Page 28 of Hymns of the Broken

The bus door hisses open, and I step out into the thick heat of the late morning.

The first venue of the tour looms ahead, all sharp steel and concrete, already vibrating with sound checks and chaos. It’s not even noon, and the air feels like a furnace. Heat radiates off the parking lot, cooking me from the soles of my boots to the top of my head.

I barely take a step before I feel him.

“Wait.”

His voice curls down my spine like smoke as I turn, heart skipping despite myself.

Jasper closes the distance between us in two long strides. The lanyard in his hand swings gently, catching the sunlight, the black laminate flashing ALL ACCESS across the front.

“Almost forgot your pass,” he says, but instead of handing it over, he steps in close. One hand slips the lanyard over my head, his fingers brushing the edge of my jaw as he lowers it. A spark jumps, sharp enough to make me forget how to breathe. He doesn’t move away.

He lingers there, eyes searching mine. “How’d you sleep?” The question is soft, uncharacteristically careful. “I kept checking my phone, waiting for you to need me again.” A crooked grin flickers, low and self-deprecating. “Guess I was hoping for a reason to come back.”

He watches the cord settle between my breasts, then lets his gaze drop. Then back to my face, like he wants to see if I’ll look away first.

I don’t.

Which is a mistake.

His fingers trail down the cord until they stop right where the fabric of my black shirt splits at the sides. Just enough to hint at the red lace beneath. His fingertips are warm against my skin, causing my body to want to shiver even though it’s blazing out here.

“Interesting choice of shirt,” he murmurs, voice low with something wicked. “Black, slashed sides…red lace teasing through. You trying to kill someone out here today, Little Sin?”

I don’t even flinch at the nickname—because God help me; I like it.

“It’s an outdoor venue,” I manage, stepping back just enough to think. “Eighty-nine degrees. And I’ll be running around working. I dress for survival.”

A corner of his mouth tilts up into a sinful god-complex smirk. “That’s funny,” he says, eyes dragging down again, “because I’m dying.”

I deny him the satisfaction of an answer. I turn on my heel, chasing air untouched by him. But every time he closes in, it’s like the earth tilts, and I lose my footing all over again.

***

I walk the perimeter of the venue, slipping behind crowd barriers and ducking under scaffolding as I map the space out in my head.

The stage is massive—built like a monster open-mouth screaming into the sky. Black steel ribs stretch up into the clouds, cables dangling like tendons, every surface vibrating with the promise of noise.

Banners forHymns of the Brokenhang like black flags on either side, edges snapping in the wind. Roadies scurry in and out, shouting over squeals of feedback. Someone’s tuning a guitar backstage, the sharp, bending notes slicing through the air.

I lift my camera.

Click.

Cables tangled like veins.

Click.

A drum kit gleaming in the sun, chrome hardware catching the light like polished teeth.

Click.

A group of fans is already lining up at the front rail, their eyeliner smudging under the heat, clutching signs and water bottles like survival gear.

For a few minutes, I forget about Blake. Forget Jasper and how badly my heart is still beating from the lanyard moment.

It’s just me, my lens, and the chaos that makes sense when it’s frozen in a frame.