Prologue: The Ghost of 2016
The air in the garage smelled of motor oil, old summer rain, and the faint, citrusy scent of the shampoo Sloan always used. It was a scent Silas realized, with a sudden ache in his chest, he would have to learn to live without starting tomorrow.
"If Milo walks in here, he’s going to kill you," Sloane whispered, her voice trembling as she leaned against the workbench. "And then he’s going to kill me for being the reason his lead singer has a black eye for the debut showcase."
Silas didn't pull away. Instead, he stepped deeper into her space, his hands finding her waist. At nineteen, his body was already leaning into that "heartthrob" frame—tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating an intensity that felt too big for this small town.
"Let him," Silas murmured, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. "Let him do his worst. It’s worth it for five minutes alone with you."
Sloane looked up at him, her eyes searching his. Silas was already the "King" in the making—sharp jawline, eyes that held a liquid-gold ambition—but here, in the dim light of her brother’s garage, he was just Silas. The boy who had taught her how to ride a bike. The boy who had promised her, at age six, that he’d never leave.
"You're going to Seoul in four hours," she reminded him, her hand trailing up his chest to find the silver chain around his neck. "The van is coming. The label, the trainers... the world. They’re all waiting to take you."
"They can have my voice, Sloane. They can even have my name," Silas said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, desperate tone. He took her hand and pressed it flat against his heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. "But this stays here. With you. Always."
"Promise me," she breathed, the first tear finally breaking free.
"I’m building a future for us," he insisted, his grip on her tightening. "Every dance step, every late-night recording session... it’s all for the day I can come back and pluck you out of this town. We just have to wait. Can you wait for me?"
Sloane didn't answer with words. She couldn't. The lump in her throat was too thick with the intuition that the world wouldn't let him keep a promise that simple. Instead, she pulled him down into a kiss.
That night, in the cramped, secret sanctuary of the loft above the garage, the world outside ceased to exist. There were no cameras, no screaming fans, no predatory contracts. There was only the heat of their skin, the frantic, clumsy movements of two people trying to memorize each other’s bodies before they became memories.
Silas traced the curve of her shoulder, his touch light, as if she were made of the fine porcelain she would one day learn to restore. He memorized the way her breath caught when he whispered her name, and she memorized the way his eyes looked when he wasn't performing for anyone but her.
As the sun began to bleed through the cracks in the wooden walls, signaling the arrival of the van that would take him to his destiny, Silas pulled on his shirt. He looked at her one last time—Sloan, tangled in the sheets, looking like a masterpiece.
"Wait for me, Sloan Vance," he whispered at the door.
She watched him go, her hand reaching out to him. "I'll be right here," she whispered to the empty room. "Until the sun stops rising."
