When I finally settle myself enough to stand without bulging out of my pants, I step out of the dressing room and into the studio. The air is charged with the sound of people chatting, the rustle of fabric, and the whirr of equipment. In the studio alone, there are around thirty people swarming, all hurrying to get everything just right. One of the production assistants is positioning Maisie under the large softbox lighting, the light casting a bright, almost ethereal glow around her as she stands in front of the backdrop for test shots.

I amble my way around, careful not to get in the way of the staff, as I head toward the table of snacks I spot in the corner. They've clearly put a lot of effort into making Maisie feel comfortable here. From the variety of snacks to the colors of the backdrops—cotton candy pinks, purples, and blues—everything is very Maisie Rhodes.

Despite it all, Maisie still looks nervous and uncomfortable. I mean, I get it. I think I'd feel the same with all the commotion—the photographer adjusting his camera, the makeup artist touching up her face, the hairstylist adding another layer of hairspray, the countless assistants and Vogue staff fussing over her dress, changing the lighting.

I just—I figured she'd be used to all this by now, with the hundred-plus concerts she's performed.

I tuck myself between a black leather couch and the snack table, trying to blend in as I scan the room. Ryan is stationed in the corner, glaring at just about everyone in sight, while Andrea, Rachel, and Maisie's publicist, whom I met earlier, are deep in conversation with one of the Vogue producers. But when Andrea catches me eyeing the donuts on the table, she walks over, her high heels clacking against the floor until they stop beside me.

She glances over at Maisie, who is now being directed to stand on the mark on the purple backdrop before she says, "I was wondering when you'd make your way out of the dressing room."

I pause, looking up from the strawberry-filled donut I settled on to Andrea. "You told me to sit there and not move."

"Hmm, did I? I don't remember." She furrows her brows, thinking it over as she pours herself a cup of coffee from the box on the table. "Everything go okay back there for you two? No, oh, I don't know, mishaps or anything?"

She takes a sip, staring at me, that familiar twinkle in her eye—the one I've noticed more than once when it comes to anything involving me and Maisie. She tilts her head as if she's waiting for me to confess that I saw Maisie naked and liked it more than I'm willing to admit to anyone.

"No," I manage to say, my voice strained as I shift on my feet, taking a bite of my donut. Her eyes narrow into tiny slits, like she's trying to read my mind, and knows I'm lying. I look down and focus on the jelly oozing from my donut before she can pry any secrets out of me.

"Alright, darling Maisie girl," Sebastian, the photographer, says, clapping his hands together drawing everyone's attention—thank fuck. "Shall we get started? Let's officially crown you the princess of pop!"

Maisie forces a smile, and for the next hour, I watch as she tries her best to follow Sebastian's instructions. She poses and contorts her body in ways that don't seem natural, each movement more strained than the last. She's struggling, not just internally but externally—her expression forced, body stiff. The room, once lively, grows uncomfortably quiet save for the clicks of the camera and the pop music playing in the background.

Sebastian's earlier enthusiastic directions—"Gorgeous, Maisie! Chin up—yes, perfect!"—have devolved into less spirited, "Tilt your head left—no, your other left."

Andrea, who's been nervously chewing her lip the entire time, finally moves to speak with one of the producers after Sebastian huffs at Maisie, "Turn your body; it's not working." And after a brief exchange, the producer leans in to whisper something to Sebastian, who looks noticeably relieved. He turns to Maisie with a softer tone, "Why don't we take five? Grab a snack or some water, hmm?"

Low murmurs ripple through the studio as everyone disperses, moving in different directions. Andrea walks over to Maisie, talking to her quietly as she bites the inside of her cheek, glancing down at the floor, nodding at whatever Andrea is saying. When Andrea gestures toward me, Maisie starts making her way over.

Quickly, I grab a water bottle from the table, twist off the cap, and hand it to her as she stops in front of me. "Hey."

"Hi," she says, forcing a smile. It's the kind of smile she somehow manages with her lips tilting downward. If you didn't know Maisie, you wouldn't think anything of it, but when you really look, you can see the way her chin wobbles and her eyes squint. It's the same smile she gave everyone the first ten months after her mom died, the one she'd wear until she was alone with me, wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, saying, I'm fine, August. Really. "Thank you."

"You're doing great out there," I say, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

She takes a sip of water, her gaze drifting past me to the donuts on the table, almost longingly, as she avoids my eyes. "I'm not so sure."

"I think it's going really well," I murmur, taking the water from her hand and setting it aside. I lift her chin with the knuckles of my fingers, trying to get her to look at me, but when I do she squeezes her eyes shut. "Mace."

"This is not going well, August," she mumbles through her glossed lips.

"It's going just fine."

She shakes her head tersely against my fingers holding her chin up.

"Will you look at me?" I whisper. She opens her eyes, wet and bright blue, welling up with tears she tries to fight them back.

"Shit, don't cry, Mace," I whisper, reaching for her and pulling her to me, my hands settling on her waist. She presses the crown of her head against my chest. "Please don't cry. You know I hate it when you do. I never know what to do with my hands."

I feel her laugh against me, her shoulders shaking as her hands find their way to my forearms, holding me there. I brush my lips over the top of her hair as she whispers, her voice wobbly around the edges, "Your hands are just fine."

I squeeze her gently there, fighting the urge to pull her closer, to wrap her up in my arms, and keep her safe without messing up her hair or makeup. What I'd really like to do is whisk her away, take her back to my house in Green Harbor, and wrap her up in a blanket with a box of Lucy's pastries from Sugar Moon Bakery until every trace of sadness melts away. But that's not possible, so I just let her stay as she is. "Please don't cry."

"God, August, I'm not a model—I'm a singer. This isn't me. It's so far out of my comfort zone." She squeezes my forearms. "Performing is one thing; it's all about movement and energy. I can sing and dance, I can follow choreography, but this? It's like I'm stuck in my head and I can't hit the poses or the expressions they want. I'm going to be known as the pop star who's too difficult to work with—too awkward in photoshoots, too stiff. The one that needs constant direction for every shot."

"They're not going to say that about you. You've done plenty of shoots before, Mace, I—"

"Do you realize how much retouching they have to do because I can't seem to get it right?" she says, her voice cracking as she lifts her head to stare at my chest. Her eyes are still damp, but she quickly blinks it away. "And this is Vogue, Gus. A high fashion magazine. Not just some celebrity news outlet. They're bending over backward just to make me look good, and I have no idea why they even chose me to be their pop princess or... whatever. They should've picked someone else—someone prettier, someone who can actually model—because I'm not cut out for this."

"What? Yes, you are. Of course, you are." She shakes her head slightly, reaching to toy with the collar of my sweater. I dip my head, trying to get her to meet my eyes, but she doesn't give me the gratification. "Every singer in the world would kill to be where you are right now, but Vogue chose you. They chose Maisie Rhodes. Not Sabrina Carpenter, Dua Lipa, or SZA—"

"SZA doesn't sing pop," she sniffles.

"—to be their princess of pop. And I know they didn't spare a cent on you because I overheard Andrea talking about it. They worked around your entire schedule—your tour, meetings, rehearsals—just to get you here. They wouldn't have invested so much if they didn't believe you could do it. All of your fans already call you the princess of pop—Vogue is just making it official. You're one of the most talented people I know, Maisie. You deserve that title. And, Jesus, Maisie, you're beautiful. Everyone here sees it. You're the only one who doesn't, and I wish you would."

"Objectively," she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.

"What?" I lean in closer.

"You think I'm objectively beautiful."

"No, I don't." I frown, glancing down at her. She's still staring at my sweater. "I've never thought that."

Her brows knit together as she finally looks at me, her blue eyes flitting across my face.

"You really think I meant what I said at that wine bar?" I dip down so I can meet her gaze, her eyes glossy and as serious as ever. "I was just playing along with your joke, Mace. I don't actually—Jesus... Maisie, I think you're subjectively beautiful. Sometimes I wonder if maybe— If maybe you might be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You're so beautiful, it's like looking into the sun."

Something flashes across her face—confusion, maybe even a hint of insult—before she snaps back, "I'm burning your eyes out?"

"You make it impossible to notice anyone else but you."

I stop there because I feel like I'm confessing too much all at once. And the way she's looking at me, makes it seem like she wants to run for the hills.

"Don't act so surprised," I say, taking a piece of her silky dress and rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger, because it's my turn to avoid eye contact.

"You've never told me that before."

"Of course I have," I insist, shaking my head listlessly, my frown deepening. I quickly try to backtrack, searching my memory for the last time I called her that. "I told you at the game. You were wearing my hat and... and I told you—"

"Ms. Rhodes," the producer calls, and she glances back over her shoulder. "We're ready to continue whenever you are."

"Okay." She nods, turning back around, her face pinched with worry as she bites down on the corner of her lip.

I shuffle closer, tipping her chin up until our eyes meet again. "Mace, you've got this, okay?"

She gives a small shake of her head, her nose just barely brushing mine. "I don't know."

"Just forget the last hour," I whisper. "Start fresh. Pretend this is just another concert. I know you're amazing at that—at performing."

"Okay," she breathes out. "Yeah okay, yeah. I can try that."

"Good. I know you can do it." I dip the rest of the way, closing the small distance between us, pressing my lips to hers in a soft kiss. She sighs against me, and I feel her body relaxing just a fraction.

"Jesus," I mutter as I pull back, my eyes still closed, hovering somewhere above her nose.

"What?" she whispers.

"You taste like cinnamon." I lick my bottom lip and bring my fingers to them. "And why do my lips burn?"

Maisie snorts out a laugh, reaching up to thump away the remnants of the gloss from my lips. "It's lip plumper."

"I warned you," Anna, Maisie's makeup artist, says as she walks up, giving me a pointed look. "You weren't supposed to kiss her. Now you're going to have extra-plump lips for the next one to three hours."

"Sorry, Anna," Maisie says, turning toward her.

Anna pulls out a lip gloss from her pouch, unscrewing it as she reaches for Maisie. "Clearly, the man can't help himself around you."

"Maisie, darling," Sebastian calls out, approaching as Anna reapplies the lip gloss. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'd like to try something a little more on-trend for you. A bit more... Maisie Rhodes, if you will."