Page 76 of Vengeful Melodies

She pulls back to look at me, just enough that I can see her eyes, wide and shining. “Even in disguise?”

“Especially in disguise,” Kai says across the table, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he hands her another slice like it’s a damn offering.

“We’ll take you anywhere,” Bash adds, raising his glass like it’s gospel. “As long as you keep making that face when you laugh.”

Takoa lifts his drink too. His voice is calm, but the emotion in it lands heavy in my chest. “To keeping her smiling.”

Our glasses clink. Even Dreya’s. Her laugh echoes around the table—bright, unguarded, free.

And in that moment, I realize something.

This? This isn’t chaos.

It’s home.

We’re not the storm.

We’re not the noise.

We’re not the past.

We’re just us.

And she’s the gravity holding it all together.

Back at the hotel suite, the bags hit the floor with a thud, and jackets are shrugged off and flung over chairs. The city still hums outside the windows, but in here, it’s just soft laughter and tired limbs.

She’s already pulling the vinyl out, careful and reverent, setting the portable player on the coffee table like it’s a centerpiece. The sleeve slides off and she holds the record like it’s something alive—fragile, precious. She places it gently on the turntable.

A soft crackle fills the room, and then—

‘Sweet’ begins to play.

It’s all breathy vocals and low bass, melancholy dressed up in silk and smoke. The kind of song that wraps itself around you and doesn’t let go.

She pours herself a drink—something dark and sweet—and lifts it as she starts to sway. Not a performance. Not for show. Just her. Being her.

Loose curls falling down her back, hips swaying like honey over fire, bare feet on the carpet as the music slides through the room. She’s in a slouchy sweatshirt and nothing else, legs bare, the vinyl’s glow painting her in warm, golden light.

We’re supposed to be going over new tracks.

Supposed to be writing. Supposed to be anything but completely fucking mesmerized. But none of us move.

Takoa leans back on the couch, arms crossed, eyes dark and tracking every subtle movement she makes.

Bash’s lips part just slightly, drink forgotten in his hand.

Kai’s on the floor near the coffee table, arms over his knees, watching her like she might vanish if he blinks too long.

Me? I’m half in love, fully gone, and sinking deeper by the second.

She spins, slow, holding the drink to her chest as she hums along. When she opens her eyes and sees us all staring, she smiles—soft and knowing.

“You asked me earlier,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “What are we?”

No one speaks. We wait.

She walks over, hips still swaying, and sets the glass down before settling in the center of us—like we orbit her. Because we do.