You never wanted it to be this way. Sure, you’d always fantasized about being with her… ever since she launched her career, you’d been there. From when you were both just kids, you had stayed steadfastly by her side—her constant, her non-negotiable dancer. But being the third wheel? That had never been part of the dream. Still… at least it was something.

"Room service took forever," Taylor muttered, tossing her hoodie onto the armchair. The fabric landed with a muted thump.

You leaned against the minibar, watching her pace. Her bare feet sank into the thick carpet, each step muffled, the only sound besides the low hum of Vegas traffic twenty-three floors below. She hadn’t looked at you directly since slipping through the connecting door, her knuckles white as she clutched her phone. Travis’s latest text glowed on the screen—some inside joke about touchdowns you couldn’t decipher.

"Did you tell him you’re turning in early?" Your voice came out rougher than intended, stage makeup still clinging to your temples, itchy and stale.

Finally, she met your gaze. The phone screen dimmed in her hand. "He thinks I’m reviewing choreography notes." The lie slid out as smoothly as her tour schedule. The space between you buzzed with static—three steps of carpet, a canyon of unspoken things.

Your fingers traced the cold metal edge of the minibar. "And the bodyguard outside?" "Paid extra to see nothing." She closed the gap, vanilla perfume cutting through the stale hotel air. Her thumb brushed your jawline, flecks of glitter catching in the lamplight. "Almost a year of hiding in plain sight, and you still ask questions like we’re rookies."

The bed creaked as you sank onto it. You unclipped her hair, letting blonde waves fall free while she stared at the ceiling. "Tell me this isn’t just adrenaline," she whispered. Somewhere far below, a car horn echoed—sharp, lonely, swallowed by the night.