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It was five-thirty in the morning.

Way, way

too early to be awake, yet Keefe stood in a crowded hotel lobby, watching. People rushed by him everywhere, busy on the phone or talking in their ear pieces, gathering bags and suitcases and filling their thermoses with tea. 
 
Keefe should have been busy, too, but instead he just stood there, gazing across the room at his mother. 
 
Lady Gisela stood upright. Her bun was twisted back painfully, as it always was, and her facial features were pinched and pulled back into a chagrined expression, like she was judging everyone around her.

(She was.)

Keefe’s mother practically ran everything around there. All Keefe had to do was march onstage and perform. Occasionally his mom would knock on his door and tell him he had to write a new song, a

good

one this time, and he’d do that and go back to bed. 
 
It was exhausting. He kind of hated it. 
 
But it was better than being stuck at home going to school. At least he got to meet people from all over, at least he got to have

some

fun sometimes. 
 
(He ignored the part of him that said he was lying.)
 
Looking at his mother when she hadn’t yet seen him always filled Keefe with a weird, nostalgic feeling. Lady Gisela, if she let loose a little bit, could be beautiful. Her hair was long and blonde, exactly like Keefe’s, and she had piercing blue eyes and sharp features. She could have been a model. 
 
Instead, she married a shell of a man, got pregnant, and pushed her ambitions on her child. 
 
Keefe didn’t hate her, though he should. She was rude, and critical, and she made Keefe feel very, very

small.

But she also did all of that to

help

him. He knew that, even if he didn’t always feel it.
 
Lady Gisela loved him. 
 
She finally noticed him staring. Her face almost fell, a bit, when she saw him, but then she reeled it in and her features hardened. She yelled something; Keefe could see her mouth move, but he couldn’t hear her over the bustle of activity swirling around him. 
 
What she wanted was clear, though. She wanted Keefe to

come here.

Sighing, Keefe pushed off the wall he had been leaning against. He was dressed in comfortable clothes, not the outfit that had been laid out for him, and he knew his mom could see that as he made his way over. She’d be upset, but he didn’t really care. 
 
Let her be mad at him. Let her feel

something

towards him and actually show it. 
 
“Keefe,” his mother greeted when he was finally within earshot. She almost always started conversations like this, like she was breathing an insult by saying his name. “Why are you dressed like that? I had Lihn and Biana lay an outfit out for you.”
 
Lihn and Biana were Keefe’s beauty managers. They were both kind, if a little sassy, but Keefe enjoyed being around them. They talked a lot so all he had to do was listen while they did his makeup and his hair. It was almost soothing. And they had really good taste in clothes and fashion. 
 
“I know,” Keefe responded. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to and he cleared his throat and tried again. “I know.”
 
“Then why aren’t you wearing it?” The words were clipped and sharp. Keefe winced and dug his fingernails into his palms, a nervous habit he couldn’t quite shake. Often, he had little crescent indents left in his skin. 
 
“I, uh,” he stumbled out. He couldn’t seem to form a coherent response, which pissed him off more than anything. He prided himself in being a good conversationalist, in being social and easy to talk to.  
 
“You, uh,” Lady Gisela prompted. Her mocking made Keefe’s ears burn and he looked towards the ground, embarrassed. “You just didn’t want to,” she snapped. 
 
Keefe nodded miserably, because it was true. He felt more comfortable in his faded blue jumper and grey sweatpants. 
 
Lady Gisela slipped her eyes closed. She did this a lot, too. It let Keefe know that she was

trying,

trying

really hard

not to be mad at him. She didn’t want to yell, Keefe knew that, and this was her trying not to. 
 
Lady Gisela loved him. 
 
“Say hello to Sophie,” his mother said, sharply. The sudden change in conversation left Keefe reeling, a bit. 
 
“Sophie?” he asked, softly, mostly to himself. But then he saw her and wondered how he hadn’t noticed her before. 
 
She was standing a little to the side of Lady Gisela, almost behind her, like she was hiding. She had long, blonde hair, but it was lighter than Keefe’s, and also straight. Her eyes were solid brown and alert with curiosity. She was wearing a button-down shirt and skirt with a

tie,

of all things, and black pumps.

She’s pretty.

“Hello, Sophie,” he said, softly. He knew his eyes were wide and trailing her, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He liked the way her name felt on his tongue.
 
“Hello,” Sophie greeted. Keefe tried not to be surprised by her voice. It was soft, gentle. She seemed like the shy type, but she also seemed like she knew what she was doing, like she would be really confident if she let herself be. 
 
“Sophie is your new assistant,” Gisela explained. Her nose was upturned, so that she was looking down at Keefe even though he was technically taller. Another thing she liked to do, although she did this to everyone, not just her son.
 
Her words registered slowly and a pang of sadness shot through him. “You fired Tam?” 
 
Keefe had liked Tam. He was Lihn’s twin brother, hired as Keefe’s personal assistant to replace Fitz, who was

Biana’s

brother. Tam and Keefe hadn’t gotten along at first, but slowly, they grew closer. Kinder. Softer. Sometimes, when Tam could tell Keefe was having a rough day, he’d just open his arms, and Keefe would sink into them. 
 
They would have been friends, if Keefe had friends. 
 
Lady Gisela shot him a warning look. “Yes.” The monosyllabic word made it clear that the decision was final. “He was. . . becoming too close.”
 
In other words, Keefe was starting to trust Tam instead of her and she didn’t like that. 
 
“Where is he now?” Keefe wanted to know. He felt bad for hashing this out in front of Sophie, but anger also shivered down his arms. 
 
He didn’t really expect his mom to tell him, but she said, “He’s been added to the beauty team.”
 
Keefe blinked. Tam would hate that job. He hated makeup almost as much as Fitz did. 
 
But. . . maybe he’d bare it, if it meant staying near Keefe. And it was still a job. And Tam wouldn’t, not in a million years, leave Lihn by herself. 
 
At least he’d still get to see Tam. Maybe get a hug, everyone once in a while, when it wouldn’t smudge his makeup or twist his hair. 
 
It could have been worse. But for some reason, he still felt like crying.
 
“As I was saying.” Lady Gisela liked to speak in fragments, often. She liked to stop talking just when you were sure she would keep going. “Miss. . . Foster--Ruewen applied, and we decided she would be a positive influence.”

A positive influence.

Once again, white hot anger surged in Keefe. He didn’t need a

positive influence,

he needed Tam back. Or Fitz. They had both been good, solid friends, and now they had both been fired and rehired somewhere else, though Fitz had been moved to the sound department rather than the beauty one. 
 
He missed them. He almost said that, almost opened his mouth to argue with his mother. And he might have, if Sophie didn’t catch his eye and shake her head, slightly. 
 
He didn’t know what that meant, but his mouth fell closed and Lady Gisela smiled for the first time all morning. 
 
It was a tight, cruel thing. He wished she would stop.
 
“When do we leave?” Keefe asked, crossing his arms, walls flying into place and cementing around him. He knew he was being a little rude but he really,

really

didn’t care. 
 
To his surprise, Sophie answered instead of his mother, in her quiet, easy voice. “In about fifteen minutes.”
 
“Which means,” Lady Gisela added, emphasizing each syllable, like Keefe was a toddler, “that you have fifteen minutes to change out of your sloppy outfit and into the one Biana and Lihn left for you.”
 
Keefe clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to change. He really,

really

didn’t want to change.
 
But he took a deep breath.

Choose your battles,

Tam had told him, once, when he came across Keefe and his mother shouting at each other. Keefe had started to cry, like a little kid, and his mom was berating him for it. Tam had stumbled upon them and grabbed Keefe by the shoulders, whispering in his ear, leading him away from his mother, who scoffed as she watched them go.

She has to win some,

Tam had told Keefe on the tour bus.

If she doesn’t, you’ll lose any freedom you have and she’ll start micro-managing everything.

She already does,

Keefe had told him, almost angrily, but Tam brushed off his tone.

It could be so much worse. Sometimes, you have to let her win. Sometimes fighting her will only make things more miserable for you. Choose your battles.

Choose your battles. 
 
“Fine,” Keefe gritted out, turning on his heel.    
 
He heard footsteps behind him and turned around, about to

choose his battles

and tell his mother to piss off, he could change by himself. 
 
But it wasn’t his mother who was following him, it was Sophie. He blinked at her in surprise and his anger faded a little. 
 
“Foster? What are you doing?”
 
Sophie blushed slightly and Keefe wondered what he had done. He hadn’t even been trying to flirt. “Your mom wanted me to come with. Make sure you didn’t leave any luggage up there.”
 
Keefe hadn’t left anything besides the dumb outfit on his bed; he knew that. He’d personally carried all his bags down this morning.
 
“You don’t have to come,” he told her. He knew he was being a pain, but seriously, he wasn’t a child. He would have known if he had left anything behind, and he hadn’t. End of story. 
 
“Yeah, but see, I want to keep this job, considering how fragile of a position it seems. So yes, I do have to come.”
 
Keefe hadn’t expected her to be so fiery.
 
They stared at each other.

Choose your battles.

Keefe took a deep breath and turned away. He didn’t really want to fight this girl, anyway. If she was going to be spending a lot of time with him, they may as well get along. 
 
He led the way back to the elevator, Sophie on his heels. There were people everywhere in the lobby: hotel workers, his producers and managers, some of the musicians who played on stage with Keefe. It was overstimulating, but he plowed ahead, until finally, the two of them were together in the quiet of the lift. 
 
He jammed his finger into the button for the top floor. 
 
Sophie had her arms wrapped around her middle. “I hate these things,” she mumbled, maybe trying to lighten the mood.
 
Keefe surprised them both by laughing. He wanted to be mad at Sophie, to hate her for stealing Tam’s position and for insisting she come along with him, but she was very hard to be angry with. Her being so cute didn’t particularly help. “We can take the stairs back down,” he offered. 
 
Sophie shook her head, blonde hair swishing over her shoulders. “Not with suitcases and luggage, we can’t.”
 
A smile rested on Keefe’s lips, even if he was still a bit frustrated at that. “I already brought all my stuff down. There’s nothing there except that stupid outfit.”
 
Sophie cocked her head, looking at him sharply, like she could see right through him. It was a little unsettling, but she didn’t look rude, just calculating. Just curious. 
 
Keefe didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. The bell dinged at his floor.
 
He stepped off, and Sophie followed him, arms swinging at her sides. Abruptly, he thought of taking her hand.

Stars, Keefe, get a hold of yourself. You don’t even know her.

The worst part was, that had never stopped Keefe before. Not knowing a girl had nothing to do with kissing her, or holding her hand, or running his fingers through her hair. It didn’t matter.
 
So why, all of a sudden, did it?
 
“Your room was 505, right?” Sophie asked, breaking into his thoughts. 
 
“Just call me Alex Turner,” Keefe quipped. Sophie raised her eyebrow and he could tell she didn’t get the joke. “That means yes.”
 
A few moments passed where they walked in silence. “How do you know my room number?” Keefe asked, mostly to break the silence. He didn’t really like the quiet.
 
Sophie shrugged. “Your mom mentioned it. I’m pretty good at remembering things.”
 
“Well, then you must remember that I said there’s nothing left in my room. You don’t have to check it. You can just wait here.”
 
She kept walking. “Why not make sure?”
 
“Because I already know there’s nothing there. There’s no point.”
 
Sophie shrugged, which shifted her hair a little. Keefe watched a strand fall over her shoulder as she said, “C’mon, Keefe. I’m just doing my job.”
 
That was the first time she had used his name. It sounded different on her lips than on anyone else’s. “Okay,” he said.
 
They kept walking. Neither of them spoke. There wasn’t exactly

tension

in the air, but it was close, and Keefe wondered what it was about this girl that made him second guess himself.

Sure, she was beautiful, but he had been around a lot of beautiful girls before. 
 
He chalked it up to nerves. After all, this would be his personal assistant until his mom decided to fire her. They would be spending a lot of time together. 
 
“Room 505,” Sophie announced when they finally came up on it. She had been walking a bit ahead of him. “Key?”
 
He dug in his pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it easily and twisted it into the lock, pushing the door open with her hip. He followed her in, flicking on the lights with his fingertips. 
 
He watched Sophie take in his room: one bed, a small desk shoved in the corner (where the outfit he was expected to wear rested), and a lamp. A door to the side led to the bathroom. The room, all things considered, was very, very small and very, very run-down. The carpet was stained and the wallpaper was peeling. 
 
“Not what you were expecting, huh?” he asked, leaning against the door-frame, studying her reaction.
 
Sophie’s face flushed. “No, not really,” she admitted.
 
Keefe knew exactly what she

had

been expecting. The same thing Fitz, and then Tam, had been expecting: a huge place with multiple rooms, a large TV, a minibar with a fridge and a gigantic bed. 
 
He thought about not explaining it to her, about letting her wonder and try to puzzle out the mystery. But he found himself saying, “My parents have control of all my finances. They only spend it on the most ‘necessary’ things, ya know?”
 
Sophie nodded slowly, like she understood. Keefe decided not to call her out, even though there was

no way she actually understood.

She was very convincing, though.
 
“Technically,” Keefe continued, picking at a loose thread on his sweater, “I could sleep in the tour bus. But I hate that thing.” He stopped talking. Continued, “This isn’t really considered

‘necessary’’,

so I bought this room with what I have saved up. My own money. I do it almost every time.”
 
“Oh.”
 
A very, very small word. But it held a lot, and Keefe could already see Sophie slowly putting the pieces together. He bit his lip and hurried to talk, to distract her, to not take down his walls just yet. “Looks like I did forget something,” he said, even if he hated to point it out. 
 
Sophie blinked, and her calculating look disappeared. She turned to where Keefe was looking and a slow smile stretched across her face. It lit up her features and Keefe couldn’t help but stare at her as something delicate crawled up his spine. “You sleep with a stuffed animal?”
 
It took his brain a moment to form a response. He cleared his throat, scratched his head. “Oh, uh, yeah. That’s Mrs. Stinkbottom.” He swooped over and grabbed her off the chair he had accidentally left her on. 
 
Relief swam through him. He didn’t even care that he had been wrong, he was just glad he hadn’t left her. 
 
“You’re seventeen and you sleep with a stuffed animal?” Sophie asked again, putting her hand on her hip, but her tone wasn’t judgemental. Just curious, and slightly surprised. He figured she had just put her hand there because she needed to do something with them. 
 
Either way, Keefe felt himself flush. Nonplussed, he replied, carefully, “Yeah. I’ve had her since I was a kid.”
 
Sophie smiled unexpectedly. Keefe blinked, feeling his flush worsen.

What was wrong with him?

“I have a blue elephant named Ella. She wears a Hawaiian shirt.” 
 
It was so absurd, so random, that Keefe barked a laugh. “They can be friends,” he said, holding up Mrs. Stinkbottom. 
 
“Of course they can,” Sophie told him, but it didn’t sound like she was talking about the stuffed animals, and the way she looked at him made the hairs on his neck stand up.
 
Despite that, Keefe felt himself grin. He liked this Sophie Foster-Ruewen. 
 
“There’s your stellar fit,” Sophie told him. Her tone was sarcastic. She had a lot of fire in her than Keefe had given her credit for. She was just good at pretending in front of his mom.
 
“Yup,” he replied, popping the ‘p’. He tossed Mrs. Stinkbottom to Sophie, watching her catch it, and then grabbed the clothes off the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
 
He went into the bathroom, shut and locked the door behind him. Biana and Lihn had chosen a tight black shirt and faded patchwork jeans that looked vintage but were probably designer. He pulled them both on and at the last minute tied his jumper around his waist. 
 
His mom wouldn’t like that, but she would probably let it slide. She followed Tam’s advice, too, even if she didn’t know it.

Choose your battles.

He came back outside. Sophie hadn’t moved from her spot across the room. 
 
“How do I look?” Keefe asked, though he didn’t really care.
 
Sophie studied him. “Good,” she replied, and Keefe blinked when the word was genuine. For some reason, he had been expecting a joke or sarcastic comment.
 
“Uh, thanks,” he told her, wanting to curse when he fumbled over his words. 
 
Seriously, why was he so off his game?
 
“We should get back downstairs,” Sophie announced, already turning towards the door. Her hair cascaded down her back and Keefe bit his lip. 
 
“Yeah.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“He performs at six,” Lady Gisela was saying, clearly tired and stressed, as she waved a checklist at Sophie. Some of her hair was falling out of her perfect bun, and the makeup above her left eye was smudged. “He needs to be backstage and ready by five, so you two will have to meet the makeup crew at four. Got it?”
 
Sophie nodded. She wanted to tell Lady Gisela that she could

read,

that all she needed was the stupid checklist. But she bit back the comment, unsure where her frustration was coming from. “Yes, ma’am.”
 
(Sophie had only been around for about a week, but she’d realised quickly that Lady Gisela preferred the honorific nine times out of ten.

It’s because she’s a snob,

Keefe had practically spat out when Sophie had asked him.

People who have to demand respect are not respected.

All Sophie had done was nod. She agreed, but she didn’t want to get in trouble for talking bad about her employer.)
 
“Get on, then,” Lady Gisela snapped, crinkling her nose. She did that a lot, like the very air around her reeked. 
 
Sophie didn’t need to be told twice. She’d thought her unease about Lady Gisela would shrink the longer she worked here, the longer she got used to her, but it only seemed to grow. 
 
Either way, today, she was determined to do her job well. This was the first performance since she’d been hired, and it was her job to make sure everything leading up to it went smoothly. 
 
Sophie wanted to do

good.

She didn’t want to be fired like the Tam guy was, she wanted to keep this job. 
 
She

needed

this job. 
 
(More than she wanted to admit.)
 
Taking a steadying breath, Sophie stepped outside the theater, where Keefe would be performing later. She had met Lady Gisela there early this morning, and they’d been talking for hours. 
 
The weather outside was nice, if a little cold, with a light breeze. It was around one in the afternoon, which meant that she had a few hours to kill before she

had

to meet with Keefe. 
 
In spite of that, she found herself marching towards the boy’s tour bus. She hadn’t been inside yet--Keefe always shut her out before she could walk in--so she was very curious. Besides, what else was she going to do for the next three hours?
 
At least, that’s what she told herself. It had nothing to do with wanting to see Keefe, no, nothing like that.

This is my job,

she reminded herself, hoping she wasn’t blushing. So what if Keefe was just as attractive as everyone said? That didn’t mean anything. 
 
Shaking her head, Sophie ascended the steps of the bus, wondering if she should knock. She was just putting her first to the door when it popped open. 
 
Jumping, she pulled her hand to her chest, looking up to see Keefe.
 
He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt--

Gaze burning, Sophie quickly dropped her eyes to the ground. “What are you doing?” she hissed, trying to resist the temptation to look back up. 
 
Keefe, annoyingly, didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, he sounded bored. “What do you mean?”
 
“I mean--” Sophie sputtered, but her thoughts were

very

scattered. She kept trying to form a sentence, but words were slipping away from her. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” she finished, lamely. She kept her head pointed towards the ground. 
 
“Um,” Keefe said. “Because it’s my bus and I can wear what I want in it?”
 
Which was a valid point, but, “Still. Aren’t you worried someone will see you?”
 
Keefe just shrugged. At least, Sophie assumed that’s what he did. She still wasn’t looking. “Nothing they haven’t seen before.”
 
She blinked. She wanted to ask, to try and unpack that a little bit, but it was getting increasingly hard to focus. “Will you

cover up?”

she asked, crossing her arms, telling herself she shouldn’t care.
 
But she did. 
 
There was a rustling noise; she assumed he was grabbing a shirt. But when she peaked, all he had was a towel wrapped around him. 
 
“Better?” he asked. 
 
She nodded, even though no, it

wasn’t.

It took a moment to find her voice. “I, uh, I came to drop off your schedule.”
 
She showed him the checklist in her hand. He hardly glanced at it. “I have one already.”
 
“Oh.”
 
Stars,

nothing

about this conversation was going right, was it? “I guess that’s it, then, um--”
 
“Would you like to come in?”
 
Sophie started, blinking up at the boy in front of her, intent on forming an answer, but the words died in her throat. He looked. . . really good. His hair wasn’t styled, but bedhead looked nice on him, and he was wearing the same pair of grey sweats Sophie had first seen him in. 
 
His question finally processed. “Come inside?” she repeated, and then cursed herself because

that was a stupid thing to say.

Keefe just nodded. His cheeks were flushed and she realised he was nervous. His hands were curled into little fists at his sides. “Um. Yeah. If you want.”
 
She smiled slightly. “I do want,” she told him, and pushed past with a confidence she didn’t feel.

Fake it till you make it.

His tour bus was pretty big, all things considered. There was a couch and a desk and a separate compartment that must’ve led to the driver's side of things. To her right was a sliding door opened the tiniest bit. Sophie could just barely see his bed through the sliver.
 
Keefe shut the door behind him. For a minute, Sophie felt panicked--had she really just come inside a bus alone with a guy she hardly knew? Wasn’t that something her mother had always warned her about?
 
“Want a drink?” Keefe asked, moving about the space. 
 
Sophie opened and closed her mouth. She was really wishing he’d put an actual shirt on; his towel kept shifting around his torso. She caught a glimpse of a long scar on his stomach and fought the curiosity out of her system. 
 
“Sure,” she said, even though she wasn’t thirsty. She tried to remember if it was rude to accept or to refuse. 
 
There was a small fridge shoved in the corner. Keefe popped it open. He was humming a strange melody under his breath as he grabbed orange juice and two glasses. He filled them about half-way and passed one to Sophie.
 
“So, Foster,” he started, and Sophie tried not to blush. She loved the sound of her last name when he said it. It made it sound so much more exciting. “What’s the schedule for the day?”
 
Sophie frowned, taking a sip of her drink. It was good. “I thought you already knew.”
 
“Just because I have the checklist doesn’t mean I read it.”
 
A smile grew on her face against her will. “Fair enough.”
 
She pulled out her paper and read it aloud. “At four we go to hair and makeup. Five, you have to be backstage, and at six you perform. Afterwards, you meet with fans backstage for an hour. Then hair and makeup de-style you, and we hit the road again.”
 
Keefe had closed his eyes. He looked a little pained. “Is that it?”
 
Sophie nodded. “Yup. Unless you want tomorrow’s itinerary, too.”
 
He grimaced. “Nope. One day is enough to worry about, thanks.”
 
She laughed. “I’ll say. Man, managing your life is stressful.”
 
“

Living

my life is stressful,” he told her, face finally breaking into a grin, and they both laughed, a little. Some of the awkwardness faded.
 
“Well,” Sophie said, checking her watch, “it’s a little past lunch. Have you eaten today?”
 
His grin dropped, a bit. “Not yet,” he admitted. 
 
Sophie just nodded and filed that into her memory.

Remind Keefe to eat.

“That’s okay. There’s a restaurant nearby, if you’re hungry?”
 
He bit his lip. That was something Sophie had seen him do often. His teeth sunk into the soft tissue and Sophie looked away, face burning again because

why was she watching Keefe’s lips?

“Let’s just eat here. I have some things for sandwiches.”
 
“Okay,” she agreed, because it was easy, and she hadn’t really wanted to go out anyway. 
 
Keefe got the meat and bread out. Sophie made two turkey subs and Keefe made one with turkey and pepperoni. 
 
“Oink oink,” he said, dropping the pig meat on his bread. 
 
Sophie laughed, a little, and grabbed a pepperoni, which made Keefe smile. “Oink yourself.”
 
They ate in almost silence, though every once in a while, her or Keefe would ask a question, and the other would answer it. 
 
“Favourite colour?”
 
“Purple. Your’s?”
 
“Green.”
 
“Do you like to read?”
 
“It depends on the book. Why did you apply for this job?”
 
“I needed the money. Do you play any sports?”
 
And on and on they went, back and forth, until significant time had passed and they only had fifteen minutes. 
 
“You should put on a shirt,” Sophie told him, surprised to notice how quickly she’d gotten used to the towel draped on his shoulders. 
 
He nodded, but didn’t move. “I’ll grab it,” she offered, already standing, already moving towards the sliding door she knew led to his bedroom. 
 
He jumped up. “That’s okay, Foster.” His words were a little rushed. 
 
Sophie frowned. “Seriously, Keefe, I got it.”
 
He looked like he wanted to argue, to insist he do it himself, but instead he just nodded slowly. Sat back down. 
 
Sophie nodded, too, and slipped away. 
 
Keefe’s bed wasn’t made, which was the first thing she noticed. It was a little endearing, when she spotted Mrs. Stinkbottom propped on top of a pillow.
 
The second thing she noticed were the drawings tacked to the walls around. 
 
“Wow,” she murmured, running her fingers over one of them. They were hyper-realistic. Every detail, every thin line carried a purpose to craft an accurate picture of Lady Gisela, or a man who must have been Keefe’s father. There were even a few portraits of some teens that looked about her age, all of them surreal and lifelike.
 
She moved in a slow circle, taking it in. They were beautiful, every last one of them. She opened her mouth to yell out to Keefe, to tell him how stunningly amazing these were, but she froze when she saw

herself.

It was taped up by the window, so that the sun caught through the paper and gave her a luminescent filter. But it was unmistakably her, down to the bridge of her nose and the look in her eyes. 
 
She didn’t realise how close she had moved until she was right next to it, touching it softly. It wasn’t as accurate as the other drawings; he had made her more beautiful than she was. 
 
“Do you like it?” Keefe asked, behind her, softly. She didn’t even jump, though she hadn’t heard him coming up behind her.
 
“It’s wonderful,” she breathed. 
 
“Then keep it.”
 
She blinked and finally turned to look at him. His towel had shifted again and she could see his stomach. “Where did you get that scar?” she asked, abruptly, but it felt like the right thing to say.
 
Keefe didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. He ran his hand over his torse, tracing the pattern of the jagged line. “Long story,” he murmured. 
 
“We have time,” she said, even though they didn’t.
 
Still, his lips quivered with a smile. Sophie’s gaze fell to them and a thought burst in her mind.

I hope he kisses me.

“I got in a fight a few years ago. Couple of muggers cut me up pretty good.” 
 
His eyes searched hers, like he was waiting for her to call out his lie. She didn’t. 
 
“Seriously. Keep the picture.” Keefe turned to his dresser, grabbed the first shirt he saw. His towel fell completely away and Sophie turned her head while he changed. “You can look now.”
 
He was wearing a simple green hoodie.

His favourite colour.

He turned to leave, and Sophie followed him. 
 
But not before grabbing her portrait and stuffing it into her pocket. 
 
The two of them made the walk to the beauty cart in silence. When they arrived, a tanned girl with dark hair threw the door open before they could even climb the steps. 
 
“Keefe,” she greeted. “Get in here. You’re late.”
 
“Hey, Biana,” Keefe replied. He was smiling, and Sophie was surprised to find a pang of jealousy fill her stomach. Was this his girlfriend? 
 
She shook the thought away. “Hi, I’m Sophie.”
 
“Hello,” Biana replied. She had scars on the left side of her face, scattered across her neck and trailing down her arm. She was really pretty, prettier than Sophie. Not that it mattered. To Keefe, Biana said, “Get your butt in here.”
 
He laughed and walked in. Suddenly Sophie felt awkward, unsure of if she should actually follow, or just go back to the tour bus to wait. 
 
“Come on, Soph,” Biana decided for her, waving at her. She liked how Biana had called her ‘Soph’ and knew they were going to be friends. 
 
The makeup bus was busy and cluttered. Supplies sat on every available surface. Hats and scarfs and jackets hung from the walls and the whole place smelled like hairspray. 
 
Keefe was talking to a guy with dark hair, dyed silver at the tips. They were laughing, leaning towards each other. There was something very familiar between them. 
 
“Hi, I’m Lihn,” someone next to Sophie greeted. She turned to find a girl with the same hair style as the mysterious boy.
 
“Hi.”
 
“You're Keefe’s new assistant, right?” Biana asked from across the room, where she stood checking the heat of a curling iron. 
 
Sophie nodded.
 
“So you replaced me, huh?” the guy with dark hair asked. Sophie hadn’t realised he’d joined the conversation. 
 
His expression was steely. “Oh, uh,” she sputtered, feeling her face flame. 
 
“Aw, man, cut it out,” Keefe jumped in, slapping his friend on the back. “We all know it’s my mom’s fault, not Foster’s.”
 
“You’re Tam,” Sophie realised, finally fitting the pieces together.
 
“That’s me. What, Keefe mention me a lot?”

“Ew, dude, no,” Keefe answered, miming gagging. He was joking, but he also wasn’t lying. Keefe

didn’t

mention Tam a lot. 
 
“Quick the yap,” Biana ordered before Sophie could try to explain. “Sit down, Keefe. We only have an hour to do this.”

Only an hour,

Keefe mouthed to Sophie, rolling his eyes. The movement was so

casual,

like including her was second nature, like she was

one of them

. She laughed as Biana hit him with a towel. 
 
“Sit!”
 
He did, finally, collapsing into a chair. This was the most relaxed Sophie had ever seen him; He looked his age, here, surrounded by friends. The thought made her smile. 
 
“What now, oh Great Wise One,” Keefe asked, stretching his hands towards Biana like he was worshipping her. 
 
“Now, you shut the bloody heck up before I hit you again,” Biana snarled back, but amusement hung in her eyes like fairy lights. 
 
“I vote we do absolutely nothing,” Tam said to no one in particular. “Just to see Gisela’s reaction.”
 
“Yeah, no,” Lihn jumped in. “She’d fire us and then kill us.”
 
“She already fired me,” Tam pointed out. He shot a look at Sophie, who hunched over, the tiniest bit. 
 
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Keefe sounded more sincere than Sophie had ever heard him, even if there was no reason at all that

he

should be apologising. The mood turned serious quickly. 
 
Tam shrugged, as if to say

what can you do?

“It’s good, dude. This happens.”
 
His tone implied that it was very, very normal for your friend’s mom to fire you for no real reason. 
 
Sophie could tell Keefe still felt bad by the way his lips turned downwards, in an almost-frown. But he didn’t say anything, and soon, Biana, Lihn, and Tam were prepping him. 
 
“Gah, you’ve gotta stop chewing your nails,” Biana complained, showing Sophie Keefe’s hand. 
 
“Almost as bad as mine,” she told them, holding out her fingers so they could see. 
 
“I’m surrounded by anxious psych patients,” Biana muttered, turning back to Keefe. She pulled out a file and shaped his nails again, griping about how much work he created for her. 
 
Lihn, who had been working on Keefe’s hair with Tam, asked, “Sophie, do you want to help pick an outfit out for him? You look like you have good taste.”
 
It might’ve been the best compliment Sophie had ever received. “Sure.”
 
Lihn showed her where they kept all the clothes. She explained that as long as everything matched pretty okay, whatever Sophie picked out would be fine. 
 
Keefe had a

lot

of clothes. Most of them wear pretty simple: solid colours, normal sized, nothing too out of the ordinary. Sophie finally settled on a faded grey T-shirt that was styled with a few holes and black, straight jeans. At the last minute, she grabbed a simple green bracelet.
 
When Sophie handed him the outfit, Keefe took it without complaint, even though Sophie knew he hated to be dressed by others. He walked off into a bathroom to change. 
 
“Okay, you think he’s cute,” Biana said the second Keefe was gone. 
 
Sophie felt her face redden immediately, which didn’t make her, “What? No, I don’t,” very convincing.
 
“Please,” Lihn jumped in, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. “Even my brother can see it.”
 
She must’ve meant Tam, because he nodded from his spot leaning against the wall. 
 
“I do not,” Sophie lied. She resisted the urge to pluck an eyelash, a nervous habit she’d had for as long as she could remember. 
 
Biana smiled at her like she knew something Sophie didn’t. “Liar,” she said, matter-of-fact, though her tone was teasing. 
 
Sophie wrinkled her nose, like Lady Gisela would. “Am not.”
 
Lihn opened her mouth to respond, but Keefe entered the room before he could. Everything went quiet, though teasing smiles rested on everyone’s faces.
 
“What?” he asked, adorably innocent. “Did I mess up my hair?”
 
Tam burst out laughing at that, and soon, everyone was gasping for breath. Even Keefe, who didn’t really know what was funny. 
 
“You look great, man,” Tam finally told him, slapping Keefe on the back. To Sophie, he said, “Good job on the outfit.”
 
She smiled warmly. She liked these people. They were

kind,

they made an effort to include people. She liked being around them. “Thanks.”
 
Biana checked her watch. “Okay, love-birds, it’s almost five. You’ve gotta get backstage.”
 
Keefe stuck out his tongue like a dog, oblivious to Sophie’s flush at the nickname. “But I don’t wanna,” he complained. 
 
“You sound like a three-year old. Get out.”
 
“Fine, fine.” Keefe turned to Sophie, grinning, like

Can you believe her?

“Ready?”
 
“Yup.”
 
He held the door for her as they left, and for whatever reason, that made Sophie flush even harder than Biana’s comment.

Get a grip,

she told herself as she started the walk to the auditorium. She was seriously tired, if someone

holding the door

was setting her off. 
 
Keefe walked next to her, humming under his breath, just like he had been earlier. It was the same song. “What are you singing?”
 
“I’m working on a new song,” Keefe explained. He hummed a few more beats, then fizzled out into a long sigh. “Only I can’t figure out the last few chords.”
 
“Sucks,” Sophie supplied, like she knew how it felt, though she had no idea at all. She wasn’t a musician, after all, even if she did like to sing. 
 
They came to the front door, but instead of going inside like Sophie expected, Keefe led the way to the back door. He pushed it open and, again, held it, like Sophie was someone important and not his personal assistant. If anything,

she

should be holding the door for

him.

“Keefe!” a voice yelled the second they made it inside. They turned to see a guy who looked about their age sprinting towards them. He had a clipboard in one hand and an earpiece taped to his cheek. 
 
“Fitz!” Keefe greeted with the same energy. They hugged like guys do: on the side and with a pat on the back. 
 
“Haven’t seen you in ages,” Fitz said. He spoke with an accent, but Sophie couldn’t tell where he was from. He had brown hair and strange, teal eyes, and she realised he looked almost exactly like Biana. “Who’s this?”
 
“Sophie,” Keefe said. “My new personal assistant.”
 
“Ah. Tam got fired and rehired, I presume?”
 
“How’d you know?” Sophie asked, then flushed. She hadn’t meant to interrupt. 
 
Fitz didn’t seem to notice. “I used to have that same position, until Gisela put me with the sound crew.”
 
Sophie blinked. Surprise crawled up her spine, then worry. If she had known her new job would be that fragile, she might have applied somewhere else, somewhere more steady. 
 
Keefe must’ve seen her expression because he knocked his shoulder with hers, like they were long time friends. “You’ll be fine, Foster.”
 
She smiled to hide the fact that her brain kept replaying Keefe’s arm hitting hers. “Of course.”
 
“Anyways, dude, here’s your mic,” Fitz was saying, reeling Sophie back into the conversation. “It’s lapel, but you’ll have a microphone out there, too, so make sure to turn it down a bit when you're using both--”
 
“Fitz, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve got it.”
 
“Fine, fine. I’ve gotta go, but if you need me, I’ll be over there.” He pointed down a small hall. “Good that?”
 
“Good that.”
 
Fitz left and Sophie watched Keefe struggle to put his mic on. He kept clipping too much fabric, or not enough, over and over. 
 
“Here,” Sophie finally said. She wasn’t thinking about what she was doing as she stepped closer, leaning in until only inches separated them, and grabbed the hand that held the mic. Almost instantly, he let it go, and Sophie touched her fingers to his chest. It was warm.
 
She tried not to think about that as she clipped on the mic. Her heart was beating so fast she was sure Keefe could hear it, and all she wanted was to step back and away from the electric space surrounding this boy. 
 
Or maybe step closer. 
 
Instead, when she finished, she didn’t move at all. Slowly, she looked up, meeting Keefe’s gaze. They were very, very close, now.

Close the distance. Kiss me, idiot. Kiss me.

Keefe cleared his throat and took a step back. His face was red, and Sophie was sure hers was too. 
 
“Uh, thanks,” Keefe said, in a very, very small voice. 
 
“No problem,” Sophie squeaked. She felt like her skin was alive with the amount of goosebumps trailing up her body.

What am I doing?

she asked herself. She barely knew this boy, she

worked for his mom.

Objectively, yes, he was a little attractive, but that didn’t mean--she didn’t--
 
Biting her tongue, Sophie wrapped her arms around herself. Keefe didn’t say anything, and neither did see, and the awkward silence was practically suffocating. Eventually, someone tapped Keefe on the shoulder and told him the show was starting soon and he needed to get in position. 
 
He looked at Sophie like he wanted to say something. But at the last minute he turned away and Sophie would never know what it was he wanted to tell her. 
 
Curtain call was in a few minutes. Sophie had been told she could stand in the left wing and watch, but under no circumstances was she to be seen by the crowd.

Fine by me,

she thought. That was the last thing she wanted, to be seen by thousands of people. 
 
“Places!” someone yelled, and people started scrambling all around her. Keefe was onstage, holding his guitar. His band was behind him and the lights dimmed. 
 
But even in the dark, Sophie could see Keefe turn to her and wink. 
 
Then he started singing. 
 
Sophie had heard Keefe’s songs before. On the radio, in stores, heck, even in the elevator. 
 
But there was something much, much different about hearing him sing on stage, in person. It was almost

transcendent,

how rich his voice was. It fell and dropped with the music and his tone pulsed in her ears. She knew her eyes were wide, but she didn’t care. Keefe had never looked better than he did in that moment, singing into the mic. He hadn’t turned his lapel down enough; he was very loud. But that didn’t matter. 
 
He sounded amazing. He

looked

amazing. 
 
Desire burned in Sophie. It started slowly but built up until it was stronger than she’d ever felt, until she really, really wished she had had the guts to kiss him earlier. 
 
Which was stupid. She didn’t know this boy.

But she wanted to.

For the entire performance, Sophie stood there mesmerised by him. The way he looked under the lights, the way he moved in time with the drums, the way he smiled when the crowd joined in and screamed the lyrics with him. 
 
It was beautiful.

He

was beautiful.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Thank you all so much for coming out here,” Keefe said, speaking into his mic. His voice echoed throughout the auditorium and reverberated back to the stage, back to his own ears. He had a slight echo; he hadn’t turned his lapel down enough and he was very loud. 
 
“WE LOVE YOU!” a fan screamed at the top of their lungs, and the room burst into uncontrollable laughter, the type you have when you’ve been up for too long. Even Keefe chuckled, which only made the audience rowdier. 
 
“I love you too,” Keefe replied, looking in the general direction of the person. On cue, the place erupted into screams. Someone threw a shirt at him, he didn’t want to know who. 
 
This was the one part of Keefe’s job he loved: performing. People,

real people,

came from all over the country to see

him.

They wanted to hear

his

music, scream

his

lyrics. 
 
It was amazing. 
 
“Unfortunately, our night is coming to an end,” Keefe continued, lowering his voice, coaxing the crowd to quiet again. Still, several people let out disappointed sighs and disgruntled noises. Keefe fought off a smile. “I’m so glad I got to spend this special time with you. Thank you all so much. Until next time.”
 
He waved, then, the way he always did at the end of a concert, and everyone screamed their goodbye’s and well wishes as Keefe backed farther and farther up. The curtain fell between him and his fans, but it did little to soften the noise. 
 
Keefe didn’t get any sort of break. Instantly, people were upon him, talking over each other, fighting for his attention.. Biana was there, though Keefe had no idea where she had come from, fixing his hair. 
 
“You always manage to smudge your eyeliner,” she told him, but he couldn’t respond over the noise. 
 
“You’ve gotta get backstage,” someone told him, loudly, their breath a mix of coffee and mint. They were pointing towards the left wing. Keefe nodded numbly and broke away. 
 
He spotted Sophie. She was leaning against the wall, already looking at him, and when he got close enough to hear her, she exclaimed, “That was amazing!’
 
Of course, he’d heard those words from people before, so they shouldn’t have been anything particularly special. But something about the way she said it made him

feel

amazing, like he’d actually just accomplished something. “Thanks, Foster,” he said, sincerely.
 
Her smile was positively dazzling. In fact, she was practically glowing. “Man, that was good.” She rubbed her arms like she had chills and Keefe couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in his chest. Call it post-performance euphoria, but he kind of wanted to kiss her. 
 
Of course, that was a stupid thought, so he shoved it away as far as he could and locked it up tight, for extra measure. 
 
“Have you never seen a concert before?” he asked instead.
 
“Actually, no,” Sophie told him, and her face was a little flushed. “First time.”
 
He blinked. He hadn’t really been expecting that. “Oh. Well, I’m glad mine was the first one you got to see.”
 
She smiled up at him, and his heart skipped a little beat. “Me, too.”
 
He’d mostly been joking, but her tone suddenly made him

very

glad. The urge to kiss her triumphed again.  
 
“Keefe,” a voice hissed, and the urge vanished and was replaced by a sickening feeling of dread.

His mother.

“Stars, what are you

doing

over here?” she asked him, voice hot and steely. She looked angry, and Keefe actually

jumped

when her gaze landed on him. “You have a line a mile long of fans waiting to meet you.”
 
Lady Gisela pinned her gaze on Keefe, and he

shrank,

curling his nails to his palm.
 
“Oh, great, your eyeliner is smudged, too,” his mother told him, exasperated, and then she was reaching out, wiping the makeup off

too harshly,

and all Keefe could do was freeze, was

stand there like an idiot

as Lady Gisela rubbed his skin raw. “Good enough,” she practically spat, and Keefe wanted to ask her why she was so mad, what he had

done.

But that wasn’t a good idea, so instead he nodded and walked away as fast as he could. His hands were shaking. 
 
Footsteps patted behind him, and he knew it was Sophie because they were hesitant and soft. Nothing like his mother. 
 
“I’m sorry for distracting you,” she was saying before she had even caught up with him. “That was my fault. Really. I’m sorry--”
 
“It’s fine, Foster. I’m the one that stopped to talk.”
 
She was next to him, now, and she was shaking her head. Her blonde hair swished around her, so that it looked like it was windy. “No,” she insisted. Her voice kind of tilted up at the end. No-oh. 
 
Keefe cast a side glance at her. Her face was flushed, but he couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment or something else. Either way, she looked good. The elation from his concert had faded from her eyes, a little bit, replaced by a guilty look that he didn’t like, so he responded, “I forgive you. Don’t worry about it; she’s always stressed after concerts. It’s not your fault.”
 
It was a half truth--Lady Gisela

was

always stressed after concerts, but not like

that,

not so mad she could barely stand to be near him. He had messed something up, and a sinking feeling filled his stomach, but he shoved it away.

It’s fine.

Sophie looked like she wanted to argue, but they were getting too close to where the fans were talking and screaming and arguing, and so she simply shook her head, bit her lip. 
 
Then she grabbed his hand, squeezed, and walked away. 
 
Keefe froze. He could feel every beat of his heart, every muscle in his body. She had held his hand. She had

held his hand.

His fingers curled inward of their own accord. His face felt impossibly hot and tingles kept shooting down his arm. 
 
Girls had held his hands before. Many, many times. 
 
But none of them, not

one,

had ever felt like

that.

If Keefe had had the time, he would have sat down in that very spot and stared at the wall for a while. As it was, he couldn’t stop smiling, no matter how hard he tried. The dread in his stomach curled to the corner until it was practically gone, replaced by a strange, new feeling he couldn’t name. 
 
Which was stupid. Sophie had probably done it to offer some support, because she couldn’t think of anything to say. 
 
Even telling himself that, it was impossible for him to get the contact out of his mind while he met with his fans. He posed for pictures, he hugged some, he signed their posters, but the entire time he was thinking of Sophie Foster and her impossibly large brown eyes. 
 
“You’re such an inspiration,” one of them would say, and Keefe would smile and thank them, but the whole time he was back in the moment before the concert. The moment where Sophie had been inches away, pinning on his mic, and he could smell her shampoo, the moment he had thought, for a second, that she was going to kiss him. 
 
By the time the meet-and-greet was over, Keefe

still

hadn’t managed to get her out of his mind. 
 
It was crazy, it was

infuriating

how one little touch turned him into a barely functioning mess.

How,

he wanted to know,

did one girl have that type of power?

It was ridiculous. 
 
His phone buzzed. He almost ignored it, almost left the stupid device in his pocket, but it was in his hands before he really realised it. 
 
One (1) New Message:

Mom: Don’t bother going to the beauty cart. Your father and I need to talk to you.
 
A sense of dread fell over him, the same one as before, waking up from its spot and stretching in his stomach. Keefe let his eyes fall shut. He really,

really

didn’t want to deal with them right now. He was tired, and his mind was reeling, and even the stupid bed in his tour bus was starting to sound inviting. 
 
The last thing he wanted to do was talk with his parents.

Especially his father.

“Ready to go?” a voice sounded, behind and to his left, and Keefe knew it was Sophie without having to look. 
 
He swallowed and turned around. “Yeah, um, change of plans.” He stopped, hesitated, thought about showing her the message. “My parents want to talk to me. It’ll probably be awhile, so you don’t have to wait up.”

She frowned--

actually

frowned, lips turned down and everything--and listed her head. “You’re sure?”
 
He nodded, even though he wasn’t, even though he kind of wanted to beg her to stay, to walk with him, to squeeze his fingers again. “Of course.”
 
She nodded back, and for a brief moment, Keefe thought she might stay anyway. 
 
But she didn’t. She turned around, and he watched her walk away until she turned a corner and he couldn’t see her anymore. 
 
“Good that,” he muttered, under his breath, and turned in the opposite direction. Suddenly he felt very cold, and he rubbed his hands against his arms to create friction. 
 
He went out the backdoor, a little surprised when he was met with a night sky. It checked out (it was well past midnight) but for some reason, it hadn’t registered in his mind how late it had gotten.
 
It wasn’t a full moon, but it was pretty big, so there was enough light to see by. Keefe made his way across the parking lot towards the two buses his parents owned, which were parked as far away from everyone else’s as possible. 
 
They each stayed in one, separate, if you needed a summary of their marriage. 
 
He skipped over his dad’s bus and went straight to his mother’s, because he knew that’s where they would be. He didn’t bother knocking, either, just went right in.
 
“You’re late,” were the first words he was greeted with. They came from his father, who stood in front of the couch instead of sitting on it. 
 
Lord Cassius was tall, that was the first thing people seemed to notice about him. The second was that he was always wearing a fine-pressed dress shirt and slacks, his hair was always combed, and he furrowed his eyebrows a lot. 
 
He did this now, and it created wrinkles in his head. “You’re always late.”
 
Another thing about Lord Cassius: he hated being around people. That was why Lady Gisela was in charge of management, and his dad stayed in the background, away from his family and away from the crowd, filing paperwork and finances and the like. Sometimes, Keefe would go well over a week without seeing his dad once. 
 
(It suited them both pretty fine.)
 
But it wasn’t just Keefe, of course; nobody really saw his dad around. He didn’t like other people, and other people didn’t like him. Honestly, it was a miracle he ever married. 
 
Sometimes, Keefe liked to think about that, late at night when he couldn’t sleep. His parents, getting married. He’d never seen any wedding photos, so it was all left entirely to his imagination. Did they smile? When they kissed, did the crowd clap? He’d never even seen his parents kiss. It was hard to picture. 
 
“Keefe,” his mother started, dragging him to the present, then stopped. She was standing by a window, her back slightly to them, like she couldn’t be bothered to even look at him. She made a noise like a sigh, a noise that let Keefe know she was somehow disappointed in him. 
 
Shame burned through him, starting at his toes and working its way up until his face felt hot. “Yes, ma’am?”
 
He never called her that in front of other people. But when it was just them, it was his default setting. 
 
“Do you know why you’re here?” This came from his father. He sort of had his head tilted, like Keefe was a puzzle he was agonising over, a puzzle he was just about to give up on. 
 
Keefe opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He shook his head. 
 
“Because,” Lady Gisela jumped in, finally turning to face him, “today’s performance was absolute garbage.”
 
Keefe blinked. Surprise, then hurt, flooded his system. “What?” he asked, softly, like he hadn’t heard her, even though that was completely stupid because

of course he had.

Lady Gisela just looked at him, her eyes small slits, almost like a snake. Lord Cassius looked at him much the same way. 
 
They were only ever united when it came to criticizing

him.

A beat of silence passed, like the world was holding its breath. His parents looked at him like he was the dumbest person they’d ever seen.
 
(He ignored the voice in his head that told him he was.)
 
“You

seriously

don’t know?” Lady Gisela finally asked, bending down a little bit, like she was speaking to a toddler. She rolled her eyes. “Stars, Keefe, sometimes, you can be so

dense.”

He swallowed. “I, uh, I’m sorry.”
 
Lord Cassius pinched the bridge of his nose and looked towards the sky. He did that a lot, especially around Keefe, like,

I can’t even believe this.

“Sorry? That’s all you have to say? You sounded awful out there, today.”
 
His ears burned. He had? 
 
Lady Gisela nodded along as if she could read his thoughts. “You were way too loud. I thought Fitz told you to turn your lapel down!”
 
Her voice raised significantly on the last part, maybe to give Keefe a real representation of how he’d sounded on stage. Either way, the change in volume clawed at him, and a headache started to bloom just behind his eyes.

Because he didn’t want Fitz to take the brunt of this, Keefe said, in a way that sounded very small, “He did tell me.”
 
“Then, Keefe,

dear,

please explain to me why you didn’t freaking listen. Because I’d

really

like to know.”
 
She was pissed off; her tone always got icy and sharp and fast when she was really mad. Keefe curled his hands into fists, surprised to find them shaking, a little. “I

did

turn it down.”
 
“Well, obviously not enough,” his father supplied, waving his hand, and Keefe tried not to flinch at the motion. “Honestly, Keefe, it’s like you’re

trying

to mess up.”
 
He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I know. I’m sorry.”
 
“It’s a little bit pathetic--”
 
“I’m sorry.”
 
“--and you really need to put a little work in yourself because we can’t keep doing it for you--”
 
“I’m sorry.”
 
“--and can you

please say something else for once in your star-forsaken life?”

Keefe bit his lip. He was staring at the floor, now, watching as an ant made its way across the tile. His eyes burned. “I’ll do better, sir.”
 
He didn’t need to be looking to know that both his parents were wrinkling their noses, exchanging looks, rolling their eyes at their

pathetic excuse for a son--

“Can I go now?” Keefe asked, finally looking up, even if he didn’t want to, not at all. 
 
Lady Gisela had her arms crossed. Lord Cassius had finally sat down. 
 
“No,” his mother said. “We aren’t done. We still have to talk about how late you were to meet your fans.” 
 
Keefe swallowed. Irrational panic circled his head, a little bit, but he shoved it away and waited for them to continue. His feet were getting tired from standing there.
 
“Your mother tells me you were stuck talking,” Lord Cassius jumped in, “when you should have been backstage.”
 
He said something else, too, but the words got lost somewhere in the air. Keefe blinked, shuffling, trying to think of something to say that would show he was listening. 
 The slap came from nowhere. One minute, Keefe was looking at his dad, and the next, his face was burned and his gaze was forced sharply to the side. 
Tears sprang to his eyes, but it wasn’t from pain. 
 
“Answer your father when he’s speaking to you,” Lady Gisela spat, flexing her fingers, like she was getting ready to hit him again. 
 
Keefe narrowed his eyes, a little, even if it made a tear escape and trail down his face, mapping out the area where his mother had just hit him. 
 
He knew that the blow had nothing to do with him “answering his father”. Lady Gisela couldn’t care less about that. No, she had hit Keefe purely because she wanted to, because she was frustrated and needed to take it out.

Take it like a man,

his dad always told him, when the same thing happened with him. 
 
Keefe bit his tongue and rolled his shoulders. “Sorry, ma’am,” he told her, but the words had no real meaning, and they were cold. 
 
Lady Gisela’s nostrils flared, and she raised her hand to hit him again. Keefe flinched at the movement, hating the involuntary response, hating that way his mother’s eyes filled with amusement. 
 
“Get out of my sight,” she told him, pushing him towards the door, a little. 
 
Keefe didn’t hesitate; he grabbed the doorknob and

yanked,

sprinting down the stairs and onto the gravel. He tripped, landed on his knees, but he got back up and kept going. 
 
He was running, away from his mother, away from his father, away from the cruel words that had been said that night and every other night before it. 
 
He barely registered that he was at his bus until he was stumbling up the steps. 
 
“Breathe, breathe,” he was muttering, clutching at his chest as he pushed the door open. He couldn’t seem to freaking

breathe.

He dragged himself inside and tossed the door close, faltering towards the bathroom, ready to collapse on the ground, to bury himself in his hands, when someone asked, alarmed, “Keefe?”

Sophie.

Gasping, Keefe wrapped his arms around his middle. He didn’t want to turn around; he didn’t want Foster to see him like this. “What are you doing here?”

His words were harsher than he meant them to come out, mixed with hot breath and shaking, trembling. It was a few seconds before Sophie responded. “I wanted to say goodnight. You weren’t here when I came so I let myself in. I’m sorry.”
 
The words distracted his mind a bit.

She had waited up for him even though he told her not to.

“It’s okay,” he told her, and

wow,

when did his voice get so airy?
 
Sophie must’ve noticed too, because she told him, softly, “Turn around.”
 
He shook his head.

No.

“Please, Keefe?”
 
And something about her

voice,

her stupid, gentle,

soft

voice made his heart stutter, made his body turn without him telling it to. 
 
She gasped. At least, Keefe thought she did. Everything sounded very far off. But he could see her mouth open, her eyes widen, her body tense as she took him in. 
 
“Stars,” she breathed, moving forward, as if pulled by something invisible. 
 
Her fingers, cold, brushed his face, and he tried not to flinch. She was tracing the place his mother had slapped him and he wondered how

awful

he probably looked, how worthlessly pathetic, with wet tear marks and a pale face.
 
She cupped his cheek, almost like second nature, and Keefe leaned into it without realising, closing his eyes. He took a deep, sputtering breath, and felt a little clearer. 
 
“Oh,” Sophie whispered, and she might have said his name, too, but he didn’t hear her over the rush in his ears. “What happened?”
 
He shrugged and opened his eyes. His face felt warm when he realised how close they were standing. Just like earlier, with the lapel mic, except this time Sophie’s fingers were brushing his face and not his chest. 
 
“It doesn’t matter,” he told her, looking to the side. 
 
“Was it your mother?”
 
He gritted his teeth. “It doesn’t

matter.”

Sophie shook her head and took a step back. “It does, though.”
 
Keefe looked at her. She looked at him. 
 
He was the one to finally glance away, wrapping his arms around his torso and hunching his shoulders up. “So what if she did?”
 
“If she

did,

” Sophie emphasised, sliding a little closer--it felt so

easy

to have her this close--and tapping the side of his arms gently, “then that wouldn’t be okay. At all.”
 
Keefe swallowed. Fitz had told him that, and Tam, and Biana and Lihn and several other people but it didn’t

mean

anything, it didn’t change it. Just because it wasn’t okay didn’t mean it didn’t happen. It didn’t mean any of them had any power over it. 
 
“It doesn’t happen a lot,” Keefe found himself saying. His voice was low, but his breathing had steadied a little bit. 
 
“It happens, though,” Sophie pointed out, glancing at the red mark forming on his face.
 
Keefe turned away so that she couldn’t see it. “I’m fine.”
 
She wanted to argue; Keefe could tell by the way her shoulders squared and her forehead got that little crinkle. Inexplicably, he reached up to touch it, and almost immediately, the tension drained out of her. 
 
“Stay here tonight?” he asked, softly, rubbing up and down with his thumb. He wasn’t sure where the request had come from. 
 
“I can’t,” she croaked out, regret and something like longing deep in her eyes.
 
“Please,” he pleaded, aware that he sounded like the baby his father always said he was, but he didn’t want to be alone, not yet. And she was

right here,

right in front of him. 
 
Sophie leaned into his touch, closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. 
 
Then she leaned away. “I can’t,” she said again, and Keefe kind of understood.
 
“Alright.” He dropped his hand away.
 
She nodded, but she didn’t move. Instead, her gaze dropped downwards. “You’re bleeding.”
 
Keefe blinked, looking at his knees. She was right; when he tripped he must’ve cut himself on the gravel. “Oh.”
 
Sophie looked a little mad. “Did she do that--”
 
“No, Foster.” For some reason, Keefe didn’t want Sophie to think bad about his parents. They raised him a little differently than other people, but that was his own fault. He was a special case, he required special treatment, that was all, and sometimes it took people awhile to understand that. “I did that. I tripped outside. Honest, I promise you.”
 
He sounded desperate even to himself. 
 
Sophie looked at him long and hard. But all she did was nod and say, “We need to clean it out.”

We.

Keefe nodded numbly, mind caught up on that word. In that moment, Sophie could have said anything, and he would’ve just nodded.

Yes, Foster, anything you need. Yes.

He led the way to the bathroom, and Sophie rummaged through the cabinets while he sat down on the toilet lid. 
 
“Found it,” she told him. Her voice was a little breathy, like she was panicking, a bit. She turned around with a first aid kit and kneeled in front of him. Her hands were shaking. 
 
“Sophie,” Keefe started, using her first name,

her name,

and she looked up at him with wide eyes. He didn’t really know what to say, but he wanted to take away that fear plastered on her face so, so badly. “What’s your favourite animal?”
 
She blinked, then erupted in laughter that brimmed on the verge of tears. She looked slightly angelic, eyes watering, shoulders bouncing, the dim lights from above the sink reflecting on her hair. “Stars, Keefe,

what?”

He smiled; he couldn’t help it. “I said, what’s your favourite animal?”
 
Sophie shook her head, finally propping open the supply box and digging through it. “I know, but why?”
 
“Why not?”
 
She was still laughing. Leftover chuckles dropping from her mouth and Keefe was living in them, breathing them, cherishing the sound. “Unicorns,” Sophie said.
 
This time Keefe laughed, even as Sophie pressed cleaner to his cut up knees. It hurt, but Sophie was so

gentle,

patting him softly, like she was worried he’d crumble away, that it almost didn’t register. “Unicorns,” he repeated, shaking his head. 
 
Sophie just nodded. “Yup. What, have you never seen one before?” She moved to his other knee and he hissed, slightly, when the cloth brushed it. 
 
“Can’t say that I have, Foster.” 
 
“Why do you call me that?” she asked him, suddenly changing the topic, after a beat of silence had passed and their smiles had faded, the slightest bit. 
 
Keefe blinked. “Do you want me to stop?”
 
“No,” she hurried to say, face red. She was very focused on his knee, even though it looked pretty clean to him. “It’s . . . nice. I was just wondering, is all.”
 
He took the cloth from her and she looked up at him. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It just. . . feels right.”
 
She looked away first, clearing her throat, and Keefe realised he had leaned in very close to her. He sat back, face burning, right where his mother had slapped him. 
 
“I think you’re good,” Sophie was saying, and she was standing, and she was going to

leave

and Keefe really didn’t want her to go. 
 
But all he said was, “Yeah.”
 
And she started to walk away, already down the hall, next to the door, opening it, and words were burning on Keefe’s tongue like fire but all he managed to get out was, “Thank you.”
 
She didn’t reply. She was already gone.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sophie woke up to a knock on her door.
 
It was a polite knock, pretty quiet, but Sophie was a light sleeper, and she woke almost instantly. For a brief moment, she didn’t know where she was, or what was happening, but then moment faded and she remembered. 
 
Dizzily, tired, she rolled out of bed, wondering what in the world was going on. She checked her phone, then blinked and checked it again when she realised the time. 
 
Ten o’clock. She’d slept right through her alarm. 
 
She tilted her head back and groaned, frustration scratching at her skin. It wasn’t a

huge

deal--it was a break day, so technically she could sleep in--but she had wanted to be up early.
 
At least, earlier than

ten in the morning.

She hated sleeping late; it made her feel lazy and unproductive. But. . . well, last night had been a bit of a late one. Between everything with Keefe and then Sophie's thoughts running wild, she hadn't even gotten into bed until well past two. 
 
The idea of the previous night sent her face flaming. She pictured herself, standing in front of Keefe, so intimately close, touching his face like she had a right to do so. She shivered. 
 
Whoever was at the door knocked again, snapping Sophie from her thoughts, and she was grateful. The sound at the door was a little timid, like the person was thinking about leaving. It wasn’t Lady Gisela, then, who would have pounded loudly. Confusion wafted through Sophie and she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders (she was wearing a tank top and shorts, okay, she was

cold)

before stumbling towards the door, blinking her eyes tiredly. 
 
“Yes?” she mumbled out, and her voice was a little hoarse. She unlocked and pulled the door open, squinting from the sunlight to find--

Keefe.

Instantly, she stood straighter, rolling her shoulders back. She felt her eyes widen and could only imagine how ridiculous she looked: bed-headed and barely awake. Her blanket fell to the floor and she cleared her throat. “Keefe.”
 
“Hey, Foster,” he responded. He, of course, looked amazing. His crisp, fine pressed shirt was a soft green, and he wore loose jeans over simple sneakers. His hair was perfectly styled and he looked like he’d been up for hours. The only crack in his appearance was the mark on his face, and Sophie's stomach clenched. “Did I wake you up?”
 
“No,” she lied, combing her fingers through her own hair. She hoped her breath didn’t smell. “I’ve just been lazing around, is all.”
 
He smiled and tilted his head, alluding to a puppy. “Of course.” His tone was teasing and Sophie found herself relaxing, a little bit. She stopped trying to straighten her tank top.
 
This was the effect Keefe seemed to have on her. She didn’t really know why, but being near him, hearing his easy voice, made some of the tension fall away.
 
“Want to come in?” she blurted, then blinked, surprised with herself.

Where had that request come from?

Keefe hesitated, leaning forward then back again. Eventually he nodded, and Sophie stepped aside as he climbed the steps. She shut the door, heart pounding in her chest.
 
“Do you always decorate with blankets on the floor?” Keefe asked, smirking, raising one eyebrow and fighting off a smile. He nodded towards the ground, where Sophie’s cover was tangled around her ankles. 
 
“Very funny,” she mumbled, bending down to retrieve it, face flaming.
 
She stood back up and glared at Keefe, but he simply laughed, eyes combing around her place.
 
Sophie's bus wasn’t nearly as fancy as Keefe’s. In fact, it was pretty small, pretty run down. But it was

her’s,

as long as she was Keefe’s assistant, and that made it special.
 
Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little bit embarrassed. It made no sense, but she wanted to

impress

this boy, make him like her. 
 
That was dumb, of course. Sophie wasn’t even sure if

she

liked

him.

But suddenly the idea of it wasn’t so bad. 
 
Sophie threw the cover on the small couch in the corner. The fabric of her top stretched with the movement, and she thought of her shorts and tank top. They showed a little more skin than she was used to, but she could feel Keefe’s eyes trailing her. 
 
It. . . wasn’t a bad feeling, but she goosebumps erupted on her skin nonetheless.
 
“Have a seat,” she told Keefe, wrapping her arms around herself, and he only faltered a moment before he settled down. “I’ll be right back.”
 
She rushed into her bedroom, squeezing her eyes shut. Her stomach was a bundle of sudden nerves.

What was she

doing?

Keefe was here, in her bus, right on the other side of her door! 
 
Taking a deep breath, she peeled off her shorts and top, pulling on simple pants and a T-shirt. She would have rather left her hair down, but it was in need of a wash, so she braided it back and knotted it off. She popped a mint into her mouth, too, vowing that she would brush her teeth as soon as she got the chance. 
 
Keefe was right where she’d left him. His eyes met hers the moment she emerged from the room, and he grinned, which made her flush.

Get a hold of yourself.

“I’m making coffee. Want some?”
 
He nodded. “Sure, Foster. As long as you have milk.”
 
“It’s almond milk,” she warned, pulling two mugs from a small cabinet. She turned the coffee machine on, poured the water in. Stirred the grounds. 
 
“That’s fine,” Keefe said, and he sounded closer. Sophie didn’t bother turning; she knew he was right behind her. His presence was warm and she wanted to lean into it. 
 
“Your face looks better,” she said evenly, though she was lying through her teeth. The place his mother had hit him actually looked worse, redder, harsher. Anger stirred in her stomach. She tried to imagine how Keefe had felt, the moment Lady Gisela made contact. Had it hurt a lot? Had his heart hurt more?
 
“Thanks, Foster,” he murmured. He was really close now; Sophie could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. It sent shivers down her back and she realised she wanted him to come closer. 
 
The coffee beeped and the moment was shattered. Shaking, Sophie poured herself a cup, then Keefe. She got the milk. 
 
They settled on the couch. Keefe put a generous amount of almond milk into his cup, and Sophie watched his hand stir it.

She wanted to lean closer to him, to put her head on his shoulder. No matter how hard she tried, the desire to be

near

him surged in her, wrapped around her, and he was all she could think about. There was a familiarity there, something soft stuck in between them, something growing towards something else. 
 
“You look nice,” Keefe told her, eyes gentle, and she knew he felt it too. 
 
Sophie couldn’t help herself; she scooted closer. She didn’t know what she was doing, didn’t know how to navigate this, but she

wanted him.

And everything that came with him. 
 
It was strange, the way the feelings overtook her. Even earlier, she hadn’t been sure she liked him. Now, she was inching closer, and he was leaning down, and their eyes were locked on each other. Their breaths mingled in the air; it smelled like coffee and milk and passion. 
 
“Thank you,” she whispered, and the words had barely left her mouth and he was kissing her, he was kissing her,

Keefe Sencen was kissing her.

Her head rolled slightly to the side and he followed, pressing closer, harder, and suddenly Sophie was kissing him back. She’d kissed a few guys before, but never like

this,

never so brilliantly, so yearningly as she was doing now. Her face burned and yet she pressed closer still, her mug slipping from her hand, falling to the ground and spilling, but she didn’t care, she

didn’t care--

Keefe was whispering against her lips, but she didn’t know what he was saying. All she knew was that she wanted

more,

didn’t ever want this moment to stop. 
 
With slightly shaking hands, Keefe curled his fingers around her head. He was tangled in her hair and she had her arms snaked across his shoulders, pulling him closer,

closer.

Everything felt undeniably

right, perfect.

He was the one to finally pull away, gasping for breath. Sophie had no idea how long they had been like that, but her face felt like it was on fire, and her chest was heaving. Her lips burned. 
 
“Stars,” he murmured after a moment filled with the sounds of them both breathing, and Sophie burst out laughing. 
 
She was delirious, happy, longing, and all those emotions bubbled up until she was clutching her stomach. Keefe was laughing too, right next to her, their shaking shoulders bumping and their laughter mingling in the air as one. It was intoxicating, having his laugh so close to hers.
 
“I just kissed you,” Sophie said, in between breaths. The realisation dawning on her was hot and harsh. “I just kissed you, oh my stars. Oh my--”

“

I

kissed

you,”

Keefe told her, taking her hands, easily. He was grinning like a madman, eyes alight with sparks. He guided her arms until they were wrapped around his neck again and Sophie was basically laying on top of him. She could feel his heart beating and was glad that it was almost as fast as hers. 
 
She sighed against him, deflating, tucking her head into his neck. “We just did that.”
 
“We did.” His voice was thunder against her chest. He was rubbing her back in soft, delicate circles. 
 
Sophie knew they should talk, should figure out what in the world had just happened. But she was suddenly very tired, and Keefe was

right here,

and he was terribly warm.
 
She let her eyes fall close, and in no time, she was asleep.

.

*.*.*.*.*

.

*.*.*.*.*.
 
Sophie smelled like vanilla and coconut. 
 
That was all Keefe could think as they laid there. She was sound asleep, half on him and half on the couch, curled into his side. Her braid was strewn across his face. They had been like that for a while, Sophie breathing deeply and Keefe simply looking at her, admiring her. He'd never seen her with her hair back; it was really nice. Accented her features more, made her eyes stand out against her pale, lightly freckled skin. 
 
He couldn’t believe what had happened. Could hardly think about it without his heart waking up, pumping madly, stomach filling with dozens of tingles. 
 
They kissed.

They kissed.

He hadn’t even known that’s what he wanted until it had happened, until she was in his arms and he realised he never wanted to let her go. 
 
Vanilla and coconut. He loved it. 
 
They’d already been there for a long, long time. It was almost noon by the time Sophie started to stir, eyes fluttering and mouth closing. It was wonderful, watching her wake up.
 
“Hey, you,” Keefe murmured, voice low, pleased when her eyes lit up. 
 
“Hey.”
 
“Wanna go out to eat with me?”
 
She smiled shyly. She had just kissed him, slept side by side with him, but the idea of going to lunch made her face red. He loved that about her. “Is that a date?”
 
“Yes. Sophie Foster, would you go on a date with me?”
 
She was still tired, he could see it in her eyes, in the way they turned down at the corners. But when she smiled, her whole face lit up like the sunlight shining through the window. 
 
“Sure,” she said, and she got off of him. He instantly missed her, but fought it away, and let her lead the way to the door. 
 
Her coffee had spilled on the floor at some point. Keefe had set his own on the ground right before he had kissed her, but Sophie hadn’t known what was happening until it was

happening.

She’d been caught off guard, and Keefe would have apologised for that, except she looked very happy. 
 
They left the coffee on the floor. It was like Sophie didn’t even notice it.
 
Outside, the day was bright and warm and they held hands, like cliche highschoolers, but it felt great. Keefe rubbed his thumb on her knuckles and she squeezed his fingers. 
 
They walked down the sidewalk, away from the place where all the buses and cars were parked. They’d be leaving tomorrow, towards another stage for Keefe to sing on, but for now, they were rooted in that small town. Tomorrow seemed like a lifetime away.
 
“Let’s go there,” Sophie said, pointing to a quaint little restaurant. Keefe nodded, whatever she wanted. 
 
They entered, settled down at a table for

two,

a table for them, and Keefe could not stop looking at her. 
 
“What?” she finally asked, self-conscious, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. No one had taken their order yet, so her face was peeking up from behind the menu.
 
“Nothing.” 
 
“What?” she repeated, leaning forward, squinting at him. He fought the grin from his face, but it didn’t work. He tilted forward to meet her, until their noses were touching. 
 
“I just think you look great,” he told her, honestly, watching her eyes. He wanted to see the moment she realised what he said, the moments her pupils grew alight. 
 
It was exhilarating. Keefe didn’t even know what he was doing. He was out of his league, out of his depth, unsure of what he wanted. But Sophie Foster--Ruewen was a drug, and Keefe was overdosing heaven through her eyes. 
 
The waitress came, and they sat back. Sophie was blushing, and Keefe was sure he was too, and the waitress had a knowing smile on her face. She took their order, smirking once at Keefe and winking at Sophie, like she knew all about them. Maybe she did. Keefe had a pretty recognisable face, after all.
 
He watched as Sophie ordered shrimp, of all things. He loved that. 
 
They talked while they waited for their food, and Keefe laughed harder with her than he laughed with anyone else, even Tam, even Fitz. There was just something about her, something that made him delirious, made every little thing funny.
 
“Keefe,” Sophie said, sipping her water. She swished it around her mouth. “What are we?”

What are we?

He was suddenly nervous. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “What do you want to be?”
 
She didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Whatever you want.”
 
The choice was his. He could make or break them, the power was in his hands. Sophie would go along with whatever he said, he knew she would. Words burned on his tongue, the wrong words, the right ones, and he didn’t know what to say. 
 
Sophie was looking him in the eyes, directly. At times like these, the shy, introverted girl melted away to reveal the fire beneath, the fire Keefe loved, the fire he didn’t want to lose. 
 
Even if she’d only been around for a short week and a half. Even if he didn’t know her all that well. Even if it was reckless, and his parents wouldn’t approve, and it would be complicated and messy and there would be so much to figure out--
 
Even so. 
 
“Sophie,” he started, intentionally using her first name, testing it out on his tongue, “will you be my girlfriend?”
 
On cue, her face erupted into red, eyes wide and surprised. “I work for your mother.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“I’m your personal assistant.”
 
“Correct.”

“I kissed you.”

“You did.”
 
“And you want me to. . . you’re asking. . .”
 
He reached for her hand. “If you’re willing.”
 
She looked at their fingers, warmth on warmth, intertwined. Thought for a moment. 
 
Then slowly,

slowly,

she brought their tangled hands to her lips, closed her eyes, and kissed them. She sat like that for a long, long moment. 
 
So long, in fact, that Keefe wasn’t sure she was going to answer, and his heart sank right to his stomach. He almost took it back, almost pulled away, almost had to try and live with the awkwardness between them. His ears burned. He smelled salt.
 
But just as the waitress was coming with their food, Sophie took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and whispered, “Yes.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

There were aspects of Keefe’s job that he liked. 
 
Performing was one of these things, meeting fans was another. There was something special, to Keefe, about seeing people who loved

your

music, wanted to meet

you.

There was a kind of magic in that. He looked forward to those things, to screaming his lyrics into a crowd of people and hearing them scream back.
 
Of course, there were also things he hated. 
 
Parties were on the top of that list. Drunk, fancy people high on the social ladder stumbling around fake dining halls and pretending to be Keefe’s fans. . . he hated those people more than anything. All they wanted was to boost their own reputation, to hang off Keefe’s shoulder and hope the paparazzi caught a picture. 
 
Besides, they reeked of cigarettes, a smell Keefe could never seem to get out of his clothes afterwards.
 
“You go to them and you smile,” Lady Gisela had snapped, one time, when Keefe had tried to talk his way out of it. “You go because I’m telling you to go, and you’ll do as I say because you love me. Unless you don’t?”
 
Keefe had bitten his lip, shifted on his feet,

Yes, I love you, Mom. Yes.

And he’d gone that night, and every night after. 
 
Once, a fan had tried to kiss him. Keefe had been sitting in a chair, having light conversation with the people around him, when a drunk woman came faltering over. She’d leaned into him, her scent heavy of perfume and sweat, and grabbed his face. 
 
To the people around, it was funny, but Keefe’s heart had been racing with something like panic. He gently tried to move her hands, to try and get her

off,

but she was decisive and strong and when she’d lined her lips with his, Keefe just barely turned his head in time. Still, she caught the corner of his mouth, and he’d wanted to throw up. 
 
Lady Gisela watched it happen. It was one of the only times Keefe had ever seen his mother come to his defence. She came alive, spitting with rage, and yanked the girl away. Security was called and the intoxicated, swaying woman was escorted away. 
 
“They aren’t allowed to touch you,” Lady Gisela had told Keefe, her voice protective, and his heart had swelled a little bit, at that. “They’re never allowed to touch you.”
 
So, yeah, parties were definitely on the top of that list, for that particular instance and a few others. But another thing Keefe hated were interviews.

To a fan, the hour and a half long conversation about Keefe’s favourite colour might be interesting, but to both Keefe and the interviewer, it was exhausting. There was always a tired air to the talking, and off set, Keefe could see everyone’s eyes dropping. No one really liked them, besides the people who got to watch instead of work. 
 
Of course, none of them could say it. Keefe, because his parents would kill him, and the workers because, as much as they disliked it, having Keefe on the show would boost their ratings. To them, it was a necessary evil to pummel a seventeen year old with personal questions. To them, it was cheap entertainment.
 
Mostly, Keefe hated interviews because he was required to lie through them. An honest answer would, according to his father, make Keefe far less interesting than they wanted to portray him as. 
 
But lying never sat right with Keefe. He knew his parents would be pissed if he didn’t, and so he spat the fibs out along with his fake laughs, but his stomach turned itself over and over. He was worried people could tell, and he was worried they

couldn’t

tell. 
 
It was a lose, lose. 
 
But despite the fact that he seriously hated interviews, they were better than parties. So about a week after Keefe and Sophie had kissed, when she came knocking on his hotel door, bright and early in the morning to tell him the plan for the day, he didn’t argue.
 
“Hello, darling,” Keefe greeted her, opening the door on the first knock, because he knew it was her from the way her gentle fist rapped against the wood. He could just tell. 
 
Sophie flushed, but her eyebrows drew closer and she glared at him. “Good morning, moron.”
 
Keefe found himself laughing, moving aside so she could come in. 
 
The past week had been. . .

amazing.

Keefe hadn’t known how much he liked Sophie until they were suddenly a

thing,

until he found himself telling her the deepest parts of himself. 
 
Love, he had come to realise, is really just

revealing.

It’s baring your soul to someone, it’s saying

This is me. Do you understand that? Do you hate it?

He watched Sophie wrinkle her nose, sniff the stale air of his room. 
 
“Yeah, this place is pretty bad,” Keefe told her, pointing out the obvious. 
 
Sophie just nodded, running her hands on the stained blanket. The bed was perfectly made; Keefe hadn’t even slept the night before. 
 
Of course, the observant Sophie Foster-Ruewen caught this. “What were you doing last night?”
 
“Drawing,” Keefe admitted. He hoped she didn’t ask to see them. They were terribly corny, rough portraits of how she had looked asleep on the couch next to him, and he just couldn’t seem to get her hair right. Something about the way the braid flopped around her neck instead of curling around her shoulder was off. 
 
“Keefe,” she started, in that voice where he knew she was mixing a sigh into her words, “you need sleep.”
 
He nodded, didn’t say anything. She was so adorable when she was frustrated and worried about him. 
 
She must’ve known he wasn’t really listening because she sighed and tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. There were, somehow, stains up there, too. Keefe didn’t even want to know how that happened. “You’ve gotta take care of yourself.”
 
“I love drawing,” Keefe finally defended, caught slightly between a laugh and a breath, and Sophie’s lips twitched with a smile at the sound before she smothered it. 
 
“But you need to rest,” she insisted, looking at him again. 
 
Keefe couldn’t help himself. He crossed closer, reaching his arms across her and resting his head on her shoulders. “Yes, ma’am,” he told her, voice muffled by the fabric. 
 
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” she asked, but she was hugging him, too, and they were swaying, the slightest bit. Like they were dancing. 
 
“I do, thank you. My parents tell me that all the time.” 
 
It was a dark joke, and Keefe appreciated her courtesy laugh, even though it was laced with slight worry. He hurried to continue, “Anyway, my dear, what brings you to me this fine morning?”
 
Sophie pulled back slightly, smiled up at him. “What, can’t a girl just visit her boyfriend?”
 
Keefe tried to stop his brain from hiccuping at the word. “No. What is it?”
 
She laughed. “I came to tell you that you have an interview today.”
 
Keefe groaned. Had anyone else been there, he would have acted excited, happy, looking forward to the idea. But with Sophie--who was just

so easy

to be yourself around--he didn’t hide the dread on his face. 
 
“I hate interviews,” he told her, when he saw the questioning look in her eye. 
 
“Ah. Too many fake questions with fake answers?”
 
“And all with fake people,” Keefe added, relieved that she understood. Of course, this was Sophie, so he shouldn’t be surprised. She understood almost everything about him. 
 
“Well, your mom sent me here to tell you, soooo,” she said, rolling her eyes and drawing the word out. “She was all snobby and perfect and closed off about it, too.”
 
Keefe laughed, which was a slight surprise--it was just the description gave him the image of his mom standing with her nose tilted up, eyes slits, and he kind of wanted to draw a caricature of it. For fun. 
 
“That’s her,” he agreed. “Did she say what time?”
 
“Got it here.” She pulled a paper from her pocket, read it. “Eleven.”
 
It was nine. Two hours. 
 
“Better hit the make up bus, then.”
 
“More like the clown bus.”
 
They both laughed, and Keefe held the door open for Sophie, listening to her chuckles echo down the hall as they walked, and he thought,

That’s the sound of sunshine.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.
 
An hour and forty five minutes later, Keefe was standing to the side of a stage, holding a cup of water. He’d arrived a little bit ago, and so far, the most exciting thing that had happened was an intern getting him a drink. He was pretty tired and he regretted not sleeping the night before, though he'd never admit it. He sipped from the cup, trying to stay awake, and swallowed. It tasted like minerals and chlorine.
 
His mom stood somewhere to his right; he could hear her voice. She was lecturing someone, he wasn’t sure who, on the lighting of the set. Something about how yellow light washed Keefe out, and they should have gone with white light, and now everything was basically ruined and the world might end. Keefe tuned her out.
 
On the set were some workers, who were hurrying to get everything into place. Two chairs, across from each other, with a simple table in the middle. Pastries that no one would eat sat on it. False windows showed a nice view, but it was fake, of course.

Fake fake fake.

Past them, Keefe could make out his father. He was a little surprised Lord Cassius had come (normally he stayed behind for any event where people would be) but today Lady Gisela had dragged him out. 
 
“For control,” she’d said, and Keefe knew it was a silent threat. 
 
“Ten minutes!” someone called out. Their voice was kind of hoarse; Keefe wondered if they were sick. Or maybe that’s how they always sounded.

“Keefe? Keefe Sencen?”
 
Keefe jumped slightly and turned to find a guy. He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, and his hair was an orange colour. “Hi, I’m Kenric. I’m the one interviewing you.”
 
He shook his hand. Kenric had a nice handshake: not hard, but not too loose. His hands were soft but strong and they were cold. “Hello, sir.”
 
Kenric’s nose wrinkled. “You don’t have to call me that.”
 
Keefe blinked. That was a first. 
 
“I’m going to be starting with some super simple questions,” Kenric was saying. He was rocking on his heels, slightly, but it wasn’t annoying. In fact, Keefe kind of liked it. “Then we’ll get into the

deeper stuff.

”
 
He punctuated his words with a wink and wiggled his eyebrows, and Keefe actually laughed at that, despite the nerves fluttering around in him. Yeah, he definitely liked this Kenric guy. No one else bothered to tell him what the plan was.
 
“Keefe,” Sophie said, stepping up next to him, almost materializing out of the air. “There you are.”
 
She cast a glance at Kenric. “Hello.” They shook hands.
 
“You’re Kenric Fathdon, right?” Sophie asked, because

of course

she knew who he was. Keefe smirked--his girlfriend was smart. 
 
Kenric nodded, slightly surprised. “That’s me. Am I really so famous that you know me?”
 
It was a joke, but Sophie’s eyes widened, and she curled her lips into a smile that Keefe knew was fabricated.
 
“Nah, I’m just his assistant,” she pointed to Keefe. Her movements were awkward; something was up. “It’s my job to know who you are.”
 
Kenric laughed, which seemed to relax Sophie a little bit. She chuckled, too, and Keefe watched her. Silence fizzled after. 
 
“This might seem weird, but you look just like my wife,” Kenric told her when they were done, tilting his head. His eyes were kind of amused, and he tapped his phone a few times, held up a photo. 
 
“Wow,” Keefe said, because, yeah, Sophie

did

look like his wife. It looked almost like they were . . . related. 
 
He glanced at Sophie, who’d gone pale. Her smile was stretched a little thin and her eyes kept darting to the side, like

help me.

He almost asked her what was wrong, but thinking of Kenric, he let it go. 
 
“How. . . strange,” Sophie finally said, voice a little airy. 
 
Kenric didn’t seem to notice. “Sweet old ‘Ralie,” he murmured, looking at the photo, touching the screen as if he might feel her through it. “She loves pink, you know. I hate pink. Our whole house is decorated in pink and I let it happen because I know she loves it.”
 
Keefe swallowed. The way he talked about his wife. . . it was unbearably sweet. He’d never heard anyone talk about their spouse like that. Certainly not his parents. 
 
Kenric looked up again, like he was remembering they were there. He smiled; it was slightly dazzling, almost beaming. “See ya in a few, Keefe.”
 
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the same person from before called out, “Places!” Their voice cracked at the end. Pla

ces.

Keefe sighed angrily, turned to Sophie quickly. He leaned to whisper in her ear. “We’re talking about that later. Okay?”
 
She looked a little green. “Okay. . .”
 
He nodded and ran off, on the stage, just as everyone started counting down. He plopped in his seat moments before they reached one. 
 
The camera turned on. Keefe plastered a smile on his face.
 
Show time.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Kenric was a brilliant interviewer. 
 
That was something Keefe noticed almost immediately. Kenric was easy to talk to, to joke with. He kept the conversation light and chose simple questions rather than the more complex ones Keefe was usually used to. 
 
In fact, the whole atmosphere was different from what Keefe was used to. Kenric laughed at Keefe’s jokes, even if they weren’t really funny, and did his fair share of talking, making sure the spotlight wasn’t entirely focused on the young popstar.
 
It was almost. . .

startling,

when Keefe realised he was actually

enjoying himself.

He hated interviews, always had, but this one carried an amicable air to it. It was

nice.

Keefe hardly noticed the time passing. They were well into the hour, almost done, and usually, Keefe would be utterly drained. His answers would be dry and tired, sluggish, and the talk-show host would be acting the same way. The end of interviews were always the most boring. 
 
But that wasn’t the case with this one. Keefe almost wished it was longer. 
 
Almost. 
 
"So tell me about why you started singing," Kenric said. He was leaning back in his seat, totally relaxed. His sentence was punctuated with a soft grin, like he knew the answer Keefe was about to rattle off was a total lie and he was 100% prepared for it.
 
That was another good thing about Kenric: he hadn’t called Keefe out on any of his falsehoods yet. 
 
"I've always loved to sing,” Keefe began, a rehearsed answer, a memorised speech, “One time, I sang for my school talent show, and when I knocked everyone's socks off with my amazing voice"--cue the fake laugh--"I decided to pursue a career in it."
 
Kenric was nodding along, his strawberry blonde hair bobbing around his ears. "Interesting. And I'm assuming your parents were all for it?"
 
That made Keefe falter, a moment. He had been prepared for the first answer, ready, but this? He swallowed, shifted in his seat. "Of course. They've been. . . nothing but supportive."
 
He kept his eyes pinned on Kenric. He couldn't bear to even risk a glance at his mother or his father. If he did, the truth would be written all over his face, exposed for all to see, and he'd be ruined. 
 
"As parents should," Kenric responded, shuffling his notes and Keefe tried not to wince. "Oh, here's a fan favourite." His eyes wrinkled mischievously. "Are you and Tam Song

involved?

"
 
Keefe blinked, letting his jaw drop. One moment passed, then another. 
 
And then he actually

laughed,

big gasping breaths, choking on snickers. Kenric raised an eyebrow and had the decency to smile politely. He even tossed in a chuckle here and there, just to help Keefe out, but he was obviously taken aback by the outburst.
 
Finally, the blond remembered where he was. He cleared his throat, still chuckling, and tried to regain his composure, but a steady amused smile sat on his lips. He could only imagine what Tam would have to say about this later. "Um,

no

. We're friends, strictly."
 
"You're certain? You guys seemed to spend a lot of time together,” Kenric pressed, leaning forward, like Keefe was about to let him in on a big playground secret. 
 
Keefe scrunched his nose. "Unfortunately," he quipped, glad when Kenric tittered and sat back. "Seriously, no. He’s one of my best friends; we're like brothers."
 
Kenric nodded. "I see. Well, then, is there anybody you're into?"

Sophie.

Immediately, she popped into his mind, and his stomach twisted. 
 
She was standing behind Kenric, out of range from the camera but still in visible view of Keefe. Her face was flushing--she almost looked bashful. 
 
Obviously, she was listening, and obviously, she knew the answer to that question. They had just kissed earlier that same day. She knew what he would say, was leaning forward, waiting to hear the confirmation on live television that they were a

thing.

But Keefe couldn’t give that to her. 
 
Because his parents were also listening. 
 
And if his parents found out. . . if they knew. . .
 
The very thought sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn’t allowed to date anyone, never had been. Of course, that rule had been broken before, but the idea of outwardly admitting that in a space so

public

ignited unease in his chest. 
 
This was a question that had caught him off guard. He didn’t know what to say, and the silence was starting to stretch on for too long. Already, he could see the confusion starting to weave its way into Kenric’s eyes, the doubt into Sophie’s.
 
And he

hated

it. The answer he wanted to give was so simple, on his tongue, ready to launch out. 
 
But it was also the answer that would spell out his doom. And his fear was stronger than he ever wanted to say out loud.  
 
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he closed it. He could only imagine how he looked: a fish out of water, gaping in the bright lights. He struggled in a breath, closed his eyes for a moment. 
 
Then he gave the only answer he could give, the only answer

acceptable

to his parents. To everyone. 
 
“No.”
 
He didn’t take his eyes off Sophie. He watched her, studied her every reaction. At first, hurt flashed across her face, and he felt like his own heart was being twisted. Desperately, he wanted to run over there, to

explain,

to beg her not to hate him. 
 
But he stayed where he was, on stage,

separated.

Confusion came next. He watched the emotion process, watched her cock her head to the side, raise her left eyebrow. She was trying to understand and he loved that she was trying but he knew, he

knew,

that she wouldn’t get it. 
 
Because Keefe had never explained it to her, never told her about the delicate balance between him and his parents. Of course, she knew

some

of it--but nowhere near everything. She didn’t

know

that Keefe was breaking the rules to be with her. 
 
Finally, something like

anger

gave way, settled on her thin features, and her shoulders hunched defiantly. The spite Keefe loved to see so much was now directed entirely at him. He had never seen her so furious, and the pain that he had no right to feel wafted into his heart anyway. 
 
Then Sophie stormed away, and Keefe realised he'd been looking at her for far too long. 
 
Long enough that people had noticed.
 
That

Kenric

had noticed.
 
The interviewer was looking over his shoulder, scanning the room, swiveling his head back and forth. "Oh, oh, you liar," he mocked, and even though it was all in fun jest, Keefe felt frustration and fear bubble in his chest. "Who is it? That girl that came up to you earlier? You guys looked pretty smitten."
 
Keefe swallowed. He wondered where Sophie went, if she was still listening in, and then shook the thought away because a much more terrifying one had taken its place:

his parents were here.

Parents. Plural. Mother and father.

They had seen everything. They

knew,

even after Keefe had tried to lie,

had

lied, they still knew because he had gone and messed it all up. 
 
He felt dizzy. Suddenly the lights of the stage were too bright.
 
"Um, uh," he stuttered out. He saw Kenric whirl back around, registered the slight tilt of concern on the man's face, but it all felt distant. He could hardly remember what the question was, so he threw out a random answer: "No."
 
It was too little and much, much too late. 
 
Kenric’s worry seemed to only grow, and Keefe tried his best not to shrink away, not to

shy away from an adult on national television.

His face was burning, panic winding its tired fingers down his throat and he was suddenly aware that he wasn't breathing. 
 
He sucked in gasping air, plastering a too large smile on his face, looking at Kenric with wide eyes.
 
Please keep the interview going. Please. Move on. Move

on.

"I think we might end it here for today." 
 
Horror filled Keefe. His eyes snapped to his parents of their own accord. 
 
They were, for once, standing side by side. Their posture was rigid, their faces mirroring looks of disapproval and white hot anger. His mother had her arms crossed over her chest, the fingers of her left hand tapping the flesh of her right arm. 
 
Tap. Tap. Tap.
 
"That's okay," Keefe found himself saying, turning back to Kenric, trying to fight off his building alarm at the nightmarish situation. "I'm fine, let's keep going."
 
He was desperately trying to salvage this train wreck, trying to fix whatever mess he'd made. If Kenric would just play along. . . 
 
But Kenric was shaking his head. His eyes were soft, but Keefe thought his next words were particularly cruel. "No, I think we'll stop, now. You look like you've seen a ghost."
 
If possible, Keefe paled farther. He could see his mother clearly, now, she had moved behind Kenric, and her eyes were ablaze with rage. Her hands were clenched into little fists at her side, fingers curled into her palm tightly. Her chagrined expression had twisted her features; she looked like a monster.
 
Kenric was running an outro, thanking the audience for tuning in, apologising for the sudden ending, but Keefe could hardly hear him over the rush of blood in his ears. He tried to smile and wave to the camera, tried his best to have

some

dignity after all that humiliation, but he'd never felt so fake.
 
"And. . . you're off," the camera man said, making a cut gesture across his throat. 
 
Instantly, Keefe slumped in his chair. He closed his eyes--he didn't want to see anyone, not yet--and tried to count to ten. 
 
This was

bad.

This was worse than bad, it was absolutely awful. How had he managed to mess up so horribly? He--
 
"You sure you're okay?" Kenric asked, and Keefe hauled his eyes open. He'd only gotten to eight. 
 
The man was standing over him, leaning down the slightest bit. His eyes were filled of concern and something Keefe couldn’t decipher. 
 
Keefe nodded. His tongue tasted stale in his mouth. He wanted to brush his teeth. "Yes, sir," he responded.
 
Kenric tilted his head. "Remember? You don't have to call me that."
 
Keefe cringed, practically folding in on himself.

Instinct.

"Oh, right. Sorry."
 
"It's okay." The interviewer's voice was calm, steady, knowing. "It's okay, Keefe."
 
But Keefe wasn't listening anymore. His parents were marching up behind Kenric, fast, bold, furious, and they were nearly there. 
 
"Thanks, Kenric," Keefe said, dejectedly. Resigned.
 
There was no getting out of this, and he knew that. In a way, it was comforting. He could expect this, and he

did

expect this. 
 
(Though even knowing that, his panic didn’t fade. If anything, it seemed to mount higher and higher.)
 
Kenric looked a little surprised at Keefe's solemnity, but then Lady Gisela said, right behind him, "We'll take it from here."
 
Her voice was sweet, which was how Keefe knew she was really angry. He resisted the urge to shy even farther away. 
 
Kenric turned to Lady Gisela. He looked from her to Keefe, hesitant, like he wanted to say something. His mouth formed several words, he swayed on his feet. 
 
In the end, he simply nodded and moved along, trying to catch Keefe's gaze.
 
Keefe kept his eyes focused on the ground. The last thing he needed was for another adult to read him. 
 
"Keefe, dear," Lady Gisela said, her motherly tone so fake it practically fractured the air, "won't you come outside?"
 
Lord Cassius was more pointed. "Follow us." His voice was a low growl meant only for his son to hear. 
 
Keefe shivered and obeyed immediately. He stood on his wobbling legs, dizzy, but he stabilised a moment later and began walking toward the door. He was careful to offer small grins to the people around, so they knew he was okay, he was fine, his parents were supportive like he had said earlier and

he was fine

.
 
His father laid a rough hand on his shoulder, and Keefe flinched without meaning to. The pressure pushed him slightly, a silent threat, telling him to hurry.
 
He did. No use making it worse than it already was.
 
His parents didn't start in immediately upon exiting the building. In fact, they were radio silent, which was almost as bad. Keefe would have thought he was alone if not for the constant warmth on his shoulder, the constant reminder of what was about to happen. 
 
"Over there," his mother finally hissed, dropping her act. She pointed behind where their tour buses were parked on the other side of the massive space and, numbly, Keefe led the way. 
 
When they were there, behind his mother’s van, away from the prying eyes of the milling people, in the private shade of their buses, the first thing Lady Gisela did was slap her son across the face. 
 
Keefe had known it was coming, of course. How couldn’t he have? Still, the pain was sharp and persistent. 
 
“What,” Lady Gisela started, fuming, “was

that?”

Keefe didn’t answer. He knew the question was mostly rhetorical, knew that answering would only result in another hit. So he stayed quiet, twisting his fingers behind his back nervously as his parents paced in front of him. It was a constant struggle to keep his eyes up; all he wanted to do was study the ground. 
 
“That was a disaster,” Lord Cassius announced, waving his arms, and Keefe tried not to flinch at the movement. “The

one

interview I decide to go to, the one time I

try

to be a better father, you go and

mess it up.

”
 
His tone was slowly dipping more and more into the furious side of things. Keefe struggled to keep his panic to a minimum, to stave off the fear threatening to choke him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he tried, but Lord Cassius wasn’t having it. 
 
Neither was Lady Gisela. “Sorry?” Her laugh was cruel and high pitched. Keefe wanted to cover his ears. He wondered if anybody on the other side of huge expanse of pavement could hear her.
 
Probably not. 
 
“

Sorry

doesn’t fix what just went down. On live television, for star’s sake! How

stupid

can you be?”
 
The insult hit him almost as hard as the slap. He was fumbling; he didn’t know what to say to make it better. 
 
“It’s

pathetic,

honestly,” Lord Cassius snarled, leaning closer to his son. He was a few inches away, within range, and Keefe was

shaking shaking shaking.

He

knew

he had messed up, he just didn’t know how to fix it. He

had

to fix it. Fix it with Sophie, who at the very least deserved an explanation for his lie, fix it with his fans, who would be wondering what had happened. 
 
And fix it with his parents. For too many reasons to count. 
 
“Keefe Sencen,” Lord Cassius suddenly announced, saying the name like it was a toxicity he had to spit out, voice dangerously low, “are you dating your new assistant?”
 
Lady Gisela snapped her head towards Keefe, eyes indignant, but Keefe hardly noticed. He was shrinking backwards, hunching his shoulders into himself, feeling like his body was falling out of proportion. He didn’t like this. He wanted to be alone. 
 
“Keefe,” his mother warned, and she raised her hand. 
 
“No,” Keefe rushed to say, gripping his shirt with shaking fingers to try and steady himself. The words felt impossible to get out. “No, I never dated her.”
 
Lord Cassius looked completely unconvinced, as did Lady Gisela. If anything, they looked even angrier. Keefe swallowed. He had to say more, had to drive his point home. 
 
“I never even liked her.” Each sentence was a battle, a war in his mind, the lies bubbling in his stomach. He felt like throwing up. “I’ll admit, I kissed her, but it was because I was bored. Come on, Mom, don’t look at me like that--it’s the truth. She fell for me so fast, and I just needed something to entertain myself.” He heaved a breath. His voice was steadier, now, but that didn’t mean he felt any better. In fact, he felt worse, felt like with his even tone he was betraying Sophie even farther. 
 
“I never liked her. She was entertainment,” he affirmed, miserably, staring straight ahead at his mother, trying to show with his eyes how true his lie was. 
 
But his resolve crumbled completely when a tiny, broken voice asked, behind him, “Keefe?”
 
He gasped and whipped around, praying it wasn’t who he thought it was. 
 
But he never could catch a break. 
 
Sophie stood there, mouth open, eyes brimming with tears. 
 
At first, they just looked at each other, shock and pain wafting through the air between them. The spell they were under was deep, too strong to break for a long, long moment in which the situation seemed to spiral into something so much worse. 
 
Then Sophie’s head tilted forward, and her eyebrows set. Her tears spilled over, a little bit, but Keefe could tell they were more from pure anger rather than sadness. 
 
Her glare could have leveled buildings. Keefe took an involuntary step back, words pounding on his lips, but he was acutely aware of his parents behind him. He couldn’t say anything. He couldn't

fix this.

“Entertainment?” Sophie asked, softly, and

oh

. He wished she had screamed, had pounced on him. Her quiet tone was

so much worse.

Keefe had never heard so much resentment directed at him before from anyone other than his parents. “That’s all I was? Some

thing

for you to have fun with?”
 
“Sophie,” Keefe started, fumbling, taking a step closer, desperate to explain, to comfort, to cry. 
 
“Save it,” she snapped, holding up her hand, like she would punch him if he came any closer. And honestly? With the way she was looking at him, Keefe wasn’t totally unconvinced that she wouldn’t. “We’re done.” 
 
“Foster, please,” he tried again, and

finally

his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
 
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever speak to me again.”

And with that, she was gone, rushing away, water falling through fingers. 
 
Keefe was full on crying, now. They hadn’t even been together that long, had hardly gotten a chance to explore their relationship, before Keefe had ruined it all. Their chance was gone before they even had it.  
 
“Well then,” Lady Gisela said, then stopped. She sounded a little surprised under her left over anger, which Keefe would have examined closer if he wasn’t trying not to break down sobbing. “That’s that.”
 
Typical of his parents. He was shattering, and all his mother could say was, “That’s that.”
 
“Turn around, son,” Lord Cassius commanded, and Keefe sucked in a heaving breath, trying to steady himself. He spun to face his parents, clenching his hands together at his sides. 
 
Anger coursed through him at the sight of them. They were the reason this had happened. It was their fault. 
 
But just as quickly as the blame came, it turned on him.

He

was the one that messed up.

He

said those things. 
 
And he couldn’t fix it. 
 
It was no one’s fault but

his.

He had chosen his parents over the one girl who had ever bothered to stay, to hold him so

tenderly

when he didn’t deserve anything of the such. 
 
“Quit crying,” Lord Cassius told Keefe, disgust crinkling his nose. “It makes you look like such a baby.”
 
Keefe sniffed, wiping his eyes, shuddering underneath the glare of his parents. “May I go, sir?” he practically whispered, defeat clinging to each syllable. 
 
But Lady Gisela was shaking her head before Keefe even finished. “Absolutely not. Get inside.”
 
The simple order shriveled up Keefe’s insides. His feet felt glued to the ground. “What?”
 
His parents leveled their eyes with his. “You still have to be punished,” Lord Cassius told him, tone set in stone and impossibly hard. 
 
Stupidly, Keefe felt surprised. He should have known. 
 
He shivered anyway. Distantly, like he was underwater, he thought about turning to run, about chasing down Sophie, about

explaining,

but the thought quickly vanished. 
 
There was nowhere to go. 
 
Except, of course, inside his mother’s van. 
 
So that’s what he did, one dragging, dreaded step at a time, until he was inside, his parents trailing slowly behind him. 
 
His father shut the door.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I never liked her. She was entertainment.

Sophie had been angry before. She knew what it was to be fire, to be all consumed with rage, to be swallowing back words she so badly wanted to say. 
 
But

this?

This was a whole different feeling. 
 
She was shaking, quite literally seeing red, wanting to

hit something, hurt someone, anything to release.

Anything. 
 
She couldn’t believe Keefe. They’d only just gotten together, only just kissed for the first time a week ago, and it had been the closest thing to happiness Sophie had ever known. 
 
In his scarred arms, she’d felt safe, secure. A feeling so foreign to her, so unknown, yet so welcomed. She wanted him, she wanted him,

she wanted him.

And all along, Keefe had been using her.

Entertainment.

The very memory of the word sent bubbling lava in her stomach.
 
She was in her tour bus, now, door locked and slammed closed, but suddenly she wished she was back with Keefe. She wanted to scream at him, to call him names, to make him feel exactly how hurt she felt, to tell him it had never been real for her, either. She wanted to watch his face crumble with the knowledge that he was expendable and unimportant and, above all,

irrelevant.

She was getting paid to work with him. She never actually liked him, it was her

job.

Of course, that wasn’t true, and even as Sophie thought the words, the fight drained out of her in slow, aching waves.
 
Because the truth was an ugly, terrible thing to face: she

had

liked him. She had

wanted to be with him,

had been

happy

when he was kissing her. 
 
He wasn’t irrelevant, he had been

her’s.

She loved her job if it meant tired smiles and inside jokes and stolen kisses. 
 
But now?

Well, now, she wasn’t sure she’d last here. 
 
For one thing, she was positive she was fired. The look on Lady Gisela’s face had made that certain. But if she miraculously wasn’t, quitting was just as much of an option.
 
And it was calling her, beckoning her to march straight to Keefe’s mother and tell her exactly how she felt. About how she was leaving and never coming back and she could tell Keefe she hated him, for all she cared.  
 
It didn’t matter that she needed this job, that she wouldn't be able to bear the look on her adoptive parents faces when she came home defeated

again.

They would understand. They always did, they always tried to. Grady and Edaline were great, great people who had offered Sophie a home when she had nowhere else to go.
 
They were the two people in the world Sophie was certain loved her. If she quit, they’d welcome her back with open arms, back to her third floor room with the wide windows.  
 
But she was older, now. She was supposed to be able to take care of herself, to not have to depend on Mommy and Daddy to come and save her every time something happened.
 
And despite how much she told herself otherwise, Sophie did not want to quit. What she wanted, deep in her bones, was Keefe to knock on her door. To explain, to hug her, to tell her he was sorry and that he hadn’t meant it. 
 
She even looked towards the door. Willed it to open, for him to be there. 
 
Nothing.  
 
Sophie shivered, shoving the fresh disappointment away, along with the resurfacing desire to quit.
 
She wasn’t going to run like a little girl, like she had run so often before. 
 
She was strong. She was capable. 
 
. . . but she didn’t feel either of those things at the moment,
 
Instead, she felt tired. Her anger had faded into a dull ache, into something like sadness and hurt. And she wasn’t with Keefe, she was in her tour bus, hunched over her makeshift table, hands curled into themselves.
 
And the door was not opening. Keefe was not coming to apologise, no matter how much Sophie wished he would.  
 
So in that defeated, tired position, alone, she finally started to cry. 
 
********
 
Keefe’s entire body hurt. 
 
It wasn’t a new feeling, really, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt like his bones were trying to close in on themselves. 
 
It was a few hours after his parents were finally finished, after they had

finally

let him go, let him stumble back to his tour bus, dizzy and tired and

hurting.

He’d instantly collapsed into his bed. It felt like every muscle in his body was on fire, straining, burning, and he could already feel the bruises starting to form. 
 
But none of that even lit a match to what he’d said about Sophie. 
 
Just thinking the words, just imagining the scene, sent pure

nausea

shivering into his stomach. He’d never said words like that about someone before. Even in arguments with Tam, with Fitz, with his parents, he always thought about what he was saying. 
 
Not this time. This time, he’d been so panicked, so blind-sighted by his parents, that he didn’t even pause to think. He’d just gasped out an answer he knew would appease them, an answer he never would repeat. 
 
And he thought he’d get away with it. He’d thought he’d convinced them, and that everything would be fine and go back to how it was. 
 
But--but

then,

then she was

there,

right behind him, listening in, taking in every miserable syllable of his forced confession. 
 
The expression on her face--twisted anger covering heartbreak--was burned in his mind, and even though Keefe’s body was pleading with him to sleep, he simply laid there for hours, analyzing. Wondering if anything could have gone differently. 
 
How much did she see, before that happened? He didn’t think much; if his parents knew someone was around, they never would have acted that way.
 
It was all about appearances, with them. That was why they avoided hitting his face.  
 
So, no, she probably showed up just in time to hear those words. Just in time to feel her heart get

stomped on,

to watch Keefe denounce their entire relationship. 
 
And it had only been a

week.

How, he wanted to know, could he get so attached to someone in less than a week? How was that possible? 
 
He loved her. As much as the word was too big and too strong and too dangerous, Keefe was sure he had loved her. 
 
Maybe he still did. 
 
But she didn’t love him. Not anymore, and maybe she never had. Maybe he never really had a chance, maybe this was always going to happen. 
 
Inevitable, or whatever they call it. The point was, Keefe’s life had been one long heartbreak after another--why would this be any different? 
 
He groaned out loud, then, when that thought came.

Why would this be any different?

Because he had wanted it to be. Because he had

needed

it to be. 
 
Sighing, Keefe rolled over in his bed, even though that just aggravated the bruises littering his skin. He thought about standing up, about walking to his mirror, about looking at himself and trying to ice his injuries.
 
He didn’t, though. Maybe it was self destructive, but part of him didn’t want to see how he looked. Didn’t want to stand face to face with himself and acknowledge the secrets hidden beneath his stained clothes. 
 
He could imagine it well enough anyway: eye bags, unruly hair, split lip, black and blue spots scattered around. 
 
The mental image filled him with something, some ineffable feeling, and he sat up slowly. He didn’t have a shirt on (he’d taken it off before he, ah,

fell

into bed) and looking down, he could see he was correct, about the bruises, at least. 
 
A particularly nasty one was blooming on his side. His dad had kicked him, he remembered, hard, so hard that Keefe’s vision had gone black for a few moments. 
 
The injury was angry and painful, probably the most painful one from that day. It didn’t need to be encouraged, it just hurt, no matter how carefully Keefe moved. 
 
For a brief, brief moment, he almost wanted to call Sophie. He wanted to hear her voice, knew that if he did, the pain would lessen, and he’d be fine. He even glanced towards his phone, like it would start ringing with the simple urging from his tired eyes.

But it didn’t. 
 
And he couldn’t bring himself to call her. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t put her through that. He was selfish, but he wasn’t

that

selfish. 
 
Instead, his fingers fumbled on the screen and he sent out two texts, one to Fitz and one to Tam. 
 
He didn’t want to be alone. 
 
They arrived quickly. Tam was at his door in minutes, and Fitz wasn’t far behind. They let themselves in; they still had keys from their dreary days of working with him. 
 
“Keefe?” Tam called out. His voice was soft, like he knew whatever scene he was about to approach wasn’t good. 
 
(It never was.)
 
“We’re here, dude.” That was Fitz. He liked to call people ‘dude’, even the girls. Said that it wasn’t formal, and sometimes he really hated being formal, so he compensated by using that. 
 
It was one of the many quirks that made Keefe’s friends

his friends.

“In here,” he finally responded, from his room, still in bed. For a second, he thought about trying to shove a shirt on, but the idea quickly faded. 
 
Let them see. 
 
“Oh my stars.”
 
They rushed him, were on him in an instant, faces pinched and eyes wide. There was a lot of whispering, a lot of careful words, and it took a few minutes to coax Keefe out of bed and into the bathroom. 
 
“Sit,” Tam said, pointing to the edge of the bathtub, and Keefe tried not to think about the last time this had happened with Sophie. “Hold still.”
 
They began dressing his wounds, cleaning them and wrapping them. He allowed them to work, tried not to flinch when cold fingers met his splotchy skin. Just moving to the bathroom had drained him. 
 
To their credit, neither Fitz or Tam asked what had happened. They knew Lady Gisela and Lord Cassius too well and Keefe even better. 
 
Besides, the story wasn’t that hard to put together. 
 
“This one is really bad,” Fitz murmured, at one point, pointing to the biggest bruise on Keefe's side, the one Keefe had been looking at earlier. 
 
Keefe nodded, the jerky up and down motion rattling his eyes. “I know. Kick, from my dad.”
 
“I wasn’t asking for an explanation.” Fitz’s voice was gentle, calm. His eyes were focused solely on the bruise, examining it, running up and down Keefe’s side. 
 
“Oh.”
 
“Here,” Tam jumped in, handing Keefe an ice pack. He took it gratefully and pressed it to his side, wincing slightly at the cold, but satisfied when the bruise disappeared from sight. 
 
Better not to dwell on them. Better to keep moving, keep fighting, keep going on and on. He didn’t need to pause and contemplate every mark on his body. 
 
If he did, he wouldn’t ever move from in front of the mirror again, he was sure of it. 
 
“Well, they avoided your face pretty well,” Tam said, a few minutes later, while tending to a light cut on Keefe’s shoulder. 
 
“Yeah. Appearances, and whatnot.” He tried to sound nonchalant, totally indifferent.

Why, yes, of course they avoided my face, silly. Want some tea?

Fitz and Tam exchanged a look. It was hard to tell what they were communicating, but suddenly Keefe felt very excluded. He was right here, if they wanted to talk about him, they should.
 
He just wanted to be seen. 
 
But he didn’t say anything. Just sat there, holding ice to his side, halfway patched together physically. 
 
His friends got back to work. When they were finally finished, when they had managed to convince Keefe to

take an Advil, for star’s sake,

he

did

actually feel better. 
 
At least the bruises and cuts he could handle. He could fix those, patch them up, heal them away. 
 
But the torment of his mind? The knowledge of what he had lost, just that day, the knowledge of the girl who was a few doors down who was never going to want to speak to him again? 
 
Those couldn’t be mended as easily. 
 
“At least I don’t have anything going on tomorrow,” Keefe said, as Fitz and Tam supported him back to his room. He had a slight limp, but it would fade in a few days, he was pretty sure. 
 
“At least,” Tam replied, dryly. Sometimes it took awhile, but Tam always got angry when this happened. It reminded him too much of his own parents, of locked cupboards and freezing nights spent outside. 
 
Keefe never asked Tam much about his life before this. He knew firsthand how infuriating it can be when someone pries, when you aren’t ready to talk and someone forces you to speak anyway. 
 
“--nasty, scumbag parents,” Tam was saying, spitting the words out. His face had gone slightly red. “I hate them. They don’t get to do this.”
 
Fitz was nodding along. He didn’t usually talk when Tam ranted, but his eyes were always laced with the same conviction. 
 
“Keefe,” Tam started, then stopped, and Keefe tried not to roll his eyes.

Here we go again.

“You need to tell someone.”
 
This, also, always came up. “You guys know.”
 
“That’s not enough--”
 
“Why not?” Keefe interrupted, finally sitting down on the bed. Tam and Fitz stood in front of him, and he wished he was standing too, but he stayed where he was. “You guys help me. Who else do I need to tell?”
 
Fitz shook his head. This was the part of the conversation where he spoke up. “Yes, Keefe, we do help you. But what will you do when your parents take it too far? Or when we’re off doing something and can’t immediately help you?”
 
Keefe opened his mouth to respond, then shut it, face flaming. He was angry, and he had no right to be. They were trying to help. 
 
But it was nice to

feel

something. Even if it was anger.

Especially

if it was anger. 
 
“Then I’ll take care of myself,” he finally shot back, crossing his arms. “I’m not a little kid anymore, guys. I can handle it.”
 
“You shouldn’t

have

to,” Tam fought back, stepping closer, towards Keefe. “That’s not fair to you.” 
 
Silence hung in the air for a long, long moment. 
 
Then, Keefe mumbled, “Shut up.”
 
Tam tossed his head back exasperated. “Keefe, we want to

help.

Why can’t you see--”
 
“Shut up.”
 
“--not okay for this to keep happening, for them to--”
 
“Shut up.”
 
“--and on top of that, it’s emotional, too, and--”
 
“I said,

shut up!”

Keefe was heaving. He’d finally stood, now, though he didn’t remember doing it. His breathing came in short, erratic bursts. 
 
Tam looked at him defiantly. Fitz, for his part, hung on the side, glancing between the two. 
 
“Shut up,” Keefe repeated, letting the two words linger in the air. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel angry. He never had, really--he was just sad, just upset because he knew Tam was

right.

But. . . “You know I can’t tell anyone. You know I can’t.”
 
Tam’s eyes softened, a little. “Why not?”
 
Keefe sputtered, wringing his hands together. He laughed, but it tasted bitter. “I’m

trapped,

Tam. My parents control my bank account, my job, who my friends are,

everything.

Heck, both of you were transferred because you got

too close

to me. And now Sophie and I are done and--”
 
His voice cut out, and he collapsed backward on the bed, putting his hands over his eyes. 
 
He felt the mattress shift next to him, on either side. Felt the warmth of his friends who only meant the best. 
 
“What happened with Sophie?” Fitz asked, softly. 
 
Keefe sighed. Took a deep breath. And he explained, one stumbling word at a time, what had happened earlier that day. The interview, the questions Kenric had asked, what he had said about Sophie--all of it. 
 
When he was done, there was an eerie air to the room. No one knew what to say, he could tell. They were looking at him with wide, pitiful eyes, and Keefe

hated it--

he hated when someone looked at him like that. 
 
He didn’t need their pity. 
 
“I just don’t know what to do,” he finally said, when the silence had been going on for too long. He covered his eyes with his hands again. The darkness was more friendly than the way he felt about himself. 
 
“You have to apologise.” This was from Tam.
 
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
 
“You have to try anyway.”
 
Frustration bubbled to the surface of Keefe’s skin; he wore it like a thin winter coat. “How?” he demanded, sitting up to look at his friends.
 
Fitz shuffled closer. “You could draw her a picture,” he suggested, softly. 
 
Keefe shook his head. He could feel himself flushing. He loved art, but he hated people knowing about it. He just wasn’t comfortable making her something. Besides, she already had a portrait of herself. “No.”
 
“What about a song, then?” Tam asked, listing his head so that his bangs shifted over his eyes. He pushed them away. “You have a concert coming up. Like, in a few days, right?”
 
Keefe nodded, hesitation creeping in. “She could quit by then. I bet she already has.”
 
“I’ll get Biana to talk to her,” Fitz promised. “Convince her to stick around for one more week. She’ll be at the concert.”

So will my parents,

Keefe thought, chewing on his lip. And they would know exactly who the song was about. 
 
His friends must’ve seen the fear coming alive in his eyes, because they simultaneously reached out, soft fingers landing on his skin, squeezing. 
 
“It’s going to be fine,” Tam said. 
 
“

You’re

going to be fine,” Fitz amended. 
 
Keefe closed his eyes at their touch. It was so gentle, so unlike anything he was used to. 
 
He opened them again. Took a deep breath. 
 
Then nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sophie heard a knock at her door.
 
It had been a few days since the incident, a few days since Keefe had torn her heart out in front of her, and she’d hardly left her bus. No one had come to tell her she was fired, yet, so she assumed she was still employed, despite the fact that she was entirely neglecting her job. 
 
But she hadn’t seen anyone else for two days. 
 
It was irresponsible, she knew. She should have gone to Lady Gisela immediately, should have figured out what was going to happen. 
 
Instead, she’d rotted away in her bus, ignoring the texts and calls Biana and Lihn kept sending her way. 
 
Sighing, Sophie moved from her bed, where she had been reading, heart hammering in her chest as she turned to the door. 
 
Whoever it was knocked again. Two short raps in quick succession. 
 
Immediately, Sophie’s mind went to Keefe. He was almost always the one who knocked on her door, who greeted her with a small smile and a sheepish grin, like he was about to confess something to her. He’d stand with his hands curled into fists at his sides and his eyes flashing, looking at her like there was something important there. 
 
Was this Keefe at her door? 
 
Her stomach tightened. She both hoped it was and it wasn’t. 
 
“Sophie?” the person called, and relief and disappointment simultaneously curled in her stomach. It was Biana. 
 
“It’s open!” she called. The door swung inward and Biana didn’t hesitate to walk in, her long hair pulled back by a bow. She was wearing a puffy sweater that hung off her right shoulder. 
 
“Soph,” Biana greeted, marching towards her. She kicked the door closed with her foot, her sneaker

thunking

against it. “Are you okay?”
 
Straight to the point, which was just like Biana. 
 
“How did you know about it?” Sophie asked, not bothering to play dumb. She’d left enough of Biana’s texts unanswered, and even just by skimming them, it had been obvious that the brunette knew what had happened. 
 
Sophie turned to look out the window. Her hair wasn’t brushed and she was still in her night clothes and compared to Biana she was a mess. 
 
“Fitz told me.” 
 
“How does Fitz know?”
 
“Keefe told him.”
 
Sophie tried to disguise her reaction to

his

name, but she still winced, fighting to regain her composure. 
 
It had been a few days. She was fine, she was okay, it wasn’t bothering her anymore. She was over it.
 
“Are you okay?” Biana repeated, taking a seat at the table, and Sophie automatically sat across from her.
 
Sophie ran her fingers through her tattered hair, sighed. “I don’t know,” she answered, honestly, voice quiet. 
 
“He said some awful things.”
 
“You know what he said?”
 
Biana smiled softly. It was a bittersweet, sad thing that rested on her lips for only a moment. “Let’s just assume that I know everything.”
 
Sophie nodded, dipping her head forward to stare at her hands. She’d chewed her nails; they were bitten raw. 
 
Biana followed her gaze, frowning at Sophie’s fingers. Slowly, she reached out, covering Sophie’s hands with her own. 
 
“I’m so sorry, Soph.”
 
Sophie took a deep breath, letting the words flow through her. They didn’t really help, but saying sorry was just something you did, even if it wouldn’t fix things. You just said it. “Thanks.”
 
Biana shrugged, withdrew her hands. It occurred to Sophie that she also looked nervous. “I just came by to say. . . well, I thought maybe you would need a friend. Someone on your side.”
 
Sophie lifted her head so she could look Biana in the eyes, so she could show how grateful she was. Even though she’d spent the last few days ignoring her, Biana wasn’t angry. She was right here, ready to help, ready for Sophie to talk to. “Yeah. It was getting a little lonely.”
 
“I can only imagine.”
 
“You ever been through a breakup?” she asked, though she wasn’t really sure if that was what this was.  
 
Biana stilled. “Yes,” she said, after a moment, and the word hung in the air. Sophie thought maybe she would elaborate, but she didn’t say anything else. 
 
Still. “I’m sorry.”
 
Biana smiled the same sad grin from before. “It was a long time ago.”
 
“I’m still sorry.”
 
The other girl shrugged, her hair toppling over her bare shoulder. She hesitated for a moment, like she was thinking about what to say. Her perfect teeth chewed on her perfect bottom lip. “You know, uh, Lady Gisela has been pretty upset these past few days.”
 
Apprehension prickled Sophie’s skin. She listed her head to look at Biana sideways. “Has she?” Hesitated. “Am I fired?”
 
Biana shook her head, fast. “No, no. You’re not fired. I think. . . honestly, I think she wants you to keep working.”
 
Sophie blinked. “What? Why would she want that?”
 
Biana’s cheeks flushed on her dark skin, her scars highlighted by the pigment. “Well. . .” she started, then stopped, the words refusing to come. 
 
“Well, what?”
 
“Just. . . I think it’s her way of, like, punishing Keefe.”

Punishing Keefe.

Instantly, Sophie mind took her back to that night a week and a half ago, the night Keefe had come rushing into his tour bus. The night Sophie had seen the mark on his face, the imprint of a slap. . . 
 
She shivered against her will, stomach churning. Did Biana know about that?
 
“How so?” Sophie finally asked, shoving the memories away. Her voice sort of caught at the end, so that she stuttered her way through the word. 
 
Biana tugged on the sleeves of her sweater until they were covering her hands. She tapped her nails on the table. “It’s going to hurt him if you’re around,” she started, then stopped, like she didn’t quite know what to say. 
 
But suddenly Sophie understood. Everytime Keefe saw her, it would be a painful reminder for the both of them, a horrifying feeling creeping in their chests. It was a psychological torture, designed to wear Keefe down, to make him a puppet. 
 
There was no danger of Keefe becoming too close to Sophie now. 
 
The thought made her sad. She could feel it building in her mind, shifting her focus. She was livid with him, but . . .  “I hate her.”
 
A few weeks ago, Sophie wouldn’t have dreamt about talking bad about her employer. But she was different, now, she was hurting, and stars above, Lady Gisela was an awful human being and Sophie deserved to voice it. 
 
Biana nodded. “Yeah.” Another pause. Biana seemed to speak that way a lot, with little gaps between phrases. Letting the silence do the talking just as much as her words. “His dad is just as bad.”
 
“Never really seen him, except for. . .” Sophie trailed off, glancing away so that Biana couldn’t see her tired expression, her pinched eyes at the memory.

I never liked her.

She was

entertainment.

Sophie shivered. “That night he said those things,” she finished, lamely, waving her hand, as if to disregard what had happened. To wipe it away.  
 
Biana tracked the movement. “He’s sorry, if it helps at all.”
 
Sophie froze, the words washing over her. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. 
 
Oh, he was, was he? Then why, she wanted to demand, to scream, did he say them? Why did he cut her where he knew it would hurt? 
 
“How do you know?” Sophie asked, shaking along with her voice. There was rage there, but there was also an unavoidable sadness, and she knew Biana detected it from the way her eyes softened. 
 
“Fitz and Tam went to see him, after. He’s. . . not in good shape.”
 
“Yeah, well, neither am I,” Sophie spat, the anger taking over. She refused to feel bad for him, to let the lingering fondness creep in. “He never even liked me, Biana. He said it himself.”
 
The dark-skinned girl frowned, the points of her perfect lips dipping down. “I know,” she whispered. Paused. “But I also know that wasn’t true.”
 
“How?” Sophie demanded, standing, now. She didn’t want to stay seated. She wanted to yell and cry and shake Biana by the shoulders so that she would

get it,

so that she’d

understand

. “How could you possibly know that?”
 
Biana, infuriatingly, remained calm, her gentle eyes never wavering. “Because he told Fitz that he only said those things so his parents wouldn’t be mad. And then Fitz told me.” She let that sink in, then added, hushed, “He feels awful about it, Sophie. And I’m not saying you ever have to forgive him; what he said was awful. But you should know he only said it so his parents would go easy on him. And that didn’t even work.”
 
The last phrase was sad noncommittedly, casually, but the second it was voiced, Biana gasped and covered her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that, Sophie knew from the way her wide eyes trailed nervously back and forth. 
 
Slowly, Sophie lowered herself into her seat. “What do you mean, that didn’t work?”
 
Biana put her head in her hands. Hiding her face from the value of her words. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
 
“Biana? Biana, tell me. What do you mean?”
 
The other girl lifted her head and squeezed her eyes shut, face twisting into guilt. Still, she started, slowly, “I don’t know how much you know about Keefe’s parents. . .”
 
Sophie blinked. The pieces were presenting themselves, coming into view, snapping together. But she didn’t want to see the whole picture, not yet, not ever. 
 
Biana continued, “They can get really mad, sometimes. It’s. . . scary. And when Keefe, um, when he does something they don’t--like--” her sentence stopped abruptly, but Sophie knew what she was saying.
 
“They. . . hurt him?” she asked, horror finally taking its rightful place in her chest. 
 
“Yes,” Biana admitted, and the word sounded like defeat. “Yeah. They weren’t happy about the interview. About how Keefe felt about you.”
 
“But, but,” Sophie sputtered. “He

didn’t

feel anything about me. He said it himself.”
 
“I know he did. But he was lying, Sophie, to save himself. And it didn’t work.”

It didn’t work.

Sophie was going to be sick. Her stomach twisted in awful, sharp turns, and she was acutely aware of every beat of her heart, pounding into the skin of her chest, drowning her in the rush of blood making its way to her ears. 
 
She pictured the scar she'd briefly seen on Keefe's stomach, snaking across his torso. The lie he'd told her about it, the lie she'd been too scared to point out.
 
“He’s--they hurt him?” she gasped out, shocked at how choked her voice was. It was painful, it grated her throat on the way out, made it hard to breathe. Concern burned her, a fire lit on the inside, even though she shouldn’t care, she shouldn’t--
 
“Yes,” Biana confirmed, and it was only now that Sophie realised she was trembling, too. 
 
“Oh, my stars,” Sophie breathed out, leaning forward so that her forehead touched the table. It was cool, grounding. “Oh my stars.”
 
“I know.” Biana sounded stuffed, and Sophie risked a glance up to see the trail of tears on her friend’s face. “He didn’t mean those things, Sophie, he had to say them--”
 
“Stop it,” Sophie fired back, words hot on her tongue. She couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle the knowledge that Keefe

had

actually liked her, had liked her so much that he lied to his parents and took a

beating.

His words had still hurt, even if he hadn’t meant them. That didn’t take back the hours, the days Sophie had spent thinking he was genuine, thinking she had been

entertainment.

But if Biana was telling the truth. . . 
 
If Keefe really had said those things because he felt he had to. . . 
 
Sophie took a shuddering breath, trying to draw her emotions back in. She believed Biana, even if she probably shouldn’t. But the truth tasted different than the lies had; it wasn’t exactly nicer, but it had a ring of solidity to it that made it tangible. 
 
“He needs to tell me,” Sophie said, aloud, and Biana sniffed. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, somehow managing to look like a model in the process. “I need to hear the truth from him.”
 
“I think he’s going to,” Biana responded, pulling her knees to her chest so that her sneakers rested on the seat. Her eyes were still teary, and honestly, Sophie could feel her own watering, too. 
 
It was just. . . the thought that Keefe had--had been

hit by his parents, hurt because of Sophie,

was almost too much. 
 
The guilt crushed her so hard that breathing became difficult. 
 
It was her fault. 
 
If she had never gotten so close to him, if she’d just kept her distance and was professional and

hadn’t kissed him,

he might be okay right now.

She

might even be okay right now. She’d have no idea of the heartbreak waiting for her, she’d be happy, maybe make a friend. 
 
Nothing more. 
 
But Sophie had already made her decisions. She couldn’t take them back, couldn’t stop herself from falling for Keefe.
 
And he was hurt because of it. 
 
“Did I,” Sophie started, stuttering, and maybe it was the way her voice tilted to the left, but Biana looked up again, eyes wide with concern. “I mean, is it my fault?”
 
“Oh, Sophie,” Biana breathed, and she stood up and walked over and wrapped her arms around her, pulling up and into a hug. “Of course not.”
 
The contact felt so nice, so good after two days of seeing no one, that Sophie found herself sinking into it. She rested her head on Biana’s shoulder, the one covered by her sweater, and tried not to cry, tried not to think about the words Keefe had said that he supposedly didn’t mean and the fact that he had paid for their relationship quite literally. 
 
“But his parents did it because of

me,

” Sophie reasoned, voice muffled by the thick fabric. The jumper was really soft. “If I hadn’t been dating him, they wouldn’t have--”
 
“They would have,” Biana interrupted, pulling away to look Sophie straight in the eyes. “His parents are awful, Sophie. They would have found a reason. This is not the first time this has happened.”
 
Again, the image of the angry red welt on Keefe’s face emerged in Sophie’s mind. She could see the panic in his eyes, the desperate attempt at jokes he was making, trying to steer Sophie away from the full truth.
 
He had said it didn’t happen often. He had implied that a slap was the worst it got. That it wasn’t a big deal.

This felt like a big deal.

Sophie remembered how she had felt, examining the slap mark, how angry she’d been. She had sworn to herself that she would get to the bottom of it, that she would confront Lady Gisela. 
 
But then the next day Keefe had shown up at her door, and they’d had their impulsive kiss, and the days that followed had blurred into each other until the mark was gone and almost forgotten.

Sophie

had forgotten. 
 
Well, never again. 
 
Lady Gisela did not get to get away with this anymore, and neither did Keefe’s dad. Not if Sophie had anything to do with it, and she would, she promised herself. 
 
And she sent a silent promise to Keefe, too. Even though he had hurt her, even though she was still hurt, he didn’t deserve that. No one did. 
 
“When can I see him?” Sophie asked, running a hand through her hair. She was still in her pajamas. Not her best look, but this was more important than appearances. 
 
Biana held her hand out to stop Sophie from walking towards the door. It thumped against her chest. “He’s getting ready for a concert. He performs in a couple hours.”
 
Sophie blinked, surprised, before realisation dawned. 
 
Right. Keefe had a concert today.
 
She’d been so preoccupied with her aching heart that she hadn’t even realised. And now he was out of reach for the next however many hours, while he performed with a bruised body and sang to a crowd that thought everything was okay when it clearly

wasn’t

and he was

hurt

and it was

her fault and--

“You can find him after.” Biana grabbed Sophie’s hand, intertwining their fingers, grounding her back to her tour bus. “When you’re dressed and have thought everything through.”
 
Sophie breathed out, glancing at the door. The desire to shove it open still hadn’t faded, but she knew, deep down, that Biana was right. There was no way for Sophie to get close enough to Keefe now, especially with everything that had just happened. His parents, infuriatingly, were likely hovering around him like flies. 
 
“Okay,” she conceded, allowing Biana to drag her towards her bedroom wardrobe. 
 
Tonight. Tonight, she would set everything right. 
 
She had to.