Chapter 7
The show feels wrong from the first chord.
Not bad. Not off-key.
Just charged. Like the air knows something Alex doesn’t.
Phones are higher than usual. Faces sharper. People aren’t just watching—they’re waiting. Ready for a show. Something they can stream live.
Embarrassment hums under Alex’s skin. A warning signal. He rolls his shoulders back and sings anyway.
That’s his job.
That’s always been his job.
Jackson comes out loud as ever. Big grin. Big energy. The crowd screams his name like it’s oxygen.
But Alex notices the cracks.
Jackson misses a cue in the second verse. Barely. Anyone else might not catch it.
Alex does.
Jackson recovers fast. Flirts harder. Moves closer to the edge of the stage like proximity can drown out doubt.
Isolation creeps in.
Jackson’s doing what he always does when he’s scared—performing louder.
By the bridge, something shifts.
Jackson crosses the stage.
That’s not choreographed.
Alex’s heart stutters.
Jackson stops directly in front of him. The music swells behind them, heavy and pulsing.
Jackson reaches for Alex’s hand.
Takes it.
The crowd gasps. Audible. Sharp.
Embarrassment detonates. Instant. Nuclear.
Alex freezes.
Jackson leans in, mouth close to Alex’s ear. “Trust me.”
Isolation screams. This isn’t planned. This isn’t safe. This isn’t reversible.
Alex searches Jackson’s face.
Finds fear.
Finds resolve.
Finds something that looks like surrender.
Small connection snaps into place.
Jackson kisses him.
Right there. Under the lights. No warning. No cover.
The crowd explodes. Screams. Phones everywhere. Shock rippling outward like a wave.
Alex’s first instinct is to pull away.
He doesn’t.
He kisses Jackson back.
The music crashes to an end in chaos. Alex barely hears the last note.
Backstage is worse.
Management yelling. Phones ringing. People shouting over each other.
Someone swears. Someone cries.
Jackson stands in the middle of it all. Silent. Still holding Alex’s hand like if he lets go,
he’ll fall apart.
Security separates them. Different hallways. Different rooms.
Isolation slams back harder than before.
Alex sits alone in a small room with no windows. Phone buzzing nonstop on the table in front of him.
He doesn’t touch it.
Minutes pass. Or hours. He can’t tell.
Finally, a message cuts through.
Jackson: I’m scared. But I won’t take it back.
Alex stares at the screen.
His fingers shake as he types.
Deletes.
Types again.
Alex: Me neither.
Outside the room, the world is already rewriting their story.
Inside, everything is breaking open.
