Page 127 of Even Beneath the Stars

And on those nights, we always spend time watching the stars. Only sometimes I’m watching Xave instead.

He's just as fascinating—the way he angles himself over the telescope, leaning in, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he adjusts the focus. The way his fingers move, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world. How he looks over at me afterward, hair a little tousled, his smirk just lazy enough to make my breath catch. “What?” he asks, catching me staring. I roll my eyes, pretending I wasn’t.

It's weird. Xave knows he's attractive; has probably been aware of it his entire life. What he has a hard time believing is that he's attractiveto me.

But damn, is he ever.

And not just his looks. His heart, his mind, his sense of humor. His voice, and the way it changes when he tells me about a new song he’s working on, explains constellations, planetary movement, how light travels.

When I look up at the sky on my own now, I see more than just stars. I see the things he’s taught me. I see the way he sees the universe. And that, somehow, feels more intimate than anything.

We make sure to carve out time for our friends, too. Slowly, I start to feel like I really know his circle, and he starts to know mine. It’s not a huge shift—just something that happens gradually.

Some evenings we spend at my place playing video games on the couch with Silas, Dylan, and Beck, controllers balanced on our knees while mom curls up inher chair with one of her bodice rippers, randomly filling us in on the plot.“Oh, Lord. We’ve reached a britches-drop situation. Hold on to your controllers.”

Everything is good. Objectively good. Better than I could’ve imagined just weeks ago. Xave laughs at all the right moments, throws an arm over the back of the couch, leans in close—but somehow also feels miles away. It’s like he’s on delay. Or like I’m watching him through glass. There in body, but only partially in spirit. And maybe he’s just tired, or distracted, or caught up in a new song. But it’s not just one time. There are other moments, too—when the light in his eyes doesn’t quite reach. When I catch him staring at nothing, like he’s guarding against something only he can see. And I don’t know how to reach across that kind of distance—especially when I’m not even sure it’s real, or just something I’ve made up to explain the way my heart twists every time he disappears like that.

When the gallery calls, agreeing to display three of my dioramas, I nearly explode from excitement. Xavier throws me over his shoulder in a ridiculous spontaneous fireman hold, spinning us both around the kitchen until we’re dizzy, laughing.

To celebrate, we drive to an indoor waterpark with Finn, spend the afternoon racing down slides and floating through lazy rivers. Then after Finn's in bed, we're back in the Solarium, Xavier upending a bottle of bubble bath into the hot tub, and before either of us can react, bubbles are spilling over onto the floor.

We’re crying from laughter, slipping on the soaked tiles as we try to scoop handfuls of foam out with towels. When we finally collapse on the lounge chairs, catching our breath, I realize I haven’t laughed that hard in days.

I roll onto my side, watching him, his hair still wet, his eyes half-lidded, lazy and soft.

I want to hold onto this—to the version of him that lets himself be happy, lets himself be here.

But I can feel it slipping. And still, I don't know why.

Salt Vein keeps getting bigger.

Every time I scroll through social media, there’s another video, another article, another photo of Xavier, looking completely at home in the spotlight.

It’s exactly what I wanted for him. People to hear the amazing music he creates. His words. His voice. The way the band sounds together and the way this sudden spotlight has brought them closer, even more passionate than they were before. The band has barely gotten started, and their fans are only growing more eager, more invested, more obsessive.

As the lead singer, Xave gets the most attention. People can’t get enough of him—the heady combination of talent, looks, and a confidence that’s rare for someone thrust so suddenly in the spotlight.

And his father notices.

Barron makes an appearance in the sitting room one afternoon, beckoning Xavier over with a slow, deliberate nod. I can’t hear their conversation, but I don’t need to. Barron is crisp and composed, his mouth a thin, unmoving line. Xavier stands there, arms folded, his expression blank.

Later, I ask him about it, and hepresses his lips together, eyes flicking anywhere but mine as he scrubs a hand down his face. "It’s nothing… just his usual bullshit," he says. And that's all he'll tell me.

I brush my lips against his temple and tell him, "Don’t let his comments get to you."

Xave brushes it off. "It's fine."

"It isn't, Xave. He's a bully and he's messing with your—"

"I said it's fine." He turns his head from me, and I feel bad.

He’s embarrassed, because I called attention to something that makes him feel small.So I just nod. Then nudge my body against his. "Hey, you feel like tearing through the trails on the quad bikes?"

His lips curl into the hint of a grin. "Sounds like a plan."

So, we spend the rest of my evening off tearing through the Rockwell Estate trails on the four-wheelers, Xavier laughing as he speeds ahead, only to loop back and chase me. Then we sit by the fire as the sun sets, and Xave makes up impromptu songs on the guitar, both of us collapsing into laughter whenthe lyrics devolve into something ridiculous. I join in, off-key and loud, and he doesn’t care—just keeps playing, keeps laughing, keeps looking at me like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

I love that our dates are still silly and low-key and filled with laughter and amazing conversations.

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