And I want to make mine with her.
I keep thinking about how I’ll ask her.
Something over the top? I could book out the entire damn Eiffel Tower if I wanted. Fly her to Paris, light the sky with fireworks, get a string quartet to play her favorite song while I drop to one knee on a rooftop with the skyline blazing behind her.
Or maybe something quieter. A beach at night. Just her and me and the ocean, the waves carrying my promise into the dark.
I want it to be ours. Something she remembers not because it was big, but because it was real.
Hell, I’d do it now if I wasn’t so goddamn terrified of messing it up.
I glance down at her. Her nose is a little red from the cold. There’s a smudge of whipped cream on her lip from her drink earlier. She’s tucked into my side like she belongs there—because she does.
“Baby,” I say, voice low.
She looks up, curious.
“I…” I swallow. Say it. Ask her.
But then she smiles at me, wide and cheeky. “What? Don’t tell me you’re about to get sentimental on me right before you blow the crowd’s face off with your sexy guitar skills.”
I laugh, the moment cracking just enough to breathe again. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
I kiss her then. Slow. Like a promise. Like maybe I am asking, even if the words haven’t left my lips yet.
One day soon.
One day very soon.
Because I’ve already got the ring.
And it’s not a matter of if anymore.
It’s only when.
The lights blind me the second we hit the stage.
Montreal roars.
It’s not just noise—it’s a living, breathing pulse that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go. A wall of sound crashing through the cold October night as I step up to the mic, guitar already warm against my chest, the strap biting into my shoulder like it belongs there. Chace drops in behind the kit, Trey prowls to my left, Sam gives a nod from the other side—and just like that—
We’re on.
The crowd is packed tight, shoulders and scarves and beanies, foggy breath curling in the air, faces glowing under the stage lights. The energy out there? It’s primal. Insatiable. Addictive.
But I don’t care about any of it.
Because she’s here.
Mac.
Standing just offstage, arms folded over her chest, my hoodie wrapped around her like it belongs to her now. She’s layered up—black tights, plaid skirt, scuffed boots, a beanie tugged low over her wild hair. Octobers settled in hard overnight, but she’s not shivering.
She’s burning.
Her eyes are locked on me—on my hands, more specifically. She’s watching the way my fingers slide over the strings, fluid and precise, fast and sure. Her lips part slightly every time I change chords. Every time I hammer out a solo. Like she remembers what these hands do when there’s no audience. No music. Just us and heat and tangled sheets.
And holy Hell, does she look like she’s thinking about it.
