CHAPTER 40
BRON
The lights hit different when you’re not hiding anymore.
That’s the first thing I notice.
They’re still bright—still blinding, really, washing the stage in that familiar flood of gold and white that turns sweat into shine and shadows into something theatrical—but they don’t feel like a shield tonight.
They feel like exposure.
Like stepping into something honest.
The crowd is already on its feet before I even touch the strings.
That part hasn’t changed.
It’s a living thing out there—thousands of bodies packed into the venue, voices rising and falling like weather, heat rolling off them in waves that reach all the way up to the stage. This place smells like sweat, cheap drinks, ozone from the lighting rigs, and something electric.
I used to live for that.
Still do, in a way.
But tonight?—
Tonight it’s different.
I adjust the strap on my guitar and glance toward the side of the stage.
Backstage is dim compared to the blaze of the lights, but I can still see them.
Tilda stands just beyond the curtain line, one hand resting lightly on Jesse’s shoulder as he peers out from behind her leg with open, fascinated curiosity. His eyes reflect the stage lights like molten gold, wide and unblinking as he takes in the noise, the movement, the sheer scale of it all.
He looks like he’s trying to understand how something this big exists.
Tilda catches my eye.
She doesn’t smile right away.
She studies me.
Like she’s checking for something.
Old habits.
Old ghosts.
Looking for the version of me that used to step onto stages like this and forget everything else existed.
I hold her gaze.
Don’t look away.
Don’t perform.
Just—
Stay.
