“After this—coffee. Real names.”

“I’m not doing the gag lift,” September finally said.

“Then he docks me.”

September nodded. Twenty-seven wasn’t the end. It was the first breath after holding it too long.

They didn’t touch. They never did, not in the wings. But when the bass dropped and the purple smoke curled out, they stepped onto the stage together. The crowd—a blur of wedding rings and loose ties—roared. Lenny stood near the bar, nodding slow.

They lowered together, foreheads nearly touching, sweat beading like confession. For three seconds, the music went silent in September’s ears. All she heard was Demi’s whisper:

A pause. Demi sat on the velvet bench, suddenly still. “You ever feel like you’ve already been swallowed?” she asked, voice low. “Like the lights, the ones, the catcalls… it’s all just stomach acid, and you’re already halfway digested?”