SEPTEMBER 4th, 1997, NEW YORK CITY, NY

REAGAN WAS ANXIOUS, more anxious than she usually was when enduring a celebrity event. She'd grown used to them in consideration of Dave, having long ago accepted that they were woven into the narrative of his rockstar life, but still she was shaking ever so slightly.

Dave noticed as he came up behind her, hooking the last button to his shirt. His dressing room within Radio City Music Hall was spacious, comfortable, and he had it all to himself. There was even a full length mirror that Reagan had positioned herself in front of, fingering the dainty diamond necklace around her neck that Dave had gifted to her right after she'd landed at JFK.

Reagan's eyes flickered to the right, catching Dave's reflection beside her own. He looked handsome in his solid black outfit. Youthful, even, having shaved the remnants of his beard a few weeks back. The way he looked reminded Reagan of an earlier time, years prior, and it made her heartbeat throb faster.

Dave touched his hand to her bare arm, coasting it downwards until his fingertips drifted to her wrist. Goosebumps erupted across her skin.

"You okay?" he asked. He spoke to her softly, evoking something inside of Reagan that she'd badly needed after another bout of time without him. When he talked to her like that, in his gentle speaking voice that posed as such a contrast to the way he screeched on stage, it soothed her.

"Just thinking about Gracie," Reagan answered. It was partly true — she was thinking of their daughter, who was about to start kindergarten in a matter of days. She was back at home in L.A., watched over by Kate who'd pulled all the necessary strings to make it to California for babysitting duty. As Gracie grew older, it was harder for Reagan to be away from her. Gracie was more cognizant now. It was hard enough to see her melancholy with Dave gone and now having both parents away, even if for only two days, must have hurt ten times worse.

At least Dave would be present for her first day of school. That was Reagan's silver lining. It was only marred by the fact that he'd be leaving again afterwards, off to Las Vegas.

"She's okay," Dave assured Reagan softly. His hand grazed its way back up her arm to her shoulder. "We'll be with her again real soon."

"Thank god," Reagan mumbled. She immediately felt bad for her grudging response, but Dave laughed it off.

"I wouldn't miss her first day of kindergarten," he said.

But you missed her first day of preschool, Reagan thought. She almost visibly winced, hating that such biting words had even crossed her mind.

She worked up a genuine smile, looking into Dave's bright brown eyes. They smiled along with his mouth, shining with an obvious case of pre-show jitters that amounted to nothing more than raw excitement. His adrenaline was rippling beneath his calm facade as it usually did before he took the stage.

"I've got a very important question," he said, grabbing her hand and tugging her away from the mirror. She fully faced him and he stepped back, his gaze roving up and down.

"Can I ask mine first?" she said, fighting back a bigger smile.

"Oh?" Dave cocked an eyebrow. "You're beating me to the punch?"

"I am." Reagan closed the gap between them, pressing her chest to his and reaching both hands up until they disappeared into the shaggy mop of hair on his head.

"Please tell me you're growing this out again," she whispered, leaning in close to his ear as she knitted her fingers into his hair. Her hands shifted and she caressed down his neck and back, the tips of her fingernails following an intended path.

Dave groaned as expected and Reagan laughed.

"If you keep doing that, and stay just like this-," he yanked her tighter against him for emphasis, "I'll do anything you want."

Reagan placed a kiss on his jawline and inhaled the scent of him. She felt perfectly at home when she could feel him, feel his breath and his hair tickling her face, his hands tight on her hips. He felt like home.

"What was your question?" she murmured.

"Mhm . . ."

"David. Your question?"

His hand had snuck past her waist and farther south and although the gesture made Reagan giggle, she still clutched his arm and playfully nudged it back into place like they were a pair of virginal teenagers.

"I was going to ask why the hell you had to choose this dress."

Reagan frowned. Ouch. She stepped away to smooth her hands down the front of her dress, feeling defensive over the outfit even though she never would have worn it on any other night. It was even more bothersome that Dave had said that when he looked so casual beside her. Yet, she was proud of the selection, all because she'd picked it out on her own. They were in New York City for the Foo Fighters' pre-show performance to the VMAs, after all. She'd pulled out all the stops.

The dress was form-fitting, reaching mid-thigh and all black, matching the color scheme that Dave was going for that night. It was also strapless, which Reagan had presumed would be annoying to yank up all night, but the dress hugged her body like a glove and proved to be more comfortable than anticipated.

"Watch it," she warned him. "I actually like this dress. No need to be a harsh critic."

"My only harsh criticism is that you look way too fucking good to be out in public. You're going to blind people. Cause car accidents. It'll be anarchy out there."

"So . . . you're complimenting me?"

"Always." Dave drew her back to him, returning his hands to her waist and leaning his forehead against hers. "Every second of every fucking day, forever."

A flash of heat zipped bloomed behind Reagan's rib cage and settled somewhere low in her stomachache. When he talked to her like that, she inevitably forgot how she'd ever managed to be anxious in the first place that night.

"My gift to you goes well with it, too," Dave added. He touched the part of Reagan's necklace that rested daintily on her collarbone.

"It's beautiful," she agreed.

"I'll be damned. Do my ears deceive me? Are you actually accepting an extravagant gift without putting up a fight?"

Dave put on a mock expression of shock, widening his eyes dramatically and raising the pitch of his voice. Reagan rolled her eyes.

"Come on," she said. "Tonight's special. I'm not going to deny you your moment, Mr. Big Spender."

"It's not that special. It's just like any other show we've ever had."

"Um, really? Because all your shows are conducted on top of Radio City Music Hall? For the VMAs? The award show that made you a nominee tonight?"

"Hm," Dave mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it . . ."

"Is this your way of trying to be modest?" Reagan asked, feigning along with his court jester act.

"Honestly? I don't give a shit about all that. I'm just glad you're here with me."

"I'm glad I'm here, too." Reagan took his hand but hesitated. "Are you . . . are you upset about Pat?"

She knew that he was, even if he didn't outwardly show it. She hadn't needed to ask. Pat's official departure from the Foos that night had been a significant source of heartache and stress for Dave, though he'd disguised it well around her, always keen to project the air that everything was simply peachy.

He shrugged. "I'll always be bummed he decided to leave. But Franz is a cool guy and a great fucking guitarist. We'll be fine."

Reagan agreed that Franz, the Foos' new addition and Dave's ex-bandmate from Scream, was all of the above, but he was certainly not Pat. Just the thought of Pat leaving made her feel childlike. Pat was one of the few lasting ties to her past that wasn't painful, a physical reminder of how things had once been before so much change had ensued. Not only that, but Reagan simply appreciated his dry sense of humor and comforting presence. She wondered if she'd miss him as much as Dave would, and ridiculously enough, she wasn't even a member of the band.

"On the bright side," she began slowly, "you're being nominated for stuff again tonight. That's . . . huge."

"Stuff?" Dave chuckled.

"Yeah, stuff. Very cool stuff."

"Does that make you happy?"

His question was sincere, but also laced with an undercurrent of insecurity that admittedly shocked Reagan. She couldn't decipher what Dave was getting at. Did he want to know if she was pissed at his success? Or was he asking if the lifestyle of being married to a famous rockstar genuinely mattered to her when it came to pride?

"Dave," she said. She touched his face, swiping her thumb softly over his cheekbone. "You . . . you make me happy. You could be working a normal nine to five job and I'd still love you. You wouldn't even have to be a musician for me to love you. I'm happy because I have you."

A crease of worry appeared between Dave's eyebrows, announcing a silent shift in his mood. He was deliberating something, Reagan could tell, and the change had come out of nowhere. It wasn't drastic enough to dampen the occasion, but still, she didn't want his anticipation for the performance to cool in light of whatever he was suddenly feeling.

Most of all, she didn't want to have caused it.

"Do you wish it was like that? Normal, I mean?" he asked.

Reagan couldn't answer. Her tongue felt oddly heavy in her mouth and she didn't want to have that kind of a conversation, not that night.

"This is our normal," she finally replied.

"You know what I mean."

She knew exactly what he meant. He was talking about all the things that would have happened if he wasn't who he was, Dave Grohl the rockstar and Dave Grohl the guy who couldn't live a day without exercising his musical talents.

But that was the Dave she loved. It was the only version of him that she'd ever known and to be fair to both him and herself, Reagan knew she was wasting her time trying to imagine them in a different setting.

"All I want is you," she said. She put two fingers over his mouth, ensuring that he wouldn't interrupt. "I need you. Gracie needs you. I love you and everything that comes with loving you. But honestly, right now, I need you to be yourself and go have fun out there tonight."

"Need?" Dave repeated, speaking against her fingertips.

"Yes. I need you to be happy and I need you to be you because that's the you that I love. And the you that I love would not be asking me this right now. You'd be getting ready to go put on a kick ass performance."

Dave smiled, though the concern in his face wasn't quick to entirely disappear. The year was dwindling and once again, he'd been mostly absent for the duration of it. Reagan could practically read the register of his thoughts.

He was so far removed from her, and so often, that she knew he wondered how truly happy she could be when she was barely apart of his success. She was there of course, at the forefront of his mind and even eternally etched into his now-famous song lyrics, but the Foo Fighters were nothing like Nirvana had been.Their move to Los Angeles alone had proven that.

"I'm proud of you," Reagan murmured. "Look at everything you've done."

"Do you know I love you?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Do you know I'd give you anything?"

"Yes . . ." she hedged carefully, curious as to where he was going with his series of questions.

Dave opened his mouth again, but nothing came out. His gaze wavered from Reagan's eyes and down to her feet before he took her hands.

"Reagan." He spoke her name urgently and with a note of desperation, like he needed her closer than humanely possible. "I want-,"

He was interrupted when the dressing room door swung wide open, revealing an exhilarated looking Taylor standing in the threshold. He was just as dressed down as Dave was and in his hand were his drumsticks, one of them twirling around his fingers.

His face changed when he saw the serious stance that Reagan and Dave were locked in.

"Oh, my bad," Taylor said. "Sorry guys. Uh, Dave, we gotta' get up there, dude."

Pat appeared next to Taylor, wearing his trademark easy-going smile.

"What'd you walk into this time?" he asked, nodding at Reagan and Dave.

Reagan resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Pat, though internally, she was itching to know what Dave had been close to saying. Whatever it had been, the right moment for asking had passed.

"Yeah T, I'm right behind you," Dave said. He gave Reagan's hands a final squeeze and let them go, heading for the door. Reagan followed close behind. He seemed okay — whatever he'd been about to declare hadn't spun him off track too badly. That was Dave, though. He was a professional in every sense of the word.

"Got yourself a good seat?" Taylor jested, throwing an arm loosely around Reagan's shoulders.

She smiled at him with a teasing smugness. "VIP."

"Shit, they didn't tell you? They revoked your VIP pass. You're standing on Sixth Avenue tonight. In the far back. Like . . . way back."

Reagan swatted Taylor and he laughed, jostling her once in a brotherly side-hug before bounding away with a puppy like energy after Dave. In his place came Pat, still wearing a smile.

She darkened her expression dramatically. "Don't even. You're leaving me and in case you were wondering, I don't forgive you."

"Leaving you?" Pat said, barking out a laugh.

"Yes, me!" Reagan returned. "You were the second best thing about the tours ending and everyone coming back home."

"Well, at least Dave's respectably the first best thing."

"Oh, he isn't. The first best thing is getting to listen to Taylor's Freddie Mercury impressions again."

Pat laughed again and tucked his arm where Taylor's had been only moments earlier, draped right over Reagan's shoulders.

"I won't be far," he said. "Not too much will be changing."

Reagan managed a smile, silently hoping that Pat's reassurance for the future was correct. "Yeah. I guess that's true."

_________________

The designated VIP section beneath the awning of Radio City Music Hall was hardly that. It was merely a patch of space reserved on a roll of red carpet, marked by a stereotypical set of velvet ropes that divided the crowd. Nonetheless, Reagan was comfortable there.

There weren't nearly as many people there as one would have expected, though Sixth Avenue still swarmed with bodies, their heads tilted skywards as the Foo Fighters took their 'stage' for the night.

Reagan was one of them, craning her neck back so that she could spot Dave at his elevated position above her. As the Foos came on and the surrounding cameramen scrambled, indicating that the performance was now live, Dave flashed Reagan a cheeky wink. She grinned back and scrunched her nose, amused to witness his silent laugh at her expression.

Pat announced his departure and Franz arrived in his place with his guitar slung around his torso, which Reagan attempted to tune out. She really was sad at the thought of losing Pat, thinking once again about the essence of time and how it had cranked out more changes than she was necessarily comfortable with. She admittedly felt a little silly, acting so morose over Pat's endeavor to take some time for himself, away from the hubbub of rock stardom. She liked him and they were relatively close, but he hadn't been as close to her as Kurt had been. If anything, she was being dramatic.

Reagan figured it was just the matter of another change that bothered her. It was seeing Dave's life evolve once again as she acted as a bystander while someone else that they knew moved on. But it was also having to acknowledge that tiny, sheltered wish that she had to keep completely secret — Reagan's wish that Dave could have slipped into Pat's shoes, gracefully bowing out of the responsibilities that he'd chained himself to.

It seemed, as of that night, that nothing would ever be different in terms of what Reagan had once hoped for. Dave and his band were playing the VMAs atop Radio City Music Hall, perhaps one of the most mind-boggling feats Reagan had ever seen him accomplish, and she'd never felt further away from the person she'd been when she first met him. Whatever she'd concocted in her head in regards to their future back then was laughable now.

"Reagan?"

The sound of her voice being yelled over the vibrations of 'Monkey Wrench' jarred Reagan. She spun around in the direction of where she'd heard the call, coming face to face with a long-haired, lanky man standing directly behind her, close enough that she almost bumped into his chest.

It took her aback, literally, as she shuffled slightly away. She didn't recognize him.

He smiled warmly at her, making it obvious that he on the other hand recognized her, and cupped both hands around his mouth.

"Jesse!" he shouted. He pointed at himself. "Jesse Evans!"

Reagan forced an awkward smile, blinking in blatant confusion. She now knew his name, but how the hell did he know hers? She'd never met the man in her life as far as she knew.

It was plausible that he was merely a Foos fan, maybe even a dedicated fan of Dave's, and that's how he knew her. Or he was a Nirvana fan, one of the diehard ones, that recalled Reagan's one-time performance with the band back in nineteen-ninety. Those that remembered her one fleeting night as Nirvana's stand-in drummer never failed to blow her mind.

The Foo Fighters finished their song, closing out the performance as the myriad of MTV cameras were lowered in suit. Cheers erupted from the crowd.

"You don't remember me," Jesse laughed, no longer having to shout as he shook his head.

Reagan bristled. They had met?

"I'm sorry," she said, smiling apologetically. "I don't."

"You helped sign my band to DGC in fall of ninety-three. Acid Pill? I was the rhythm guitarist?"

The band name stirred a vague memory for Reagan. It was murky, but she could almost remember the bulk of the details. The band had been stellar, but their name had almost cost them. So many bands at the time had been playing off the word 'acid' for their titles that her team had nearly passed them up. She'd vehemently encouraged their signing to the label, only because they'd played so damn well.

And then the memory crystallized.

"Oh!" Reagan exclaimed, widening her eyes. "I remember now! I met you once, down at the office."

"Yep," Jesse smiled. He tucked his hands into the front of a pair of ratty jeans. "You fought like hell for us."

"I know. You guys were great. But . . ." Reagan's forehead crinkled. "What happened? I don't remember anything coming out of that."

It was true. She hadn't heard another mention of Acid Pill after they'd been signed to DGC. No records, no tours. It wasn't a surprise that she'd quelled the memory of them, with Kurt having gone off the rails so soon after they'd signed.

"Yeah," Jesse said uneasily, scuffing the red carpet with the heel of his boot. "I guess I ought to be glad you don't remember me, considering how we sort of fucked you over after everything you did for us."

"Fucked me over?"

"We broke up, like, right after we met with the label. My lead singer, Jimmy, he just . . . ah, well he didn't want to be attached to all the corporate shit in the end. We had a pretty steady following at that point and he pushed for us to go DIY again, but it fell apart."

"You broke contract?" Reagan asked, surprised.

"Well, no. I guess it's wrong to say we were signed because pen never met paper, if you know what I mean. Everything sort of dissolved before that could happen."

"Oh. That explains why I never heard that DGC was going to sue the shit out of you."

"Thank fuck for that."

Jesse laughed and Reagan smiled admiringly at him.
He seemed a little . . . happily oblivious. But the effect was nice, almost effortlessly cool, and it served as a surprising contrast to his exterior. His tangle of brown hair, strong chin, piercing blue eyes and denim jacket flaunted the alternative masculinity of the early nineties, but his personality was even better than his looks. He reminded Reagan of a grungey version of Dave Mustaine, at least in the face.

"So, uh, what brings you here?" she asked, gesturing to their surroundings. The crowd around them was still tittering in the heat of post-performance excitement.

"To the show or to VIP?"

"I guess both?"

Jessie grinned boyishly. "Snuck into VIP. But really, I just walked up and joined the party. It helps when you look like a roadie for whatever band is playing. No one questions you."

Reagan blurted out a laugh. "Why the hell did you come into VIP?" What she really wanted to say was, you don't look like the VIP-going type.

"I saw you," he answered simply.

Something about the way he said it made Reagan freeze, mid-laugh. It was spoken so earnestly, with such depth, that Jesse made it seem as if he'd parted the Red Sea to come greet her rather than having ducked under a few ropes.

"I'm flattered," Reagan said. She was being truthful, but she also had no desire to engage in any flirtatious, verbal sparring. It wasn't strange to be hit on, but at the same time, it was when coming from someone who appeared more serious in the attempt.

Jesse's smile softened and Reagan internally cringed. He was looking at her intently, with eyes glazed over by something familiar. She'd seen that look before in the eyes of any man who'd ever fawned over a woman. Quickly, she supplied a subject change.

"What are you up to now? Still playing?"

He shrugged casually. "In my spare time. I'm not really pursuing it anymore. I want to get into the producing side of things, in the studio, you know? I've got a buddy whose setting me up at a recording studio out in Los Angeles. I'm headed there in a few weeks."

"I'm so sorry," Reagan said. It was a knee jerk response. Her dislike for L.A. was still as resolute as ever.

"Me too," Jesse snorted. "But hey, it'll be for the best. I'll miss New York, though."

"You're from here?"

"Born and raised."

"I'm from Olympia," Reagan said. She was met with another overtly charming smile.

"I know," Jesse said. "I heard."

"What else do you know about me?"

"Not much. Only that and it came from the lackeys at DGC. I'd love to know more, if you're offering."

Reagan resisted pressing her mouth into a thin line. She could read Jesse as easily as she could an open book. He was making a subtle pass at her, she could tell, but she didn't want to be rude. He was nicer than most of the guys she'd come across in her lifetime.

"Well," she said, beginning with a sigh, "I was born and raised in Olympia. Nowadays I'm at Geffen headquarters down in Santa Monica. Uh, I have two brothers and two sisters. I have a daughter, Gracie. I'm married to that guy you just saw up there." She pointed upwards and Jesse nodded.

"I knew that too," he said.

Of course he would know. Yet that hadn't deterred him, as he was still there, permeating Reagan into the bubble of his happy-go-lucky warmth.

"You're a drummer," Jesse added, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question.

"Are you stalking me?" Reagan teased, though it was admittedly odd to hear someone else rattling off fast facts about her. It must have been how Dave felt when he met his fans, though she couldn't at all say that she had any of her own.

Jesse's face turned pink and she knew she'd that she'd  embarrassed him. He ducked his head, laughing quietly in order to shrug off his apparent discomfort.

"I'm a Nirvana fan," he explained. "I followed them since they put out Bleach."

Reagan had dutifully trained herself to be weary of anyone who approached her as a fan of the people she was attached to. She undeniably loved the majority of them, but she'd learned over the years to deal carefully with anyone whose admiration bordered on something more intense than plain appreciation. Not every intention was pure, especially with practiced musicians like Jesse, but she didn't suspect him of anything. He was too sincere to be greedy.

"I see," she said. When he looked at her, she smiled softly, encouraging him to relax. She was enjoying the conversation enough to want to avoid humiliating him any further.

"Do you come to New York often?" Jesse asked.

"Not really. Not unless it's for Dave."

"Well, uh, if you're ever in town again . . ."

Damn. Reagan hadn't anticipated that he'd go that far.

"I live in Harlem, and if you ever need a personal guide to the city or something . . ." Jesse trailed off. Reagan could tell that he was gradually realizing how far fetched his proposition was.

"I'll get a hold of you if the day comes," Reagan finished for him. She smiled again, an attempt to be polite, but Jesse grimaced.

"That sounded bad," he said. "I just . . . you're a very beautiful person. Wait, no. Hold on. I didn't mean it like that." He held up both hands defensively. "Look, you gave me and my band a chance when no one else would. I admired you for that. I still do. And I'm glad you were here tonight. So that I could thank you in person."

Reagan's chest felt tight. Jesse was feigning well despite the awkwardness of the encounter, but her secondhand embarrassment was getting the best of her. It was unfortunate to feel that way, considering that so far, she actually liked him. He was easy to like.

"You're welcome," she said gently, injecting as much sincerity as she could into her words.

Jesse's eyes connected with hers and he went quiet, staring instead of speaking, though Reagan felt like she could read his thoughts in his gaze. She almost blushed, unfamiliar with being under such a watchful eye outside of Dave's, but a hand clamped down on her arm and partially stunned her.

"You weren't in the dressing room," came Dave's voice.

Reagan jolted as she realized that Dave had joined them. A thin layer of sweat covered his face and he looked confused to find her still outside in VIP when she'd agreed to meet him inside after the performance.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Reagan said hurriedly. "I got caught up."

Dave eyes were uncharacteristically narrowed. It was a strange look for him, so unlike the easygoing personality that he was known for.

"Yeah, I see that. Whose this?" His voice was smoothly professional but also noticeably tight as he looked to Jesse.

Jesse immediately stuck his hand. "Jesse," he said, clasping his hand with Dave's. "Reagan almost signed my band at DGC."

"Almost? What happened?" Dave asked, chuckling under the guise of friendliness, though the question came out mocking.

Reagan regretfully figured that that was his intention.

"We backed out," Jesse said, seamlessly holding his own. "Good to meet you though, man. It was great to see you play. I hope you guys win tonight."

"Good to meet you, too." Dave noticeably snaked his arm around Reagan's waist. "Good luck with the band thing."

Reagan's jaw locked but Jesse bobbed his head understandingly, raising a hand in the air with a goodbye wave.

"Have a good night. See you around, Reagan."

He smiled once more and backed away into the dispersing group of VIPs, working his way out onto the street until he disappeared. Reagan didn't take a breath until he was out of sight.

"What was that about?" she asked, facing Dave as he started to pull her away towards the inside of the music hall.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. What the fuck was up with him?"

"He knew me from DGC, like he told you."

"Seemed like he wanted to know you a hell of a lot more beyond that," Dave snorted, unable to play off his irritation.

It was strange to see him bent out of shape over the whole thing, especially when he'd never gotten so defensive over other men before. There had been that time with Tommy many years prior, but Dave had reacted better than the way he was reacting then. He'd been able to laugh it off all, more inclined to be playful than resentful.

"He was being nice," Reagan lied. Even she knew that Jesse had been plainly interested in her.

"A little too nice," Dave said bitterly. "I saw the way he was looking at you."

"He wasn't looking at me in any way."

"Yes he was. He was looking at you like he wanted to fuck you right there on the sidewalk."

"Be serious, Dave."

They walked into the empty lobby of the music hall and Dave stopped, facing Reagan with that same annoyed look on his face.

"I know what I saw," he said.

"Come on," Reagan sighed. "You've never acted like this before. How many times have you joked that a guy wanted to sleep with me knowing that he could never?"

"This time was different."

"Different how?"

Reagan felt a twinge of panic l beginning to surface. Dave's reaction was foreign enough to make her worry, wondering if something had put him into a bad mood despite the success of a performance he'd just put on.

"You were looking at him the same way," Dave said, lowering his voice. "Like you wanted him too."

Reagan felt her jaw pop open, hanging wide as she processed his accusation.

No. No way. She might have known Jesse previously, but by all technicalities she'd only met him that night and not once had she felt a wink of desire towards him. Privately, she was able to admit that he was cute, but that was the extent of how she'd felt during their exchange.

Her initial reaction was to be angry. It was such a farcical allegation that she was half-pressed to lose every last thread of her temper.

That sense of anger dissipated rapidly though, mostly because she knew herself well enough to know that it hadn't been like that. In fact, it was more saddening to think that Dave had seen it that way.

"I don't want anyone else," she said, her words nearly quavering. "I've never wanted anyone else. I thought you knew that."

Any will to discuss the matter further left Reagan in a rush and she stepped around Dave, planning to walk back to the dressing room by herself. She was offended but also hurt, confused as to how the Dave she knew had reacted so harshly to something so innocent.

Dave caught her by her arm and held her in place.

"Wait, wait, wait," he insisted suddenly. Reagan jerked against his grip, but Dave slipped back in front of her, sliding his hands around her neck as she tried to look away.

"I'm sorry," he said adamantly. "I'm sorry. Don't be pissed at me. I thought I saw something but I didn't and I was wrong. Okay?"

At least he was being quick to admit his fault in the situation. Regardless, Reagan strained to keep her face turned away from his.

"Come on, baby," Dave said. She felt his thumbs glide back and forth across her jaw bone. "Don't give me the silent treatment. I'm sorry."

She wanted to forgive him, knowing it was useless to stay fuming when the night hadn't even really begun, but she was still prickling with offense. Dave leaned his face in closer, leveling his lips close to her ear.

"What, I'm not allowed to be a little possessive of my wife?" he murmured. Reagan kept her mouth zippered shut.

"My very hot, talented, amazing wife?" he added.

She felt the corners of her lips uncontrollably turn up by a small fraction.

"Is that a smile?" Dave continued. One of his hands wandered to Reagan's waist, nipping her side in the spot he knew made her instantaneously ticklish.

She couldn't help it. The more he pressed, the more she gave in, and before she knew it she was laughing as he dug his fingers playfully into her sides.

"Stop, stop," she said, fighting her laughter and nudging him back by his shoulders. "You're forgiven."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You promise you're not mad?"

"I'm not mad."

Dave took Reagan's hand and tenderly raised it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles and holding it there. He looked into her eyes.

"And you promise you'll never leave?" he asked.

The tone of the question didn't fit quite right with the lightheartedness that he himself had started. It was serious, but it also stemmed from an ounce of doubt that made Reagan's heart hurt. He'd never asked her that before.

She stroked the side of his face and slid her fingers around to the back of his neck.

"I will never leave you," she said gently.