Page 15 of The Encore’s Crown

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. Råvind'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.