Page 68 of Life After You

Chace grunts but doesn’t argue.

Our guide, Doug, stands off to the side, looking way too pleased with himself. Scaring tourists is probably the highlight of his job—scaring a tattooed-up rock star? Even better. He’s in no rush to move on, waiting for us to acknowledge just how rattled Trey got.

The rest of the night sobers up fast. The deeper we go, the more the weight of history settles over us. The tragedies, the desperation—it drags the mood down, and even the jokes fade into silence. It’s heartbreaking. And as much as I don’t believe in ghosts, a part of me hopes that whatever’s down here—if anything is—has found some kind of peace.

Still, the unease lingers. The feeling of being watched. Shadows shifting in ways they shouldn’t. A whisper of movement just at the edge of my hearing.

It’s a great night.

Even though Trey never comes back.

And when we finally make it above ground, back into the night air, he’s not outside waiting for us. Nor is he at the Rosewood.

She’s beautiful when she sleeps.

I don’t think I ever truly understood that word until now.

Mac is curled into my side, her breath slow and even, her body warm against mine. Her wavy brunette hair fans out across the pillow, a dark halo against the pale sheets. Thick lashes rest against her olive skin, lips slightly parted, peaceful in a way I rarely get to see.

And fuck, she takes my breath away.

I prop myself up on one elbow, drinking her in, memorizing her the way I should have years ago. Every curve, every shadow cast by the early morning light.

Because in a few short hours, I have to leave.

Too many words have been left unsaid, swallowed down because I didn’t want to bring her pain. Didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace she seems to have found. But Dios mío, she is stunning. My radiant, glorious goddess.

At any point in the last few days, I could have said it—Angel, you’re coming with me. And after last night, maybe it would have been easier. But the right time never came. So instead, I let myself be with her. Held onto every second like it could stretch into eternity.

But it won’t.

All too soon, I’ll be gone.

And fuck me, I’d give it all up for her. The music. The fame. The tour. If she just asked, I’d do it. Walk away without hesitation. The guys would understand, right?

The thought tightens in my chest, frustration swelling inside me, tangled with something deeper—something raw. She shiftsbeside me, her body stretching just slightly, and I go still. Hold my breath.

Her bare skin glows in the soft morning light, and my pulse kicks up, hunger stirring in my gut. I ache to wake her. To pull her beneath me and lose myself in her all over again.

I don’t want it like this.

Not with the clock ticking down. Not with the weight of goodbye pressing in on us. She deserves more. More than rushed touches and desperate kisses before I walk out the door.

She deserves forever.

And if I only have a few more hours, then I’ll spend them like this—holding her, memorizing her, loving her the only way I can right now.

Her brows pull together, a tiny frown tugging at her lips before she blinks awake. For a second, she just looks at me—sleepy, soft—and fuck, I feel it everywhere.

A slow smile curves her lips as she reaches out, fingertips brushing along my jaw. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. “I guess I am.”

She shifts onto her side, her hair spilling over one shoulder, eyes still heavy-lidded. “Why?”

I exhale, trailing my fingers over the bare skin of her arm, tracing patterns I’ll never forget. “Because I need to remember this.”

Her smile falters, something deeper settling in her expression.

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