Page 71 of Unfinished Noise

“It is basically a desert,” Alfie said, hopping out behind him.

Spencer climbed out last, stretching his back. He scanned the crowd automatically, even though Jamie wasn’t out there yet. Jamie was somewhere behind the stage with the crew—probably already talking to someone, probably already excited. The thought tightened Spencer’s breath for a second, a small hitch he didn’t bother hiding. Just imagining Jamie’s energy made something warm unfurl low in his chest.

They piled into the second van that took them closer to the stage entrance. Fans were already pressed against the barricades, waving signs, phones, shirts—anything they wanted signed.

The opening bands played first, and Spencer stood backstage, listening to the crowd warm up. The energy built like a slow burn—cheers, clapping, people shouting lyrics. But when the announcer finally yelled:

“Next up—BLACK SHADOWS!”

The entire field erupted.

A deep vibration thumped through Spencer’s ribs as the crowd surged forward, screaming and chanting with their hands thrown high. The reaction never got old, even after years on stage. Behind him, Nathan let out a loud laugh.

“Guess they still like us.”

“Guess so,” Spencer said, though his mind flicked briefly to Jamie again. He wondered where he was standing, if he could hear the crowd from wherever he was.

They ran out on stage, and the noise hit them like a wave. Spencer grabbed his mic, the sun glaring off the metal stand, and the band launched into their first song. The crowd sang with them—loud, messy, joyful. Spencer loved that part. Hearing thousands of voices blend with his felt like electricity running through him.

Halfway through the set, he caught sight of Jamie near the side of the stage, tucked behind a speaker. His face was lit up, eyes bright, hands clasped in front of him like he was trying not to bounce. Spencer didn’t let himself stare too long—he had a job to do—but every time he turned that direction, Jamie was still there, watching him like he was the only person onstage.

When the set ended, the crowd roared again, and Spencer felt that familiar rush of adrenaline. They bowed, waved, and jogged offstage.

That’s when the fans descended.

Security tried to keep a path open, but people flooded toward them—phones out, shouting their names, asking for selfies, autographs, hugs. Normally, Spencer fed off that energy. Meeting fans was part of the job, and most days he genuinely enjoyed it.

Tonight, though, the crowd pressed in thicker than usual, and every fresh face turned into another barrier between him and Jamie. He signed a poster, posed for a photo, answered a quick question—each interaction stretching the distance a little longer.

Somewhere past the wall of people, Jamie waited near the equipment van. Spencer caught glimpses of him between shoulders and raised phones: Jamie standing steady, hands tucked into his pockets, rocking lightly on his heels. No impatience, no annoyance—just that quiet, patient calm he always carried. The sight tightened something in Spencer’s chest.

Another fan stepped in front of him. “Spencer, can you sign this?”

He did, but his jaw clenched a little. The surrounding noise blurred into a messy hum, and the heat from the crowd stuck to his skin. He tried shifting sideways, but the line closed again.

Jamie’s posture changed—just slightly. A small tilt of his head, a soft smile forming when their eyes met across the chaos. Spencer’s frustration eased for a moment, replaced by something warmer, sharper. Jamie was watching him with that steady, grounding look that made Spencer want to push through the crowd faster.

Another selfie. Another autograph. Another fan grabbed his arm.

The impatience built—not angry, a restless pull under his ribs. He longed to hear Jamie’s voice, yearning for the quiet to wash over him. And the longer the crowd held him, the more that want shifted into a low, persistent ache.

Nathan elbowed him lightly. “Dude, you’re never getting out of here.”

Spencer forced a smile for the next photo. “I’m trying.”

But his eyes kept drifting back to Jamie—still waiting, still steady, still giving him that soft look that made everything less chaotic.

And with every passing minute, Spencer’s need to reach him didn’t just repeat—it deepened.

He smiled, took more photos, signed shirts, and shook hands. But every time he tried to inch toward Jamie, more fans stepped in front of him.

Alfie laughed from somewhere behind him. “Jamie’s gonna think you’re avoiding him.”

Spencer shot him a look. “I’m not.”

He took the selfies, signed the things, and did the whole routine. But inside, he was counting down the seconds until he could finally break free and get to Jamie.

And the second he saw an opening—just a tiny gap in the crowd—Spencer moved.