Page 26 of The Encore’s Crown

The Shilla’s gardens wrap around the property like a private world, stone paths, soft lantern light, manicured trees that look sculpted out of air itself. I jog until my chest burns, until the cold air slicks my skin with sweat, until the rhythm of my feet hitting stone dulls the memory of her mouth, her anger, the sound of that terrace door slamming shut. By the time I loop back toward the hotel, I’m wrung out but not better. I’m so caught up in being angry at myself for the hurt I saw in her eyes, I almost run past her. I slow until my jog bleeds into a walk.

She’s sitting on one of the stone benches near a lantern-lit path, knees pulled up to her chest, swallowed by a hoodie three times too big for her. Her head is down, hood up, hair falling over her face, and at first I think she’s just cold, or tired, or taking a quiet moment to herself. Then I hear it.

The soft, frustrated sound someone makes when they’re trying very hard not to cry. The kind of noise you make when you’re angry that tears even exist. I stop mid-stride, breath catching. I should keep moving. I know that. I’ve already made everything worse. Walking over there will only twist the knife. She doesn’t want to see me.

The sound comes again, barely audible, and something in my chest gives way like a hairline crack finally splitting. Somehow, I end up standing in front of her before I’ve fully decided to.

“Nat?”

She looks up, eyes red but defiant, and if looks could kill, I’d drop dead on the immaculate pathway. She sighs, rolls her eyes, then wipes her face quickly with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“Oh, just fucking great,” she mutters, pushing to stand. “Perfect. Exactly who I wanted to run into.”

She tries to walk past me, but impulse wins. I reach out and catch her wrist, not hard, just enough to slow her.

“Please,” I say quietly. “Just… stay. Sit? For a minute.”

She stares at my hand like it’s offensive. “What? With me? A lowly groupie? Only if you’re sure you won’t have to burp me or bottle-feed me. Wouldn’t want to burden you with all that responsibility. Since I'm you know, an infant on top of some desperate fan begging for your time.”

I try to keep a straight face and fail completely. A laugh erupts from me, louder than I expect, the kind that loosens something tight in me. She watches me with her arms folded, fighting the edges of a smile. Her annoyance cracks and a small, unwilling huff of laughter escapes her.

“Hell,” I manage, still catching my breath, “I’ve met a lot of people with a lot of kinks, but bottle feeding? That’s not one I’ve ever been interested in.”

She freezes, and the joke hangs between us, heavy with everything neither of us says out loud. Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Mine flicks to hers.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Didn’t think that was your kind of thing.”

I let go of her wrist slowly, like she’s made of something fragile even though she’s anything but. She drops back onto the bench, restless and stormy, but she doesn’t walk away. I sit beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her, far enough that I won’t make a mistake I can’t take back.

Finally, in the cold, in the silence, neither of us runs.

We sit there like two idiots pretending the air isn’t full of everything we just fought about. Natalia keeps her knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, eyes fixed on some patch of lantern-lit garden. I stare at the path in front of us, pretending I’m catching my breath from the run and not from the emotional combustion we instigated earlier. I should say something.

So naturally, what comes out of my mouth is, “You know, the stage floor tonight was way slipperier than usual.”

She turns her head slowly, like she genuinely can't believe that’s where I decided to start.

“Really?” she deadpans.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding solemnly. “Nearly wiped out during the first chorus. Would’ve been a great way to go viral.”

She stares at me for three full seconds before the corner of her mouth twitches. Then she shakes her head.

“You’re terrible at starting conversations.”

“Never claimed to be good at it.”

“The garden is nice,” she offers, glancing around.

“It is,” I agree. “Very… garden-y.”

“Wow. Stunning description, I’m actually moved.”

“That’s why I’m on the bass and not writing lyrics. I leave the poetry to Rafe and Rith.”

A real smile breaks through, like she’s remembering that we don’t always fight, that sometimes we actually fit. Maybe too well, that’s the real problem. The moment softens everything by a fraction, so I feel brave enough to push a little further.

“Look,” I say quietly, “maybe it’s stupid to ask. Maybe I should already know. But… am I the reason you’re out here? Like this?”