Almost a hundred FanCons under our belt, we speed through March in seamless fashion.

I booked interviews in Forbes and Vanity Fair to publicize the tour, and most media outlets pulled this quote from a business magazine:

H.M.C. Philanthropies’ FanCon Tour moves onto its last leg stronger than ever. With an estimated $150 million earned in just three months, Maximoff Hale has capitalized on his fame for non-profit. He’s revolutionizing philanthropy by bringing in a new younger wave. It’s not just about blue-blooded Wall Street investors anymore. He’s found a group of twenty-somethings willing to spend money on him rather than a ticket to that new Taylor Swift concert. And the benefit: all proceeds go to charity. This twenty-two year-old is bulldozing his way through the philanthropy world. His last name is one of the most recognizable—but make no mistake—he’s carving out his own piece of history.

I wish they would’ve mentioned my cousins and the work of the crew and security. I couldn’t do this without them, but my spirits are still high throughout the Seattle FanCon. I didn’t need the accolades. I’m just happy with the number.

$150 million will help a lot of fucking people.

A line coordinator guides a lanky boy out after I hug him. Farrow stands several feet off to the side, and a few fans gift him portraits they drew. Bodyguard Fame is alive and thriving.

But weirdly, it’s not bad. So far, they’ve all been able to ignore the attention. Mostly thanks to my mom and dad. It’s easier for Omega without a giant, all-consuming paparazzi presence.

Our FanCon banners are erected on the Seattle concert stage, and velvet ropes section all five lines. In between greeting fans, I look around at the excited crowd, the overwhelmed smiles, and I think about the first meet-and-greets. How we smoothed out a lot of kinks.

How no one bailed.

I’m fucking proud of this tour. Of my cousins. Of security and crew. I’m already planning an end-of-tour party for everyone.

A line coordinator ushers the next fan forward. Up a set of stairs. On the stage. Towards me. The girl has chopped, dyed pink hair, and a black Superheroes & Scones T-shirt swallows her thin frame. She can’t be older than fifteen.

Before my eyes even hit the girl, she’s crying.

And by crying, I mean bawling her fucking eyes out. I’ve met a billion tears from fans on this tour, happy and sad and pained, but something about this girl slams at me and tries to rock me back.

Maybe because she has the same wiry build as my sisters. Maybe because she looks around Xander’s age. Maybe because she stumbles over her feet, and when I catch her, she crumples in my arms.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here,” I say strongly, and I mortar brick and steel inside of me. I don’t rock back or sway.

She sobs and rubs at her cheeks. I support all her weight, holding her up so she’s on two feet. If I let go, she’ll sink to the floor.

I wipe her tears with the hem of my green shirt. “What’s your name?”

She tries to stop crying, breaths ragged. “B-B-Britni.”

My lips pull in a small smile. “That’s a pretty name.”

She cries harder.

Goddammit.

I look over my shoulder. At Farrow. He’s fixated on this interaction, and I mouth, parents. We need to find her parents or whoever attended the FanCon with her. A family member, a friend, a goddamn adult.

Farrow waves over my assistant and speaks quickly.

I concentrate on Britni. “Want to sit with me for a second?” I ask.

She nods over and over.

So I slowly kneel on one knee and bring her down with me. I let go of her waist, and she sits on the stage, her legs splayed to the side. I rub her back and ask as gently as I can, “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

She sobs into her Superheroes & Scones shirt.

Like guttural sobs. Each one tries to dagger my ribcage and lungs. My bones grind to a halt, locked, muscles tensing. My jaw sharpens, brows scrunched.

I’m not as soft as some fans think. I care wholeheartedly about these people, these fans I’ve never met, but tough love comes easier for me. And that’s not what she needs.

I lick my lips and swallow a pit. I rub her back again. “Britni, everything’s—”

“I’m s-s-s-sorry,” she whimpers.

“I promise, it’s okay.” I nod to her, but she can’t meet my gaze. “You’re doing great.”

“I-I just…I’m having a hard time in school and at home and my life is over. You’re the only thing I need to make it better.”

I go numb. Pressure tries to compound, but I fight off the heavy, heavier, and heaviest. I’m aware that I have such a short amount of time with this girl. Anything I say could make or break her, and I never take this responsibility lightly.

“Life can be hard sometimes,” I say. “My mom and dad taught me that when you’re not sure if you can keep going, you just need to take it one day at a time, one step at a time. Can you do that with me?”

She breathes heavily, and tears leak silently.

“You’re here, today,” I say, reaching for something in my soul to give to her, but it collapses my chest. “There are good things in this fucking world. It might not seem like it yesterday, maybe not even tomorrow, but it gets—”

“It’ll all end,” she cries and then clutches onto the collar of my crew-neck, grip frantic. Tugging.

Farrow nears, and I side-eye him, silently saying not yet. I even hold out a hand so he’ll stay back for a fucking second. Just hold on.

Hold on.

You don’t know that I used to cry myself to sleep at nine-years-old. Hearing bad shit about my family. About myself. Wondering what the fuck was real. I was a happy kid, but there were hours, days, weeks where I used to think every cruel, heartless bastard would break the people I loved.

I can’t fathom the kind of lows my brother goes through. What this girl may be going through. Where they just want to quit. But I understand what it’s like to wake up and want to scream.

And my parents would tell me, “One day at a time, one step at a time.” Stand up.

Keep going.

Move forward.

“Britni,” I start, but she twists the collar of my shirt.

I’m on both knees, holding her elbows and trying to get her to look at me. Her eyes are everywhere but on my face.

“You have to give me a chance,” she sobs. “One date. Anything. You’ll see.” Her voice cracks. “You’ll see I could be such a good girlfriend, and we’ll be in love and everything will be perfect for once and happy.”

Christ…I didn’t think it was leading there. I grapple and claw for the right response. My joints rust, neck stiff. “I do want you to be happy—”

She chokes on her tears. “My parents got divorced. Everyone at school hates me…” She yanks at my collar. I wrap my arms around her shoulders. Hugging a fragile human being.

I’m not sure I can provide the right comfort. The right fucking words or the perfect strength. All I want is for her to be unequivocally, irrevocably happy, but I can’t even give that to my own brother.

How do I fix this? How can I fucking fix this?

“It’s okay,” I say, my voice more stilted. “Just breathe.”

She sobs into the crook of my neck. Wet tears soaking my shirt. “Please, please, please. I don’t want to die.”

My pulse thumps like a hollowed drum. It’s her and me, and I know I’m not enough. I need to put her in touch with health professionals—I’ve done this before. I can make sure she’s okay. I can do that at least.

I turn my head. “Lydia,” I call out to my tour assistant. “If her parents aren’t here, get them on the phone.” She hurries.

Farrow squats beside me.

“Britni,” I say, “there are people who can help if you’re feeling alone or—”

“You’re the only one,” she says through blistering tears. She clutches my collar again like I’m her literal lifeline.

Farrow gently peels her fingers off my shirt and neck.

“I’m not the only one,” I assure her. “There are so many people out there who’ll help you, who care about you—”

“Nonono,” she slurs, shaking her head.

I could go into my fan line and ask a couple girls around her age if they’d want to come on stage. Sit with us for about five minutes. Keep Britni company with me. Cheer her up. Just talk and show her that people do care. Maybe she’d make a new friend.

I did that at the San Diego FanCon for an upset preteen, but here, with Britni, I don’t know. She reminds me of Xander, and he’d flip the fuck out of if I brought strangers into his bubble.

Britni clings onto my shoulders, and Farrow has trouble tearing her off without being forceful.

“Jane cares about you,” I say strongly. “My cousins care—”

“I only want you,” she cries into my neck.

My muscles tighten, and Lydia lowers a phone into my hand. Britni’s parents. While she’s crying against my chest, I talk to them, ask them who attended the FanCon with their daughter.

They have no clue. They didn’t even know she’d be here, and I’m not that surprised. I ask for consent to put her on the phone with healthcare professionals. They say yes, of course. Great, I go through the motions, but I’m cradling a human in my hands.

And I’m just twenty-two.

I’m not a superhero. I don’t have the answers or the meaning of life, but I’m fucking trying. All I can do is try.

When they want to quit, I’m not going to fucking quit on them.

It must be twenty or thirty minutes before Britni calms, speaks to her parents, and I have to leave her in the hands of our staff.

I’m on my feet, and the line coordinator, photographer, assistant, and my bodyguard all look at me for direction. I crack my neck, my muscles almost spasm they’re that tight.

I lock eyes with Farrow. He chews a piece of gum, and he gestures his head towards the backstage exit. To take a break.

For just a minute.

I nod, and to Lydia, I say, “I won’t be long.” As I pass Farrow, we walk side-by-side, and he speaks into his mic, telling security that I’m on a short break.

I slip through the quiet backstage, and I enter a dressing room.

Gift boxes, scrapbooks, and sweets are stacked high on a table and couch. Makeup and hair products spread across a vanity.

I open and close my fist. Drifting stiffly to a rack of clothes, back to the vanity. Farrow locks the door, but I don’t hold his gaze.

I put my hands on my head, restless but rigid. If I could, I’d be in the water somewhere. Some place. Then I’d climb out and run and run and fucking run.

I grip the edge of the vanity. Hunched forward, and in the mirror, I catch sight of my reddened, burning eyes and my soaked green shirt from her tears. Fuck. I wrench the shirt off my head. My jaw aches. I ball a hand in a fist.

I need to hit something.

Or swim.

Run.

Anger gnaws at my insides, the only emotion I can feel. I glare at the ceiling, my breath like knives.

“Need anything, wolf scout?”

Yeah.

It takes me a second. But I turn my head.

Farrow sits partially on the couch’s armrest. His gaze sweeps me, assessing me, and when they lift to mine, they practically hold me, protect me, love me.

And I say, “You.” My voice cracks.

Farrow moves.

I pinch my eyes that fucking burn and try to fill. I squat down, just as Farrow reaches me. His palm warms the back of my neck.

I cover my face with my hands, and I fucking scream. Pent-up rage, gnarled emotion coming out of me.

Not for long. I straighten up again. Pinching my eyes again. And I almost turn to grip the vanity again, but Farrow seizes my wrist.

And he draws me into his chest.

My boyfriend hugs me so damn tight. Our bodies welded, his heartbeat pounding against mine.

I fist the back of his shirt with one hand, my chest heaving against his chest. Hot tears wet my lashes. That girl got to me.

I can fucking admit that.

Farrow strengthens his clutch and tells me, “There’s nothing more you could’ve done for her.”

I hold the back of his head, my fingers lost in his white hair. I growl out a frustrated, pained noise.

Another beat passes, and I lean back.

Farrow holds my wet face. I don’t even care to wipe the tears that run off my jaw. His reddened eyes melt against me, easing my taut muscles and hot-blooded pulse.

I breathe heavily, my gaze bloodshot, throat raw, and I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I lick my lips. “I’ll never fucking know if I made her life worse or better.” At hot tear rolls down my cheek. I glare at the ground. Christ, what am I doing? “I’m not trying to unload this much weight on you—”

“Whoa, whoa.” Farrow gives me a look like I’ve officially jumped off the planet. “I’m your boyfriend.”

I can’t even crack some sarcasm. I just swallow a rock.

Farrow lifts his brows. “You’re supposed to unload on me. I’ve been unloading shit on you with my father and the stalker for months. It’s a two-way street.”

My chest rises in a bigger breath.

I pinch my eyes to dam the waterworks. I’ll need to return to the FanCon and take pictures. Soon. Hopefully not with bloodshot eyes. “I must’ve missed unloading shit in the Boyfriend Manual.”

He almost laughs, and his thumb wipes my cheek. “If there were a Boyfriend Manual—which there isn’t one—right next to that would be giving ‘unconditional emotional support’. And while you offer it to literally every person, I’m very selective.”

I drop my hand off my eyes with another breath. “Who else do you give it to?”

His lips rise. “Just you.”

My mouth curves upward, my body lightening, and I shake my head, surprised at what he makes me feel. I shouldn’t be that shocked anymore, but I kind of like that I am. Everything always feels like the first damn time with him.

His hands fall to my shoulders. I’m shirtless, chest bare, and his touch heats me up. I stay still and hold his neck for a second.

My mind reels. I let out a rough noise in my throat. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“You can handle a lot, I’ll give you that to start,” Farrow says, nodding a few times. “But no one, not even me, can take on everything for everyone. Since you were, how young? Sixteen, fifteen? You’ve let thousands of people give you their emotional pain, and they want and plead for you to comfort them.” He pauses. “At what point is it going to click for you that you’re just one man. One man. That’s one to millions. You can’t. You can’t.”

“I can try.”

Farrow looks straight into my core. He pauses to consider my reply, and then he says, “But promise you’ll listen to your body if it says you can’t handle it anymore. You know, step back.” His lips almost rise as he uses some of my words from a while ago.

I’m actually, really smiling. Once the FanCon ends, I’ll have less close contact with so many fans at one time. It’ll be easier than now.

But he’s concerned.

For me.

“Step back,” I say, feigning confusion. “Can’t picture it, for either of us.”

He nods. “We’re both stubborn assholes.”

“Tell me something that isn’t new,” I say.

“I love you,” he says deeply. “And when you hurt, I hurt.”

I inhale. We pull closer, foreheads pressed together, and I kiss him—but he’ll tell you that he kisses me. Our mouths meet, and I urge his lips. In a sweet, yearning embrace that lights my lungs on fire.

And then a knock raps the door. Our mouths break, but his gaze says don’t detach; let them see, wolf scout.

I can’t. Going public as my boyfriend—maybe it wouldn’t affect his job anymore because SFO is already dealing with notoriety—but it’d put Farrow through a ringer.

All the public scrutiny, media harassment, and extreme loss of privacy.

The kind of fame he’s experiencing now is nothing compared to what he’d feel as “Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend”—and I can’t do that to him.

So I back up, our arms dropping off each other, and he nods, understanding. I think.