Night's POV
Sky had barely shut up for twenty minutes straight.
She was still glowing. Literal sunshine in leather shorts. Twirling her hair and humming love songs that didn't exist yet, cheeks flushed from the high of Rain Ashford looked at me for three consecutive seconds or whatever fairytale she was building in that pretty little head of hers.
I wasn't listening anymore.
Because Day was across the room.
Tuning his drums. Laughing with the tech guys. One hand flexing around a water bottle as he leaned back in his chair like he didn't know he was unfairly hot. Shirt riding up. Eyes catching mine once—and then he smiled.
I looked away first.
God.
When did that start?
We'd been close for years. Since pre-debut. Since sleeping in crammed vans and living off ramen and sharing stage makeup like it was sacred treasure. He's been my safety net, my emergency contact, my "kill the spider" guy. He still calls me "nightlight" sometimes when he thinks I'm too quiet.
But now?
Now, my stomach flipped when he smiled. My pulse skipped when he touched my wrist. And tonight—he had touched my wrist. Brief. Casual. To pull me out of Sky's glitter cloud of feelings.
And I was still thinking about it.
Still.
I hated it.
I wasn't Sky. I didn't do big feelings or flowers-in-the-hair declarations. I didn't daydream in pink. I didn't scream into pillows about "true love." I played bass with broken nails and callused fingers and told people to get over themselves if they cried on set.
But with Day…
With Day it was soft. It was quiet. Like rain hitting rooftops at night. Like the way he always ordered extra fries because he knew I'd steal them. The way he always put his jacket over the amp case so I wouldn't sit on cold metal. The way he knew when I needed space and when I needed to be dragged out of my own head.
God, I was so stupid.
Because I'd told him everything. Everything. How was I supposed to fall in love with someone who knew all the worst parts of me?
But I was. Slowly. Silently. Stupidly.
I saw it in how I stopped flinching when he hugged me. How I leaned in when he talked. How I remembered the exact shade of his eyes in stage lighting. How I kept catching myself staring at his mouth when he wasn't even saying anything.
I was in trouble.
"You okay?" Day asked suddenly.
I blinked.
He was in front of me. When did he—? I hadn't even noticed him crossing the room. That was not normal.
"Yeah," I said quickly. "Fine."
He tilted his head. That look.
"Liar."
I rolled my eyes. "Still annoying."
He grinned. "Still hot."
I kicked him lightly in the shin. He pretended to be hurt, dramatic as always.
But my chest ached.
Because he was right. He was hot. And I was lying.
And I didn't know how much longer I could pretend this wasn't happening.