Page 45 of Burning Hearts
Beau’s clip sat at the top of the thread—RIVALS BUT MAKE IT CUTE. I watched the thirty seconds of us over and over like it was someone else’s life. Two men talking calmly about “the public,” not two men standing close enough to share the same inch of air.
Shower, fresh shirt. Counted the ceiling tiles I already knew by heart. None of it knocked the feeling loose.
Another buzz.
Ellis:Also, thanks for the word “public.” People forget they’re it.
Me:People forget, and we remind.
Ellis:Good night, Cade.
Me:Night.
That should’ve been nothing. A few short lines and a period.
I set the phone down, then picked it back up, thumb hovering over his name like there was one more thing I needed to say.
There wasn’t. Not tonight.
I turned off the lamp and let the room go soft around the edges. The Langford Hotel hummed through the vents—ice machine, distant elevator, somebody laughing down the hall.
Front.
Rear.
Stairwell A.
Stairwell B.
Between all of that noise sat one thin wall and one simple fact: Ellis was on the other side of it, somewhere in the same stack of bricks and air.
Close enough that if I called out, he’d probably answer.
I stared at the wall and tried to push the thought away—he’s a neighbor, a rival, a man who looks good under bad lighting.
I am straight.
For some reason, my thoughts wouldn’t stand down.
The town settled around me like a blanket. I rolled toward the shared wall anyway and let the quiet fill in everything I wasn’t ready to say.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELLIS
I toldmyself I was done looking at my phone, then checked it again anyway.
Tokens & Hairspray had become its own little town square with Beau dropping a wry token GIF over a clip of me on the mezzanine calmly counting heads, Wyatt stamping a “Clean work,” and Beck chiming in with a single line statement that read: No injuries.
I hearted the line and set the phone face down on the desk.
Decision Night was looming, and anxiety had become my constant companion. My boss constantly dropped little jokes about my aunt favoring me in the competition, amplifying the pressure. My superiors wanted to build a Riverfield storefront studio, program recurring local shows, and create paid local jobs, plus a training pipeline.
With the million-dollar funding from my aunt and uncle, the company’s expansion would be much easier.
The room was all curated quiet. Lemon scent in the air, carpet with distinct vacuum patterns, a thermostat that glowed. Through the wall, plumbing ticked as a shower next door shut off.
Cade was on the other side of that wall.
