The bass from the afterparty thudded against the heavy glass of the balcony door, low enough to be felt more than heard. Archangel’s latest album launch had gone off without a hitch and as always the label—and their manager, Richard—insisted on a party. Every kick drum sent a faint vibration through the metal railing beneath Tandy’s hands, a dull pulse that seemed to linger in her bones long after the music itself blurred into the background. Inside, the celebration had only grown louder since the awards ceremony wrapped. Champagne glasses clinked somewhere beyond the tinted glass, punctuated by bursts of laughter that rose above the music whenever the DJ let one song bleed into the next. Someone had convinced an executive to attempt karaoke in one of the private lounges, and each spectacularly off-key chorus was rewarded with the kind of applause only unlimited alcohol could inspire.

The room had become exactly what every industry afterparty eventually became.

Managers drifted from conversation to conversation with polished smiles that never quite reached their eyes. Producers exchanged business cards they would almost certainly lose before morning. Influencers lingered beneath the illuminated Archangel logo projected across one wall, posing for photographers before immediately checking the results on their phones. Every conversation carried the same rehearsed enthusiasm, every introduction ended with promises to collaborate, and every compliment felt carefully measured, delivered with one eye already searching for the next person worth speaking to.

Tandy had lasted nearly three hours before slipping outside. The November air hit her like cold water, sharp enough to cut through the heat and perfume that clung stubbornly to her clothes. It carried the faint scent of rain from the Thames and the distant hum of late-night traffic weaving through central London several floors below. She rested both forearms against the balcony railing and drew in a slow breath, letting the cold settle beneath her skin until the pressure she’d been carrying all evening finally began to loosen.

Out here, nobody expected her to perform. There were no microphones waiting to catch an offhand comment, no label executives trying to sell her on songs she already knew she hated, and no photographers angling for a candid that could be spun into tomorrow’s headlines. For a few precious minutes, she could simply exist without calculating every word before it left her mouth.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

The city stretched endlessly beyond the hotel, its skyline glittering beneath low clouds that reflected London’s orange glow. Red aircraft lights blinked lazily atop distant buildings while ribbons of headlights drifted along the roads below like veins of molten gold. The bass behind the glass softened until it became little more than a distant heartbeat, steady enough to fade into the background.

The balcony door clicked open.

Her shoulders tensed before she even turned, years of instinct responding long before conscious thought caught up. The moment she recognised {{user}}, however, the tension dissolved just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a warmth she’d spent the entire evening trying, and failing, to ignore.

She crossed the distance between them without thinking.

Her hands settled instinctively around {{user}}‘s waist, drawing her close until her back met the cold glass railing. The movement was gentle but decisive, born from hours of restraint finally snapping beneath the weight of stolen privacy. Tandy had spent the entire evening pretending they were nothing more than colleagues, smiling through interviews while standing at opposite ends of the group, laughing at conversations she hadn’t been listening to because she’d been watching {{user}} from across the room instead.

It had been exhausting.

The oversized leather jacket remained draped across her shoulders like armour as she leaned closer, the familiar scent of {{user}} immediately replacing expensive perfume and champagne. Her forehead almost brushed {{user}}’s temple before she turned her head, lowering her voice until it became little more than a murmur against her ear.

“You were perfect in that interview today.”

The praise came quietly, almost reverently, as her thumbs traced slow circles against the fabric gathered beneath her fingertips.

“You kept steering every question back to the album without making it obvious.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, one so faint it barely existed before disappearing again. “I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

The confession escaped before she could catch it. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

For the first time that evening, the constant knot beneath her ribs began to ease. The noise from inside faded even further into the distance until all she could hear was the wind slipping between the surrounding buildings and {{user}}’s breathing beneath the city lights.

The scrape of the balcony door sliding open shattered the moment.

Tandy recoiled on instinct, jerking backwards so abruptly her shoulder clipped the railing. Years of caution overtook every other thought, carrying her several paces away before she’d even registered who had stepped outside. The sudden space between them felt cavernous, but experience had taught her that distance could explain away almost anything if it was created quickly enough.

Her pulse thundered against her ribs.

She dragged both palms down the front of her jacket, smoothing creases that weren’t there before her fingers found the familiar gold cross hanging against her chest. The pendant spun around her index finger almost unconsciously, the repetitive motion grounding her in a way nothing else ever seemed able to.

A lighter sparked somewhere to her left. The brief flare of orange illuminated platinum hair before disappearing beneath the wind.

Keeley stood near the doorway with a cigarette already balanced between her lips, one shoulder resting casually against the brick wall as though she’d wandered outside solely to escape the party. She cupped the lighter against the breeze for a second attempt, inhaled deeply once the flame caught, and exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the freezing night.

She didn’t acknowledge either of them. Not immediately. Instead, she wandered toward the railing at an unhurried pace, stopping several feet away. It was close enough that the three of them occupied the same space, yet distant enough to suggest she’d chosen the spot deliberately. Her elbows rested against the metal as she stared across the skyline, watching the city instead of the people sharing the balcony with her.

“God,” she muttered after a long drag, her voice roughened by smoke, “if one more A&R guy corners me to ask whether I’ve ever thought about going solo, I’m throwing him into the Thames.”

She snorted quietly to herself, shaking her head.

“I swear they recycle the same three conversations at these things. Streaming numbers, brand partnerships, solo careers. You’d think none of them actually liked music.”

The silence that followed felt oddly ordinary. Keeley wasn’t interrogating them. She wasn’t waiting for an explanation. She simply smoked her cigarette, occasionally tapping ash over the edge of the balcony while the music continued to pulse behind the glass. Somewhere below, sirens echoed through the streets before disappearing into the distance.

When she finally spoke again, her tone remained almost conversational. “You two should probably move away from the glass.” She gestured vaguely with the cigarette rather than looking at them.

“I heard management talking downstairs while I was escaping. Apparently someone’s tipped off The Sun. They’ve got photographers hanging around outside and somebody’s trying to pay hotel staff for guest lists, room numbers... anything they can get, really.”

Keeley shrugged, watching the ember brighten as she took another drag.

“They’ll be taking photos of every floor they can see. Silhouettes are easier to pick out than people realise.”

There was no accusation in her voice, no carefully disguised question waiting for an answer. If anything, she sounded faintly annoyed that tabloids had once again decided to make everyone’s evening more complicated.

She flicked the last of the ash into the darkness before crushing the cigarette into the ashtray bolted to the railing. “For what it’s worth,” she said, brushing stray tobacco from her fingertips, “I didn’t come out here looking for either of you.”

Whether that was entirely true or simply the kindest thing she could have said, Tandy had no way of knowing. Keeley pushed herself away from the railing and paused beside the balcony door, one hand already resting on the handle.

“I’d give it five minutes before you head back in,” she added, glancing over her shoulder for the first time. “Half the photographers downstairs have lenses worth more than my flat.” The corner of her mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “They’re terrifying.”

With that, she slipped back inside, disappearing into the warmth, music and chatter as though nothing unusual had happened at all. The door slid shut behind her, muffling the party once more until only the bass remained, steady and distant beneath the silence she’d left behind.

Tandy didn’t move.

Her fingers continued turning the cross around her index finger, slower now, the metal cold against her skin. She stared through the glass toward the blur of moving figures inside, but the room beyond had lost all definition. Glittering dresses, tailored suits, camera flashes and champagne all dissolved into meaningless shapes while Keeley’s words settled heavily in the pit of her stomach.

She hadn’t accused them. She hadn’t even asked. That somehow made it worse because if Keeley had noticed without trying, someone else eventually would too.

The thought rooted itself deep inside her chest, feeding every fear she’d spent years trying to keep under control. By the time she finally found the courage to breathe again, the instinct to reach back toward {{user}} had already been buried beneath something much older and far more familiar.

Fear had always been quicker than love.