The studio is humming with a charged, restless energy.
The kind that gathers just before something beautiful begins.
Music rolls softly through the speakers, a low bass line vibrating below my feet.
Laughter drifts from the bar where someone is polishing glasses.
Everything is flowing like clockwork. So far.
And at the centre of that clock is me.
It’s my job to keep it ticking, in a way that feels invisible and seamless to the guests.
Pressed suit and clean shave, I wanted to look my best tonight.
Obviously I’ll never see him again after this.
But I can still leave one final lasting impression.
I can make this night memorable for him.
My earpiece is in position to make sure my team meet every cue.
Tapping the stylus against my screen, I walk with the confident precision of a man who knows exactly how every moving piece fits together.
Straightening a folded napkin, I pause near the entryway to survey the scene.
Amos might be a handful, but I desire nothing more than to please him.
Professionally. For networking purposes.
Behind me, the kitchen door opens with a rush of warm air.
“Food coming through, move that butt,” Porter announces.
I turn as he passes me, two trays balanced carefully.
My eyes flicker briefly down the corridor.
“Those look great. Table on the left, please.”
I make a quick note on my tablet.
Fuck, I’m tense.
I don’t usually get this nervous before a gig.
“You’re so serious when you’re in event mode,” Porter laughs. “Remember to smile.”
“I’m efficient,” I shrug.
Deacon sets the crates down and starts unloading containers.
The two of them move together so naturally, one of them reaching for something before the other even asks. I notice the way they soften around each other.
Has Porter said it yet?
Has he asked him out?
