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Her expression darkens instantly. It’s like watching a glass of wine tip—slow at first, then spilling fast.

“I’m just doing my job.”

“No. You’re doing what you want. You’re in my space, constantly. And I’ve told the label I don’t want you on this tour.”

“I have a contract—”

“Then take it up with them,” I snap. “Because I don’t want you here.”

She stares at me for a beat too long, lips parted, like she’s deciding whether to cry or scratch my eyes out.

“I’ll see you at press,” she finally says, turning on her heel, hair swinging like it’s part of a goddamn shampoo commercial.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and drag a hand down my face.

Dizzy sidles up beside me a second later with a water bottle and a raised brow. “She still sniffing around?”

“Like a bloodhound,” I mutter. “Christ.”

“You want me to ‘accidentally’ spill coffee on her schedule?”

I smirk. “Tempting.”

But the smile fades fast.

Because now I’m just thinking about Laney again.

How she probably went to bed wondering who the hell that voice belonged to. Wondering why I sounded off. Why I hung up so fast.

I should’ve told her right then. Explained.

But I didn’t want to drag her into this mess. Into the embarrassment of knowing the one woman I never meant to sleep with is now following me around Europe like a damn perfume ad from hell.

And God… being away from her?

It’s worse than I thought it’d be.

I miss her laugh. Her morning voice. The way she hums when she’s doing dishes and doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I miss her sleepy snuffles and the way she hogs the covers. I even miss a dog I never actually lived with. I miss home.

The thing is—I’ve toured for years. Slept in more hotels than I can count. But I’ve never missed anyone before. Not like this.

It’s like I’m not whole without her.

I take out my phone. Text her.

Eddie: Wish I was home right now. You, me, and Merlyn on the couch. No sound check. No interviews. Just us.

The message shows as delivered, but there’s no reply yet.

My chest tightens again.

I head toward the green room, trying to shake off the ache, trying to focus on anything but the fact that I’m a whole continent away from the only person who makes all this noise feel like music again.

It’s not just missing her. The dressing room smells like stage fog and old leather—too many years of energy and anxiety soaked into the couch cushions, too much air-conditioning trying to battle stage lights and nerves. I’m still sweating from the soundcheck when the publicist walks me into the media lounge, cameras already set up.

There’s no sign of Tasha, thank God.

I sit, give a quick mic check, and smile for the host even though I feel like I’ve got glass lodged behind my ribs.