Page 35 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Out in the city, the sun slices through the air like a spotlight, casting sharp, golden edges on every surface.

Street noise hums around us—shouts, engines, distant music—like a soundtrack to our chaos.

We slip through a back alley off Melrose, the kind of street nobody bothers with, and end up at the outdoor market Bash swore he stumbled across in some delirious haze of hunger and boredom.

It’s tucked away, untouched, alive with the smell of fresh bread, roasted coffee, and something sweet, like candied fruit. So far, untouched by the fan base.

Dreya walks in the middle of us, hands stuffed in her hoodie pocket, sunglasses still hiding her gaze. She’s quiet but her lips curl into a soft smile that’s nearly imperceptible. I can’t say it aloud, but that smile punches me in the chest.

Kai grabs her hand as we cross the street, swinging it like we’re reckless kids in a long-forgotten park.

Dreya rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away.

Bash sidles up beside her at a street vendor selling brightly colored lemonade.

He buys her a tall pink strawberry one and leans in like it’s a challenge, bending the straw toward her mouth.

“You’ve never looked hotter drinking something pink,” he teases, eyes dark with mischief.

She snorts but tilts her head just enough to meet him halfway, lips brushing the straw as if it’s a secret shared.

Takoa, silent and precise, chooses a simple black ring lined with four tiny stars. Without a word, he slips it onto her thumb. She stares at it like it carries a language she’s only just starting to understand.

Me? I drift into a tiny, dusty vinyl shop, the kind that smells of warm plastic and nostalgia, and there it is.

Cigarettes After Sex. I remember—three weeks ago, sprawled on the tour bus, her head in someone’s lap, eyes half-closed, legs tangled with mine, muttering about a song she loved.

She didn’t know I was listening. I always am.

I pull the record off the shelf and hold it out to her wordlessly. Her lips part, eyes glossy, caught between laughter and tears. “You remembered?”

“I remember the things that matter, darlin’,” I reply softly.

Her fingers shake as she takes it. “There’s this book I read…

” Her voice is soft, careful, the way she talks when something aches but she wants to share it anyway.

“…the girl in the story was in love. Her heart was breaking so she took the loudest speaker and blasted one of their songs over and over. It destroyed me. Beautiful, tragic, destroyed me. I’ve only ever read it once, but… ”

Her fingertips trace the edge of the vinyl, reverent.

“I love this band,” she whispers. “So when I heard that song in the story… I felt it. For her. For me. For… reasons.”

She flips it over, reading the tracklist like it holds a map to some secret world. Her finger rests on one of the titles. “This one… is ours, okay?” she says softly, tapping Sweet.

I grin before I can stop myself. “I’d say that one—or the one below it—describes all five of us.”

She tilts her head, scanning the list, and lands on Falling In Love.

“That one could fit,” she admits quietly. “But only time can tell. Three weeks into this tour… we’re still learning about each other.”

“No amount of time would change how we feel,” I murmur, steady, honest. “We wouldn’t ask you to be ours if we didn’t already see our lives revolving around you.”

I reach for the vinyl, taking it gently from her hands, and when she protests, I shake my head and grab the portable player she lingered on when we first walked in.

She watches quietly as I pay for both, eyes tracing every motion, like I’ve hung the stars just for her.

She doesn’t know—she’s the one weaving the magic, pulling constellations together without even trying.

The rest of the shopping passes in a blur—laughter spilling into the sunlit streets, half-serious arguments about horror movies, shared lattes, and bags stuffed with trinkets that feel like relics of our little universe.

Every brush of her hand, every accidental touch, sends sparks racing through my chest. Arms tangle, hands grip, proximity becomes a dare.

We’re reckless, loud, and untamed—but somehow, completely, impossibly tethered to her.

We end up in a cramped little pizza place with neon signs that flicker like broken promises and old movie posters lining the walls like forgotten dreams. There’s only room for four in the booth. There are six of us.

Dreya ends up in my lap, warm and soft and completely at ease.

Her weight settles over me like comfort I didn’t know I needed. My chin rests on her shoulder as she swipes a bite off Kai’s plate and laughs at something Bash mutters, cheeks still flushed from the walk.

It feels like a scene from a movie we’ve already watched a hundred times. Familiar. Safe.

“This is what it’s like, huh?” she says quietly, just for me. “When no one’s watching. When we’re just… us.”

I lean in closer, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Darlin’, no matter where we are, you’re ours.”

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.

“I don’t want to be asked what we are.” Her eyes move from one of us to the next. “I want to be asked to be yours. Like, yours-yours. Shown off. Posted. Touched like I’m not a secret. Talked about like I’m not something to be hidden.”

Her voice catches. Just a little.

“The last three weeks have been the best of my life. And I’ve never felt safer. Never felt seen.” She takes a shaky breath. “I don’t care what people say. I want this. All of you. But I want you to want it too.” There’s a pause. A long one.

Then Bash clears his throat, standing up and walking over to her with a crooked grin. “Alright then.” He drops to one knee with dramatic flair. “Dreya Lorena, will you do me the ridiculous honor of being my badass, beautiful, chaos-making girlfriend?”

She laughs, hand over her mouth.

Kai crawls on his knees over beside her, resting his chin on her thigh. “Please say yes before Bash makes this a musical number.”

Takoa stands, walking around the couch to join them, his voice low and deliberate. “This isn’t a phase for us. It’s a choice. I want you. Publicly. Permanently.”

And me?

I wait until the others have spoken before walking to her slowly. I take her hand, lift it to my lips, and press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Be mine,” I whisper. “All of ours. But still mine in the way that matters. The heart kind. The forever kind.”

She’s laughing and crying at the same time as she nods. “You guys really suck at asking people out.”

“But we’re excellent at follow-through,” Bash says, smirking as he pulls her into a spin.

The vinyl keeps playing. Dreya ends up slow-dancing with each of us, one after the other—soft, unhurried, pressed to our chests as the track fades and the next one begins.

By the time it reaches ‘Falling In Love’, she’s in my arms again. My hand cradles the back of her neck, and I press my forehead to hers, lips brushing her mouth as we sway.

“We wrote something for you,” I murmur, so quiet no one else can hear. “We weren’t ready to show you before. But now?”

Her breath catches.

“Play it for me?” she asks.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “It’s yours. Just like we are.”

The record keeps spinning long after the music fades. We don’t rush to change it. Don’t rush anything.

She’s curled on the couch now, legs tucked under her, still wearing my hoodie like it was made for her alone. Her hair’s a little wild, curls damp at the ends from dancing and maybe a few tears she wiped away without saying a word.

Takoa disappears into the kitchen. I hear the low hiss of the kettle, the shuffle of mugs on the counter.

Bash plops beside Dreya and immediately steals the throw blanket like a brat, pulling it across both of them until she squeaks and smacks his chest. He just grins and tightens the cocoon, their laughter muffled by fleece and familiarity.

Kai flops down onto the floor in front of them, head tipped back against her knees. Her fingers absentmindedly thread through his hair.

It’s slow. Easy. The kind of quiet that comes after a storm you didn’t realize you were in until it passed.

Takoa brings over mugs—tea for her, black coffee for him—and sets them down with a level of care that doesn’t surprise me anymore. He brushes a kiss to her temple as he hands her the cup, and she leans into him like gravity’s not real. Like we are what holds her down.

I sit beside her other side, not even trying to hide the way I watch her. Every detail. Every shift in expression. The way she glances at each of us like she can’t believe we’re still here.

She doesn’t know we’d burn the whole damn world to keep her safe in it.

"Why are you all staring at me like that?" she says, voice warm and a little shy.

"Like what?" Bash asks innocently, taking a bite of her cookie without asking.

"Like I'm the last girl on earth."

"You're not the last," Kai mumbles, eyes still closed. "You're just the only one that matters."

She laughs quietly into her tea, cheeks flushed from something that’s not the heat.

There’s a moment of stillness. Real, grounding stillness. It’s rare on tour. Even rarer in this life.

She ends up stretched across all four of us by the time the clock reads close to midnight—her legs in Takoa’s lap, her back against my chest, Bash behind her playing with the ends of her curls, and Kai still curled by her knees like a sleepy cat.

“You gonna fall asleep like this?” I ask against her shoulder.

“Mmhmm,” she hums. “Warmest spot in the world.”

“Gonna be hell when someone has to pee,” Bash mutters.

“Not moving,” Kai grunts.

“No one’s moving,” Takoa confirms.

“Guess I’ll die here,” she murmurs with a smile, eyes finally slipping closed.

And it’s then—right then—when I know we’ve already said everything that matters. We just haven’t put it into music yet.

But we will. Tomorrow. For now, we give her this. A quiet night. A safe place to fall asleep. Our girlfriend. Ours.

The sound of four heartbeats, steady and real, echoing in the background of whatever song is still left to play.