Page 38 of Star Rucked Lovers

“Yep, it’s not far away. They’re holding a table for us.”

The narrow, cobblestone street hummed with life as George held the door open for Myst, the low murmur of conversation and the faint clink of glasses spilling out from inside the jazz club. A warm, golden light bathed the room, flickering off mismatched tables and casting soft shadows on exposed brick walls. The air was thick with the rich swirl of saxophone notes and the occasional smoky laugh from the crowd. It felt miles away from the glossy arenas Myst had grown used to, a world stripped back, raw, and unpolished.

“Well,” George said, ducking slightly under the low-hung string lights as they stepped inside. “This is...cozy.”

“Cozy is a polite way to say tiny,” Myst teased, nudging him playfully with her elbow. “You sure you’ll fit in here? Ceiling looks like it’s got a bone to pick with your head.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” he shot back with a grin.

Their table was in the corner, close enough to feel the pulse of the upright bass but far enough to avoid the sharp glare of the stage lights. Myst slipped into her seat, leaning her chin on her hand as she took in the scene; the trumpet player softly adjusting his mute, the singer swaying gently with her eyes closed, the pianist hunched over the keys like he was sharing secrets only the music could understand. It was intimate, imperfect, and utterly captivating.

“Look at you,” George said, his voice cutting gently into her thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her with a smirk that was both amused and fond. “Haven’t seen you this starry-eyed.”

“Forgive me if I’m having a moment. This,” she gestured vaguely toward the stage, where the drummer was tapping out a heartbeat rhythm on his snare, “this reminds me why I fell in love with music in the first place.”

“Not the pyrotechnics and screaming fans?” George teased, earning him a mock-glare. “Kidding, kidding. But seriously, you look at home here.”

“That’s the thing.” Myst exhaled, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table. “I miss this. The closeness, the connection. When you’re performing in a stadium, it’s like yelling into the void sometimes. But here...” She trailed off, her pale blue eyes shimmering with something almost wistful. “Here, you can feel peoplebreathingwith you. It’s different.”

George studied her for a moment, his expression softening. “So why don’t you do more of this?”

“Ha!” Her laugh was short but genuine. “Do you know how impossible my schedule is? Between the tours and the press junkets and everything else, it’s like running downhill with no brakes. There’s no time to stop and think, let alone change direction.”

“Maybe it’s time to find the brakes,” George said simply, his deep voice steady and calm. “You’ve earned that, haven’t you?”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Off-Season,” she quipped, though there was no bite in her words. “But...yeah. Maybe.” She glanced down at her hands, her fingers suddenly still. “It’d be nice to breathe again. To remember what it feels like.”

“Then do it,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. “Myst, you’ve got the kind of talent that doesn’t just disappear because you take a break. If you need time to figure things out, you should take it. People will wait for you.”

“Will you?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her gaze lifted to meet his, and for a moment, the noise of the club seemed to fade, leaving only the quiet weight of her question hanging between them.

“Of course I will,” George said without hesitation, his tone as direct and unwavering as the man himself. “But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

“Right,” Myst murmured, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Management. Contracts. Expectations. It’s all so...big. Bigger than me.”

“Nothing’s bigger than you, Myst,” he said, the earnestness in his voice making her throat tighten. “Not when you’re the one standing in the spotlight.”

The music shifted, the tempo slowing into something achingly tender, and Myst blinked rapidly, willing herself to stay present. They sat in silence for a while, letting the melody wrap around them like a shared secret. She reached across the table, her delicate hand finding his, and gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back.

“Thanks,” she said softly, the word carrying more weight than she could explain.

“Anytime,” George replied, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. And for the rest of the night, they didn’t talk about schedules or distance or anything else that might make this moment feel smaller than it was.

The stage lights dimmed to a sultry amber glow, and the crowd roared as Myst took her final bow. Her cheeks flushed with exhilaration, she waved one last time before disappearing offstage, her heart thrumming harder than the bassline that had shaken the stage floor beneath her feet minutes earlier. Backstage was a chaotic blur of hugs from her team, high-fives, and Jessie shouting over the din, “That’s how you close out Rome, girl!”

“Not bad, huh?” Myst said, grinning as she swiped at the sweat trickling down her temple. Her body buzzed with that familiar post-show buzz that always left her feeling equal parts electric and exhausted.

“Not bad? You killed it,” George’s deep voice cut through, standing tall in the doorway of her dressing room. He wore his signature crooked smile, hands stuffed casually into his jeans pockets. Even now, amidst the bustling backstage frenzy, he looked completely at ease.

“Yeah? Wasn’t too much glitter for your rugby sensibilities?” she teased, collapsing onto the couch as Jessie handed her a bottle of water.

“Don’t know about the glitter, but I reckon the ‘Myst-mania’ chant during your encore might’ve been a bit overkill,” he replied, stepping closer, his eyes alight with humour. “I mean, who needs an ego boost like that?”

“Shut up.” She threw the nearest object, an unopened granola bar, at him. He caught it mid-air without effort, laughing.

“Alright, superstar,” George said, sitting on the armrest beside her. “What’s next? Celebratory gelato? Or are we going full tourist mode and hunting down midnight pizza?”

“How about both?” Myst asked, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. She tilted her head toward him, her dark hair spilling across the cushion like a cascade of ink. “If you’re buying.”

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