Zach realized then that he was tired of performing. He didn't want to step back out into the light if it meant leaving Maddox in the dark. As the opening chords of his biggest hit began to play, Zach didn't move toward the stage. He moved toward the man who had become his gravity.
The tension between them had been a slow burn, a steady hum of "what ifs" that grew louder than any guitar riff. It was in the way Maddox lingered a second too long when checking Zach's earpiece, and the way Zach stayed up late just to talk to the man who was paid to watch his back, but ended up guarding his heart instead. Encore by Eden Finley
The rain in Seattle didn’t just fall; it felt like it was trying to wash the glitter and the sweat of the stadium tour right off Zach’s skin. For months, he had been the face of a million posters, the voice in a billion earbuds, and the center of a gravity that pulled everyone toward him. But sitting in the back of a black SUV, watching the neon lights of the city blur into streaks of artificial color, Zach felt like a hollow shell of the man the world thought they knew. Zach realized then that he was tired of performing
Maddox was the silence between the notes. He was the bodyguard who stood in the shadows, the man who saw the panic attacks Zach hid from the cameras and the way his hands shook after a three-hour set. Maddox didn't care about the platinum records or the Grammy nods. To Maddox, Zach wasn't a product; he was a person. He moved toward the man who had become his gravity
The encore wasn't a song. It was a beginning. It was the moment the music stopped, and the real life started. Together, they turned away from the stage and walked toward the exit, leaving the lights behind for a future that was finally, beautifully, their own.
"This is it," Zach whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "The final bow."