Page 136 of Pack Me Up

“Good,” I say nervously. “Really good, actually.”

“Worth kicking your mates out for?” Cody asks, pouting.

Tommy yells from the front of the bus. “Yes!”

I can’t help but laugh, breaking my nervous tension, which was probably Cody’s intention. I appreciate that they’re not asking me why I’m so anxious right now.

“Fox will go with you. Have fun,” Saint says, and I nod.

Fox follows us out.

I pause at the door, heart stuttering.

Tommy nudges me with his elbow. “You got this, Britt. We got this.”

I breathe in, slow. I’m nervous, but it’s the good kind.

We open the bus door and step into the heat, the sun pressing in on us. Tommy’s already halfway to the next bus over, practically vibrating with anticipation.

I follow, clutching the song sheets like a lifeline, and wonder if maybe he’s right.

Tommy’s already halfway up the steps to Oli’s bus, the phone clutched in one hand. He’s jittery with anticipation, foot tapping on the metal stairs. I have to jog to keep up, which is embarrassing because my legs are shaking a little.

He pounds on the door. “Open up, it’s the future of music!”

A beat, then the door pops open. Jack leans out and smiles when he sees it’s us.

“Tommy and Brittney. You bringing us new hits or just drama?” His voice is a little raspy, a little wild.

“Both,” Tommy says, not missing a beat. He vaults inside, then drags me up the stairs behind him. “But mostly new music.”

The inside of the bus is nothing like ours. It’s a rockstar den with guitars mounted on hooks, two keyboards out, every spare inch covered in show posters, empty coffee mugs, and a weird number of stuffed animals. The light is low, golden and warm, a string of fairy light bulbs weaving down the ceiling.

Oli’s at the kitchen table, rose gold hair swept up in a messy topknot, a pen tucked behind one ear. She’s wearing pajama pants patterned with tiny wolves, and a faded hoodie that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her face lights up when she sees us.

“Britt! Tommy!” she calls, and immediately hops up to pull us both into a hug. Her mates are scattered: Chase draped across the couch, bare feet on the armrest, shirt open to the navel and a book face-down on his lap; Dax hunched over the kitchenette counter, pouring what looks like espresso into a chipped mug; Aiden in the corner, headphones on, eyes closed as he marks up a spiral notebook with slow, precise strokes.

For a second, I can’t even talk. The room is too much. These are people I’ve idolized since middle school, and now I’m in their kitchen, holding a phone full of my own music. But then I remember how they’ve embraced me like family, rushed to the hospital to see me and cancelled the tour until I was better.

Tommy barrels ahead, planting himself at the table and fanning out the lyric sheets. “We want to talk to you about something. Brittney and I wrote this song, and we think it would be even better if you sang it with us. Will you look at it?”

Oli grins. “Of course I will!”

I swallow, feeling my hands start to tremble, then force myself to look at Oli. “It’s a song about being an omega in music,” I say, the words tumbling out. “Like, all the ways people want to tell you what you are, how you’re supposed to sound, orlook, or act. But it’s also about not letting them decide that for you. About… belonging. Even if you’re weird, or quirky, or not what they want.”

Oli’s face goes soft, then sharp. “That’s fucking brilliant,” she says, and I believe her because her voice goes all low and serious. “I want to hear it.”

Dax slides over three mugs of tea and then crosses his arms, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s half-solved. “You wrote it together?”

I nod my head. “We did. We sent my pack away.”

Tommy beams. “We couldn’t have them distracting her.”

Chase is already leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Let’s hear it.”

Oli nods at Tommy, who fumbles with the phone and then drops it on the table. He scrolls, finds the file, and hits play.

The bus goes quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the buzz of the lights. Our rough demo pours out of the tiny speaker, the vocals messy but passionate. I watch Oli’s face as she listens. Her eyes narrow, then flare wide, then close for a second, just taking it in. Her foot taps out the beat, steady as a heartbeat.