The city is quieter this late.
Not silent.
Just softer.
Streetlights cast long gold shadows across the pavement. The air is cool, almost sharp, and the deadline sits between us like a ticking clock neither of us is naming out loud.
We're walking back from rehearsal.
Our hands are linked.
Not hidden.
Not dramatic.
Just natural now.
It still surprises me sometimes.
He squeezes my fingers lightly when I drift too far into my thoughts.
"You're spiraling again," he says.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous."
I bump my shoulder into his.
He bumps back.
The duet is better now.
Cleaner.
Stronger.
But I still hesitate before the chorus.
He notices every time.
"You're pulling back again," he says quietly.
"I'm not."
"You are."
I sigh.
"It's Crescent Sound, Zane."
"I know."
"It's recorded. It's live. It's—"
"It matters."
"Yes."
He stops walking.
So I stop too.
The streetlight above us hums faintly.
"Good," he says.
I blink. "Good?"
"If you're scared," he says softly, stepping closer, "that means it matters."
The words land differently than everything else he's said.
No teasing.
No arrogance.
Just truth.
I swallow.
"Being scared doesn't mean you shouldn't do it," he continues. "It means you care."
My chest tightens.
I've been trying to erase the fear.
He's telling me to use it.
"You don't get scared," I mutter.
He laughs softly.
"I get terrified."
"Of what?"
He looks at me for a long moment.
"Of being forgettable."
That answers more than he intended.
"And you still go on stage," I say.
"Because it matters."
Silence settles between us.
The deadline is close.
Two weeks.
One live recording.
One duet.
I've been thinking about proving something.
To Laura.
To Axel.
To him.
But what if—
It's just about stepping forward?
Not being perfect.
Just stepping forward.
He brushes his thumb across my knuckles.
"You don't have to be flawless," he says. "You just have to be real."
"And if I crack?"
"Then you crack."
"And if I miss?"
"Then you miss."
He tilts his head slightly.
"And then you do it again."
My heart steadies.
Not calm.
But clear.
"You really think I can carry it?" I ask quietly.
"I know you can."
That certainty.
It doesn't feel like pressure.
It feels like a dare.
He leans in slowly.
Kisses me.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead lightly against mine.
"You don't get to stay small anymore, sunshine."
The nickname doesn't make me fluster this time.
It makes me feel seen.
I exhale slowly.
"I don't want to."
And for the first time—
I mean it.
We start walking again.
Still holding hands.
Still steady.
The fear is still there.
But it doesn't feel like something to hide.
It feels like fuel.
And somehow—
That changes everything.