“Never,” Devy said simply. The curtain dropped.
The festival was a triumph. But this—the quiet, the dark, the taste of Devy’s lips—this was the victory lap. First Class Fuckfest - Roman Todd Devy - Down...
“Five minutes,” a stagehand mouthed. “Never,” Devy said simply
“One rule tonight,” Roman said, his voice low. But this—the quiet, the dark, the taste of
He found Devy exactly where he knew he would be: on the rooftop of the artist lodge, alone, staring at the dying embers of the bonfire. The festival grounds were quiet now, a sleeping giant. The only sounds were the distant hum of generators and the whisper of the wind through the forest.
Devy’s expression softened. He understood. Roman wasn’t talking about the choreography. He was talking about the fear that lived in the quiet spaces of Roman’s mind—the fear that the chaos of their life would finally pull them apart.
“You’re gonna be sick, aren’t you?” a voice drawled from behind him.