We’ve reached the one-hour mark of the Cleveland FanCon. The crowds are massive. Crew and assistants buzz around the conference room like invisible insects, and temporary security manages the long, weaving lines of excited fans.

My sole focus: Maximoff Hale.

Five velvet-roped aisles lead to plain-white backdrops. Jane, Maximoff, Sullivan, Beckett, and Charlie stand in separate aisles.

Different lines.

Less chaos.

Fans cue up and wait for their turn to meet their favorite celebrity. A line coordinator motions for a twenty-something brunette girl to approach Maximoff. She wears a FanCon shirt and eagerly sprints towards him, throwing an arm around his neck like they’re long-lost friends.

He hugs back, smiling genuinely.

I stand only a few feet away, hands cupped in front of me. I’m out of the photos, but close enough in case there’s trouble.

“I’m such a big fan. I love you so much!” She speaks hurriedly. “Are you okay? How’s your nose? Who brought you breakfast? Did you have a nice shower? Oh my God, I can’t believe this is real. I’m meeting you right now.” She pets his arm.

I chew my gum a little harder. This is the sixty-seventh time I wish I could say he’s mine. I know what I like and what I don’t like, and I’ve never been into people “caressing” a boyfriend.

But I’ve also never dated a celebrity.

“I’m good, I promise.” He squeezes her shoulders in a side-hug. “What’s your name?”

“Penny. Oh my God, please say my name.”

“Penny,” he says with a bigger smile.

She squeals.

“Want a picture or autograph?” he asks. “Q&A will be later. Hopefully we’ll be able to answer some of your questions then.”

“Yes, yes! Can you sign my shirt?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

An assistant is ready and passes Maximoff a Sharpie.

Penny clutches his bicep while he uncaps the pen. I hone in on her hand that veers to his chest, dives down his waist, and even reaches his belt. I wait, wait, and her hand moves south—I step in, my mere presence an electric shock.

She jolts backwards, wide-eyed at me and my tattoos.

“Try to keep your hands above his waist.” I’ve repeated this phrase too many times today.

Before she pales, Maximoff smiles again like nothing is awry. Distracting her from being called out. “Where do you want the signature?”

“The back of my shirt. Thank you so, so much.”

When she leaves, his eyes briefly flit to me in thanks.

I nod. Dick-grabbing crisis averted. The only person touching his cock will be me.

Oscar’s voice floods comms. “Now confirmed, this is taking forever.”

We’ve barely made a dent in the lines.

“It’s Sulli,” Quinn says through mics. “Someone tell her to stop having twenty-minute conversations with fans.”

Oscar returns. “Look at you, little bro, trying to take charge and keep an eye on a Meadows girl.”

I click my mic. “Shit, it’s like he’s Akara.”

“He wants to be,” Oscar says, his tone half-joking.

“Fuck you, bro.” That was a real fuck you.

“Hey,” I cut in. “He’s fucking with you, man.” I’ve seen some Oliveira fighting flare-ups on the bus, and to be honest, I don’t like it. I prefer all of us ribbing Quinn and him smiling at the end. Not this pile of shit.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Quinn growls.

I can’t believe I’ve gone from mentor to mediator. I speak into my mic. “Akara, this is all yours.”

“Chill on comms,” Akara says, “and leave Sulli alone. She’s new to this. I’m getting her line coordinator to usher people out faster.”

“Smart thinking, boss,” Donnelly adds.

Thatcher has been absent from comms, and I quickly scrutinize Jane’s line next to me. Three feet from her, he stands like a brick wall, hands cupped in front. Zeroed in on fans who excitedly bob up and down.

“Maximoff, this is for you!” A boy hands Maximoff a scrapbook he made. I watch the friendly exchange.

“Redford,” Oscar says in my ear. “Look at Charlie’s line.”

I reroute my attention for only a second and crane my neck to the very end of the set-up. Charlie is the furthest from Maximoff, and his line is almost empty.

One blonde girl snaps a picture, and I read Charlie’s lips that move with one word: bye.

The girl grins from ear-to-ear. Taking no offense to his curtness. And she slips into Beckett’s winding line.

I click my mic before he rubs in the success. “You mean the guy who has a reputation of being elusive can blow off his fans and none of them bat an eye? If others copied him, we’d have Celebrity Crush calling them rude bitches and assholes.”

Oscar laughs. “Look who became a publicist.”

“Sucking Maximoff’s dick must give superpowers,” Donnelly says without thinking.

“Cut it out,” Thatcher snaps.

I’m not easily offended, and Thatcher’s all up-in-arms because Donnelly is speaking about a client’s dick. Not necessarily because that’s my boyfriend’s dick. But I’m of the mindset that if you dish it, you better be able to take it, and I dish a fucking ton.

Not listening to the bane of my career and my sanity, I speak into my mic. “And no one knows what sucking Donnelly’s dick does because no one wants near it.”

Donnelly lets his laughter filter through the comms.

“Farrow,” Thatcher warns.

I roll my eyes. I let go of my mic. Still observing Maximoff and the overzealous fans. I have faith in our entrance security, so I’m not paranoid about concealed weapons.

Maximoff accepts a basket of cookies from a girl, and he’s about to pass the present to an assistant. But I tell her that I’ll get it.

Maximoff hands me the basket, and I ask, “How are you doing?”

“Good.” He nods and flashes a smile at his line. The fans erupt in cheers, and then he turns to me and whispers, “How are Sulli and Beckett doing?”

“Sulli’s just mismanaging time, and Beckett is getting asked to lift girls for pics.”

“Like ballet lifts?”

“Yeah.”

“His arms are going to be sore.” Maximoff scrutinizes his cousins in a quick sweep.

“That’s what Donnelly keeps telling him, but he’s having trouble telling the girls no since they paid to be here.”

Maximoff nods and asks me, “How much longer do you think?” He cranes his neck, searching.

“Four hours—”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He zeroes in on Charlie’s empty space. True to Charlie Cobalt form, he’s left the building. Oscar is gone too.

“You’re glaring,” I warn Maximoff.

Before the line coordinator ushers someone forward, Maximoff says to the crew member, “Give me a second.”

He grabs his water off the floor and then fully faces me. Back turned to the fans. His caustic glare could drill holes into the wall.

Charlie touches a raw place inside of Maximoff that I’ve never seen anyone else reach. Not even a heckler. It’s another level of hurt and frustration and spite.

“He’d better be in the bathroom,” Maximoff says.

I want to wrap my arm around his shoulders. But I pull against that natural impulse. I may as well yank against a taut bungee cord. It just makes me want to snap forward that much more.

I chew my gum and do what I can to help. Clicking my mic, I ask Oscar where he’s at. I share the answer with Maximoff. “They’ll be at the other hotel until the Q&A starts.”

“He said he’d stay and help Sulli if he finished early.”

I frown. “You two talked? To each other?”

“Texted.” He hands me his phone, and I skim their short back-and-forth that goes something like this:

If you’re done early with pics, can you stick around and distract some of the fans in Sulli’s line? It’ll make her less stressed. – Maximoff

Okay. – Charlie

I look up at Maximoff.

His eyes flash hot. “Tell me he got sick. Food poisoning or some flesh-eating bacteria? Maybe an emergency phone call? Or no, wait, Charlie doesn’t ever have an excuse. He’s just bored, and he bolted, right?”

I sense something deeper and more painful. He told me in more detail about the yacht fight with Charlie. And how Charlie bailed on him a week before his freshman year at Harvard.

With no explanation why.

I put a hand on his broad shoulder—and a six-foot-seven devil nearly blows out my eardrum. Fucking hell. I let go, my nose flaring.

Maximoff rubs his face. Trying to shelter his anger from the fans.

“Take a five-minute break,” I say.

“No. No, I’m fine.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.” He puts his fist to his mouth, and the toughened look he wears also begs, closer.

I can’t. My muscles burn. We’re both pulling against a force that wants us to draw near.

Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

I need to step back, but I say, “You look like you want to punch someone.”

“I do,” he says. “I want to punch my cousin.”

“How about you take that down to an I-want-to-have-a-civil-talk-with-my-cousin?”

“Never heard of that one,” he says, sarcastic.

“Clearly.”

Maximoff almost smiles. He nods to himself, taking a deeper breath. This is where we’d hug or kiss or do something other than what I’m about to do.

Avert my eyes.

Step back.

Let air fill the gap between my body and his.

Doing my motherfucking job.

A short olive-skinned guy is next. He approaches Maximoff with an armful of Superheroes & Scones paraphernalia. Maximoff pops the cap to a Sharpie—the lights go out.

Darkness cloaks the conference room. Power cutting, voices blaring in my ear. Fans shouting, “What happened?!”

I block out every distraction, every possible threat or what if in the pitch-black, and I move urgently.

“Maximoff.” I seize his waist and direct him towards an exit. SFO marked Ballroom E as a “safe area” in case these situations occur.

We can’t see two feet in front of us, but I whip out my cellphone like a few other people and point my camera light.

“Jane.” Maximoff tries to turn back around.

My hand cuffs his forearm tightly. “She has two bodyguards. Don’t stop in the crowds.”

There are five jaw-droppingly famous celebrities to one thousand adoring and semi-crazed fans. The lights could switch on or he could get stabbed in the dark. We’re not sticking around to find out which.

A tour organizer uses a microphone to speak. “We’ll have this all figured out soon. Please, stay calm and stay where you are.”

“They’re leaving!” a fan shouts, riling some people to chase after the celebrities and catch them before they go. Maximoff and I move assuredly in the dark, step-for-step, and I touch my earpiece as Akara speaks.

“Technicians are looking at the power. The entire first floor of the hotel is dark,” Akara informs us. “Lights won’t return for at least another five minutes.”

“Still go to Ballroom E,” Thatcher orders.

We push through a double-door exit, and sure enough, it’s dark everywhere. Phone lights swing back and forth. I’d say that I guide Maximoff, but I’m sure he’d tell everyone that he’s guiding me.

“MAXIMOFF!”

That’s a fan.

I can’t see the person, but it sounded like a “wait up” wail.

“Take one picture with me, please?! I didn’t get one!” Hands are about to grab onto his shirt. I slip behind him and cut people off.

“Move,” I tell Maximoff.

He’s stopped to speak to them, and he’s hesitating. Because he would genuinely place giving a fan a picture above his safety. Knowing it’d make their day, their month, year, or eternal existence.

Lucky for him, I don’t give a shit.

I only care about his life.

“Maximoff,” I say through my teeth. “Move. Or I’ll drag you—” There we go.

He faces forward, our strides lengthy and hurried. “I could’ve taken one picture.”

“No, you couldn’t.” I fixate on two guys ahead of us. They beam their phone lights on Maximoff. He shields the brightness with his hand.

“Hey, that’s Maximoff!”

I step in front of him while we walk. “You can see him later,” I tell the guys casually, but their lights have already created a giant spotlight on Maximoff.

“Maximoff!!” too many people scream and they’re running towards him.

We’re still far from Ballroom E. “Three-o’clock, there’s a bathroom,” I say to Maximoff and lead him by the shoulder—someone grips his shirt.

I shove the person back, and the fabric rips.

And that’s when the sheer amount of people dawn on me. We may as well be at a concert venue, and he may as well be a singer stuck in the pit. Almost a hundred bodies swarm us.

All wanting close. All wanting to say they “touched” Maximoff Hale. All happening at one time.

In the dark.

I physically pry hands off his shirt, his biceps, and he pushes forward. When I tear off one more set of hands, he breaks through and sprints to the bathroom.

I’m right behind him.

I shut and lock the door. They bang and shout. No lights, still.

“Maximoff.” I redirect my phone light on his body for a split-second. He’s clutching the sink edge. Slightly hunched forward, abnormal for him.

I can’t focus on him yet. It’s killing me not to.

I click my mic and swing the light to the entire bathroom. I kick open stall doors. Empty, empty. “Farrow to Omega, we’re not making it to Ballroom E.” Empty, empty, empty, empty. This is a girl’s bathroom, about twelve stalls.

Empty, empty.

Outside, fans start chanting, “Maximoff! Maximoff! Maximoff Hale! Maximoff! Maximoff! Maximoff Hale!”

Empty, empty, empty. I click my mic. “We’re in a secured bathroom.” I run to Maximoff in two strides, and I shine my light on him. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes are tightened close, jaw clenched. And he swallows hard.

He’s in pain.

My stomach backflips. “Maximoff—”

“Where’s Jane, Sulli, Beckett—are they okay?” He opens his eyes, only severe worry in them.

I click my mic. “Farrow to Omega, where’s everyone?” I listen to their replies and examine his build, easily noticing the bone popped out of his shoulder socket.

“Farrow,” he prods for the answer.

“Sulli and Beckett are in Ballroom E, safe. Crowds cut off Jane, but Thatcher and Quinn took her outside. She’s safe in a cab.” I gesture him to turn towards me. “Let me see your shoulder.”

He says, “I’m fine.” He wants to be.

“You’re not fine.”

People must’ve grabbed his shoulder and held on, pulling back while he moved forward. I should’ve shoved them off faster.

He tries to move his left arm, and he bites down, pain cinching his brows. “Fuck,” he curses.

From behind him, I clutch his waist and slide my arm around him in affection. He almost leans into me, remembering who I am. Being honest here, he’s still a marble statue.

“Let me help you.” I shine a light on his shoulder.

“It’s just sore.”

“Your shoulder is dislocated.”

Maximoff breathes through his nose and then grasps the sink ledge again. “Is that your professional medical opinion?” he asks. “Just by looking?”

“MAXIMOFF! MAXIMOFF!” they grow louder outside.

“Yeah.” I stay behind him. “Also, you’re a stubborn smartass. Point this at your shoulder.” I pass him my phone.

He uses his good hand and directs the light. He watches me through the mirror.

“You can pop it in?”

“I can.” I gently place a hand on the back of his shoulder, another on his elbow. Bracing his forearm with mine. His pulse is racing.

My stomach overturns. Wanting him to just calm. Relax. But he’s hurt, and I know I’m at fault.

“MAXIMOFF! MAXIMOFF HALE!”

“I have to tell you something,” I say seriously.

“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not going to work—”

“I kissed a crew member.”

“What—”

I click his shoulder back into place, and he lets out a long groan. “Fuuuck,” he curses, and one breath later, he’s glaring at me.

My brows lift. “I was kidding.”

He breathes stronger but shakes his head. “You couldn’t joke about literally anything else?”

“Nothing else would’ve worked.”

He exhales. “And you’re a fucking asshole.” His arm curves around my shoulders.

“That too.” I clutch the back of his neck, the light dancing around us as we shift. “I’m sorry—”

“Not your damn fault,” he says, voice firm, and he subtly eyes me for any injuries. Seeing that I’m okay. “My old bodyguard would’ve done worse.”

Yet, I should’ve done better. “You’ll need to ice the shoulder, and you should call my father to look at it if the pain gets worse.”

His brows furrow. “You just looked at it.”

“Ligaments protect the shoulder joint, and four tendons are connected to your rotator cuff. If you tore any of those, you may need surgery. My father is more experienced. He’ll know.”

It surprises me when I think, I wish I knew more than Edward Nathaniel Keene.

My father has been wishing that too.