I slouch in my chair and brace a foot on the railing. She moves too. Auburn hair falls over the camera. A flash of skin. But it’s not enough.

“I want to see you,” I tell her. “Not just part of a skirt or your bitable toes.” She huffs a laugh and gives a warning, Foster that I answer with, “Remi. We both know it stopped being about tours weeks ago.”

She sits on her bed, knees folded in front of her on a midnight duvet. “Seeing your face will make it real. It makes you real.”

“I am real.”

“I need you not to be yet,” she whispers. “I need you to be my escape from the real.”

Remi sounds more heartbreaking than the exhale earlier.

I blow out a breath of my own and drag my hand through my hair. As much as I want to see her, to put a face to the broken girl on the other side of the screen, she’s infiltrated deep enough, I’ll be what she needs right now.

“You can always run to me, baby.” I smirk at her soft sigh.

But she lets me call her baby a second time, and I’m not so sure I’m even a hostage anymore.

When it comes to Remi Saint, I think I’ve become a willing participant.

12

REMI

Now…

Fingers stroking shadows, it’s so much easier in the dark.

No fear of us being real where the light can’t touch.

We can hide in the lies without facing the truth.

I won’t drown in you again with no visible proof.

Foster’s notebook and the lyrics he wrote have likely burned into my laptop’s screen by now, they’ve been there so long. I’ve been dying to see the footage from the spy glasses he wore while writing the other day. A glimpse into his soul he willingly shared for the documentary.

Now I’m staring at the words.

And I’ve been staring at them. Unable to look away or unfreeze the video. He’s forced me through time to a place I’ve desperately avoided for years. The real bathed in blinding light and inescapable like it was then.

Even when I ran to him.

They aren’t necessarily things I’ve said, but a remix. I recognize the original song enough for it to sting.

A video call saves me from Foster’s veiled message. I answer, only for my face to scrunch and my head to tilt. “What in the domestication are you doing?”

Heath looks over from where he’s on his hands and knees, his glare cutting. “Clearly, I’m assembling a shrine to the gods. I need to beg forgiveness for whatever the fuck I did to deserve a life of throw pillows and wine coolers. Christ, Sinner. I’m building a crib.”

I bite back a smile to prevent any more scathing responses.