, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen him before, definitely not around me.
There’s no space tonight or quiet moments.
Gone are the charged silences I can weaponize.
Liv has filled that gap completely. I try to occupy myself, really I do.
I listen to Rithy’s running commentary, which is mercifully hilarious, muttered just loud enough for me to hear.
I nod along to Ingrid’s stories, to Mina’s excitement, to Freja and Ronan’s effortless affection.
Rafe and Kasia are absolutely disgusting, leaning into each other, hands always finding skin, so in love it borders on obscene. I try not to roll my eyes.
Especially when my eyes keep drifting back to Liv’s smile, to the way she leans toward Kiri, to the way he angles his body toward her. Maybe he's doing it without realizing it or maybe it's very much on purpose. Something curdles low in my stomach.
Signe watches me like she’s decided I’m interesting and hasn’t yet figured out what to do about it.
She sits with one elbow propped proudly on the table, unapologetic, the other arm hooked lazily over the back of my chair.
Tattoos crawl up her neck and along the side of her face, bold and intentional.
There’s something strong about her presence, something unbothered and magnetic.
I realize, distantly, that this isn’t something I’ve ever really considered before, being attracted to a woman.
But for Signe? Maybe. She leans in, eyes flicking over me with open appraisal, and murmurs, “Honestly shocked that chair hasn’t caught on fire with you sitting in it.
” I laugh, real laughter and the sound cracks through the table like a whip.
It’s loud enough that Kiri’s head snaps away from Liv for the first time all night, pried loose from her orbit.
I feel his attention slam into me, hot and intense, but I don’t look back.
Not when he finally seems to remember I’m alive.
Instead, I lean closer to Signe, close enough that our knees brush, close enough that the scent of her, something deliciously smoky and rich, tries to take hold of me. I angle my mouth toward her ear and whisper.
"The dress is fireproof." I make sure it’s inaudible to anyone else, something meant only for her. Her breath stutters, then her smile turns slow and keen.
Across the table, I feel Kiri watching. I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. I stay exactly where I am, leaning into someone new and unexpected, someone who doesn’t come with history.
Tonight, I choose who gets my attention.
Kiri
Dinner turns on me faster than I expect it to.
Rafe is the first to say something, casual enough to pass as a joke.
Ronan piles on immediately, grin flashing, and Rithy doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not enjoying himself.
They tell me I seemed a little off during the show tonight, that something in my timing was tight but distracted, that I wasn’t as loose as usual.
I take it in stride, roll my shoulders, make a comment about jet lag and acoustics.
It’s easier to play it that way than the truth.