The door slammed behind Roxie like a gunshot, and for one aching heartbeat, the whole world stopped.
No one laughed.
No one breathed.
Even the air in the bar held still, like it was waiting to see who'd move first. Who'd admit what just happened.
And then someone did.
Ashley's voice, thin and sharp as a broken string: "Dude."
Emily, blinking like she couldn't quite process it. "What the fuck, man?"
Tiny set his drink down with exaggerated care. "That was too goddamn far."
Dianna didn't speak. Not yet. She was still watching the door like she could rewind time if she stared hard enough.
"She's not one of us yet," Ashley snapped, twisting in her seat to glare at Jorge. "She doesn't do this. You knew that."
"She trusted Di," Emily added, pointing a finger like a dagger. "She barely knows you."
Tiny leaned forward, voice low and deadly now, like thunder just before it hits. "You broke up the magic, Jorge. You fucked it."
Dianna moved.
She didn't remember standing. Didn't remember knocking the chair over or brushing past Elizabeth's hand.
She only remembered rage.
A clean, white, slicing heat.
And hurt—deep, raw, too big for her chest.
She turned on Jorge like a stormcloud splitting open. Her boots thudded once. Twice. Three steps toward the door, and—
"D, wait, just—!"
He stepped in front of her. Hands raised. Apologetic. Eyes wide and damp and so goddamn useless.
"I didn't think," he said, voice cracking. "I didn't know—I'm sorry! I didn't mean for—"
Her hand moved before the thought caught up.
CRACK.
The slap rang out sharp and perfect. A cut through the static.
Jorge stumbled sideways, one hand flying to his lip. Blood bloomed. Bright. Unmissable.
Dianna didn't flinch.
And then, louder than she meant it—
"Fuck. You."
The words came from her gut, from her ribs, from the place inside that was still trying to figure out how to breathe without Roxie's arms around her.
Jorge didn't reply.
Couldn't.
She turned before she shattered in front of them. Bolted for the door like a firework set loose, and this time—
No one stopped her.
The night hit her like a freight train made of heat and silence.
Dianna tore around the corner, boots skidding across the cracked pavement of the side lot, her breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps.
"Roxie?!"
No answer.
Just the hum of distant streetlamps. The muffled pulse of bass from the bar behind her.
She turned, frantic.
And there it was.
The Beast.
All black steel and menace. Parked like it had never moved. Its engine still ticking softly in the cooling night, like a heartbeat winding down.
And Dianna stopped.
Stopped cold.
The memory hit her square in the chest—her legs draped over that seat, the taste of adrenaline and accident still on her tongue. The stupid, dizzy grin she'd worn when she realized just how close she'd come to falling apart for the girl who never asked her to.
Now the bike sat silent.
And Roxie was gone.
"Roxie…?" she called again, quieter this time. "Come back…"
She stepped toward the machine like it might answer. Like Roxie might reappear from the shadows, all blush and stammer.
Nothing.
Just the low creak of cooling metal.
"I meant it, I swear I did." she whispered, voice catching. "I meant all of it."
She reached out—laid one hand on the bike's warm leather seat.
And then she crumpled.
Her knees gave out, hard, gravel digging through the tights she still hadn't changed out of. Her palm dragged down the side of the chassis, leaving a streak where sweat and dust met diesel.
"Please don't be gone…" she choked. "Please…"
She bent forward, curled into herself, arms wrapped tight around her ribs like she could hold herself together through sheer force of will.
"Why didn't I just say it?" she sobbed. "Three words. Three fucking words."
The night didn't care.
The Beast stood sentinel, silently, beside her.
And somewhere far above—miles away now—Roxie was streaking through the clouds like a prayer on fire.
While Dianna stayed behind in the dirt.
And begged a God she didn't believe in for one more chance.
---
Inside, the air was heavier now. Like the laughter had left grease in the lungs.
Jorge stood in the middle of it all, bleeding lip and all, hands outstretched like he still thought words might fix this.
"I didn't mean—" he tried again, voice wobbling. "It was a joke. A dumb joke, yeah, but I didn't—I never thought she'd run. I thought she'd laugh. I thought maybe she'd go up there and be awkward and Di would carry it and—"
He turned.
His last hope.
His bro.
"Tiny, come on, man, back me up."
Tiny didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stared at him.
That big, soft-eyed face now storm-dark and set. Fury simmering under the surface. The kind of anger that didn't yell—it just waited.
"I—" Jorge's voice faltered. "T? Buddy?"
Tiny flexed his jaw. Once.
"I'm not your buddy right now."
Jorge felt something sharp in his chest give a little.
Then came the voice that made them all go quiet.
"Girls," said Elizabeth, rising from her seat with the same calm she used when rerouting a gig gone sideways or silencing a drunk heckler with just her posture, "let's go."
Ashley and Emily didn't ask.
Didn't argue.
They just followed. Like soldiers falling in line behind their general.
Elizabeth stopped only once—at Jorge's shoulder.
Her voice was quiet. Measured. No heat. No venom.
Which made it worse.
"You hurt someone tonight," she said. "Not because you're cruel. But because you didn't think."
Jorge's eyes started to sting.
She didn't touch him.
Didn't even look at his split lip.
"And you don't get to fix it with words this time," she added. "You get to sit in it."
Elizabeth turned to Tiny next.
Her voice softened. Just barely.
"Don't let him leave."
Tiny nodded once. Slow. Steady.
"Gladly."
He stepped in behind Jorge and planted one massive hand on his shoulder. Firm. Unmoving.
Jorge sat. He didn't argue.
Didn't move.
Didn't cry.
Just stared at the door.
Watched as the girls—Elizabeth, Ashley, and Emily—walked out into the Florida night. The air still buzzing faintly from the echo of a girl who had shaken a bar to its foundation with eyeliner, fishnets, and grief set to music.
Their fearless leader.
Their disaster romantic.
The one who led them with middle fingers and mascara. With broken microphones and half-choked laughter. With one boot planted on the stage and the other in the dark.
And now she was gone.
Not forever, maybe.
But tonight?
Tonight, Dianna Annabeth Rodgers had run after something she couldn't bear to lose.
And the Pack followed.
Because the band wasn't held together by plans or practice.
It was held together with fishnets and glitter.
And they weren't about to let that fall apart.
---
Out in the alley, Elizabeth saw her first.
Just a flicker of motion, half-hidden in shadow. Slouched against the alley wall beside the hulking frame of The Beast, its engine long cooled. At first Elizabeth wasn't even sure it was her—just a shape, still and folded in on itself. But then a glint of movement caught the streetlight. A glimmer of fishnet over scraped knees. A shock of pale hair, damp and tangled, sagging beneath the weight of silence.
Dianna.
Elizabeth slowed, and the others followed suit, their footsteps faltering as they came up behind her. Emily whispered something—soft, stunned—but Elizabeth barely heard it.
Because Dianna wasn't crying anymore.
She had cried. That much was obvious. Her eyeliner was ruined. Her lips looked chewed raw. Her breath still caught in little uneven gasps every so often, like her lungs hadn't quite gotten the memo to settle. But now, she just sat.
Curled in on herself. Not collapsed—compressed. Like someone had taken all that fire, all that righteous fury and swagger, and crushed it into something small and shivering.
Her cheek rested against the wall like she'd gone still mid-breath and never started again. One hand curled in the hem of her skirt. The other slack in her lap. Her boots were cocked at awkward angles, like she'd dropped there and never bothered to adjust.
And the look in her eyes—
That was what stopped Elizabeth cold.
It wasn't heartbreak. Not the kind Dianna had weathered before, when some girl didn't text back or some fling with a pretty smile turned out to be a jerk with a God complex. That kind of pain had volume, it had motion. It stormed and hissed and flailed.
But this?
This was quieter. Deeper.
Like the light had gone out behind her eyes and no one had remembered to relight it.
Elizabeth took a step forward. Then another.
She didn't speak. Not yet.
Because this wasn't my crush ditched me at a bar.
This was someone stole the sun and left me to freeze in its absence.
And for the first time since they'd met her, Elizabeth realized—
Dianna Annabeth Rodgers, punk goddess and resident vampire prince, had never once imagined a world where she didn't get to say "I love you."
And now?
Now she was sitting in the dark with those words rotting behind her teeth.
And Elizabeth had never seen her look so small.
She approached slowly, like edging toward a wounded animal—one that didn't know yet whether to bite or run.
Dianna didn't look up.
Her shoulders were hunched, trembling faintly. The skirt she'd worn was twisted halfway up one thigh, and the fishnets had laddered like spiderwebs across her knees. Glitter clung to the sweat on her collarbones. Her lipstick was mostly gone, her mouth set in a slack, broken line.
Elizabeth crouched beside her, lowering herself slowly to one knee.
She didn't touch her at first.
Just sat there. Let the quiet stretch.
Then, gently—gently—she reached out. Fingers brushing the side of Dianna's arm. The contact was barely more than a whisper.
"Hey," she said softly. "Hi."
Nothing.
No reaction. No flinch. Just that same hollow stare, like Dianna wasn't sitting on asphalt but floating somewhere far above it, beyond all of them.
So Elizabeth started talking.
Not about what happened.
Just… words.
"Emily and Ash are hovering over there like anxious ducks," she said. "I told them to give us a minute. You know how they are. They'll pretend they're not watching but they'll be narrating every breath like it's a nature documentary."
Still nothing.
Elizabeth tucked her legs under her. Smoothed her skirt. Let the silence stretch again.
"I think Roxie probably just got stage fright," she said, finally. Soft. Careful. "She'll come back."
That was the wrong thing to say.
Dianna snapped.
She jerked upright like something had hit her in the gut, her face twisting as the emotion finally, finally boiled over.
"No!" she shouted, voice raw and wild. "You don't fuckin' get it, Lizzy!"
Elizabeth flinched—but didn't move.
"You got a small taste of it tonight," Dianna snarled, eyes gleaming with fury and tears. "But Roxie? She thinks differently than we do! Everything is a goddamn symbol to her! Always! Trash on the street's a commentary on moral decay! A leaf falling is God adding color to the plane of green!"
Her voice broke—just a little—but she pushed through it, rising to her knees, hands flailing as she shouted.
"And a punk rock whore can have music in her fucking rotted soul!"
That word—whore—came out sharp. Hard. Self-inflicted.
Elizabeth still didn't speak.
"So what does she see now, huh?" Dianna barked, panting. "In this moment? After I get up there and blow the doors off the fuckin' place—and then my fucking band manager hauls her up like she's a goddamn show girl?!"
She laughed, bitter and breathless.
"And slaps a label on us too, right? Just for fun. Violet's girlfriend. Ha! Real funny!"
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, hard.
"She probably thinks it was all a joke, Lizzy," she whispered. "Drag the virgin girl into my slutty claws, dress her up like a street walker, then absolutely embarrass the shit out of her in front of my pack of cackling hyenas." Her voice cracked again. And then quieter, almost defeated: "And ya know what? If I was in her shoes, I'd think the exact same bloody thing."
Dianna was sobbing now.
Not loud. Not theatrical. Not even trying to hold it back.
Just quiet, awful tears that made her whole frame shake. Her voice came in stutters, like it hurt to force the words out.
"What if she doesn't come back, Liz?"
Elizabeth felt something seize in her chest.
Dianna didn't wait for an answer.
"What if I go back home tonight and all her shit's gone? The spare key on the hook, her stuff packed, and there's just a little note under a votive candle, like some holy fuckin' breakup poem."
Her voice pitched higher, cracking on the words.
"'This was a mistake. I'm sorry. I really liked you. I'll pray for you.'"
She hiccupped a laugh through the tears, mean and broken.
"And then she's just gone? Forever?"
Elizabeth moved then. Just a little. Her hand came to rest against Dianna's knee—light, steady, anchoring.
Dianna curled forward, pressing her hands to her face.
"How do I get back up from that?" she whispered. "Huh? Tell me, Elizabeth. How the fuck do I stand back up after that?"
She shook her head hard, like trying to dislodge the images crawling through her skull.
"I've gotten so used to her being around," she said, voice barely audible now. "She doesn't just tolerate me, you know? She listens."
She pulled her hands away, eyes bloodshot and gleaming.
"Not like she's trying to get up my skirt or bite my fuckin' tits. She listens like I matter. Like my words mean something."
Her throat worked around a sob.
"Better than anyone ever has."
A pause.
Then, quieter still:
"And she does all these cute things. Dumb things. Like writing little prayers in the fogged-up mirror after her showers. Or braiding my hair when she thinks I'm asleep. Or hiding chocolate in my boots."
She curled her arms tighter around herself.
"And she doesn't try to fix me. She doesn't flinch. Even when I say stuff that would make anyone else run. I've mocked her faith more than once, to her face and she just… stays."
Her voice hitched again.
"So what do I do, Liz?" she breathed. "What the fuck do I do now?"
Elizabeth didn't speak right away.
She couldn't.
Somewhere in the middle of Dianna's spiral—amid the sobs and half-choked panic and all the venom she'd spat at herself—something inside Elizabeth had begun to ache.
And by the end, as Dianna trembled and folded in on herself, asking what the fuck she was supposed to do now—
Elizabeth was crying too.
She hadn't realized it at first. Just a tightness in her throat. A slow, hot swell behind her eyes. But now, tears slid down her cheeks in silence. She didn't wipe them away.
Because now she understood.
Dianna hadn't mentioned Roxie's body once.
Not her strength. Not her height. Not the way her hips looked when she walked or how soft she was when curled up on the couch.
None of that.
She had talked about the little things. The sacred things.
The mirror prayers.
The chocolates in the boots.
The way Roxie listened—not to be polite, not to gain anything, but because Dianna mattered.
And that was when Elizabeth knew.
This wasn't infatuation.
This wasn't heat or lust or a late-night crush set to punk riffs.
It had been six weeks.
And already, Dianna had stopped seeing Roxie as a person.
She saw her as a partner.
Someone she shared a life with.
Someone who belonged in her mornings, and her silence, and her mess.
Someone who stayed.
And now?
Now Dianna was facing a future without that presence.
Without that love.
And it would tear out her soul.
Elizabeth didn't speak.
She just reached forward and pulled Dianna into her arms.
Held her as tightly as she could, her own tears soaking into Dianna's shoulder, their makeup blurring together where cheek met cheek.
Dianna didn't resist. She folded into it. Clung to it.
And finally, after a long, shaking breath—
Elizabeth spoke.
Her voice was low, but solid.
"We'll go find her."
The twins didn't ask.
Didn't speak.
Just arrived.
Elizabeth felt it before she saw them—movement at her sides, the soft rasp of boots on gravel, the familiar whisper of fishnet brushing denim. Ashley and Emily moved like a tide: matching strides, matching breath, each a half-second ahead of the other. Always synchronized. Always one.
They dropped down beside her, beside Dianna, without ceremony.
Ashley pressed her forehead gently to Dianna's shoulder, her hands sliding under Elizabeth's to hold onto Dianna's arm like an anchor. Emily curled in at Dianna's other side, cheek pressed lightly to her temple, a steady, grounding pressure.
No words. Not at first. They didn't need them.
Because they understood.
They knew what it meant to live with your heart outside your body. To love someone so completely that the mere thought of losing them made the world tilt sideways. It wasn't a fantasy for them—it was reality. A bond written in breath, and heartbeat, not just something ephemeral. Two souls woven together so tightly that the edges had long since blurred.
And watching Dianna break like this—
Watching her reach that same terrifying edge—
It struck something in both of them that they didn't talk about. Didn't have to talk about.
So they did the only thing they knew how to do.
They held her.
All of them pressed together in a loose, desperate pile. Not graceful. Not posed. Just human.
Ashley finally broke the silence, her voice quieter than Elizabeth had ever heard it.
"You think we're gonna let you go through this alone?"
Emily didn't lift her head. She just whispered, "You think we wouldn't come for each other?"
Ashley pulled in closer. "That kind of love? The kind you build your life around? That doesn't just stop. It doesn't vanish the second things get messy."
Emily's voice cracked. "If I lost her, I'd burn the world to find her."
And Ashley—unshaking, certain—added, "And I wouldn't stop looking for her if something happened. Not ever."
Elizabeth felt Dianna shudder between them.
Not from cold.
From knowing.
From finally, maybe, not feeling alone in how much it hurt to love someone that much.
Ashley's fingers curled through Dianna's.
"We're with you, D," she said.
Emily shifted just enough to press her brow to Dianna's.
"You don't let fairytales like this go," she murmured. "Not when they're real."
And for a moment, nothing else mattered.
The streetlight above buzzed. The distant hum of cars passed beyond the alley's mouth.
But in that little pocket of gravel and shared breath and tear-slick glitter, four girls held onto each other like it might save them.
Because maybe it would.
---
Inside The bar was quieter now. The hollerin' had died down, like even the night had run out of things to say.
Folks were still drinkin', still leanin' over their pool tables and trying to remember how to laugh without the sound catching in their throats—but it wasn't the same. Something had gone and shifted in the bones of the place.
And in that far booth, beneath the cracked Bud Light sign and the hum of the jukebox that hadn't played a song in thirty minutes, Tiny sat across from Jorge like a mountain that'd grown arms.
Both hands rested on a glass big enough to drown a small man in. He didn't drink from it. Just held it. Like it was the only thing keepin' his fingers from wrapping around Jorge's collar.
Jorge didn't say a word. He looked like he'd been chewed up and spit out, and maybe he had. But Tiny didn't speak to punish.
He spoke to reckon.
"You know I love her, don't you?"
Voice was quiet. Not soft, but deep. The kind of quiet that makes a room lean in, whether it wants to or not.
Jorge blinked. "I… yeah. Yeah, I figured."
Tiny nodded. Just once.
"I don't mean friendly. I don't mean bandmates. I mean real. Bone-deep. Since the first time I saw her on stage, hollerin' like a banshee, wearin' eyeliner sharp enough to kill and that cheap skirt she swore she got on clearance."
He gave the ghost of a smile. Sad thing. Like someone remembering a church that burned down.
"Girl stage-dived straight into me. Knocked me clean off my stool and broke my sunglasses. Called me her cushion of valor."
Jorge gave a breath of a laugh.
Tiny didn't.
"I made my peace," he said. "With bein' the side man. The one who stands behind her and cheers while she burns bright for somebody else."
He finally looked up.
Eyes calm. Not kind.
"But tonight?"
He exhaled slow.
"She looked happy, man."
Then, after a moment: "No. That ain't the right word."
He tilted his head, stein creaking in his grip.
"She looked joyful."
He let it hang there, like a bell tollin'.
"You know the difference? Happy is chips and a good song on the radio. Happy's a warm bed and a beer that's still cold. But joy—" he tapped a finger once against the glass "—joy's in the bones. Joy stays. Joy's what shines through when the rest of the world's on fire and you're still smilin' anyway."
He leaned back, heavy and certain.
"She was glowin'. All wrapped up in that giant Catholic schoolgirl like she'd finally found a place to rest her heart."
Then Tiny turned those eyes on Jorge again.
And Jorge, for the first time that night, looked like he truly understood how badly he'd messed up.
"I'd already lost," Tiny said. "And that was alright. Sometimes you step into the ring with Ali just to say you did. You take the hit. You wear the bruise. And you smile 'cause you stood there."
But now?
His voice cooled. A slow, cold thing.
"But what you did, Jorge…"
He leaned in.
"That wasn't a punch."
The stein groaned under his grip.
"That was acid."
The words didn't shout. They didn't need to.
"You took joy. Something real. Somethin' rare. And you laughed over it. Made it a joke. For a prank. On a girl you don't even know."
He shook his head, slow and sorrowful.
"What the hell were you thinkin', boy?"
Tiny didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The stein stayed clutched in his grip, thick fingers wrapped around it like it was the only thing stopping him from reaching across the table and ending the conversation a whole other way.
And across from him, Jorge took a breath. Then another. And finally, he spoke. Not fast. Not loud. Not pretty. Just honest. "I went first."
Tiny's brow lifted, just slightly.
Jorge nodded. "Kiss from a Rose. I sang it. Badly. On purpose."
He gave a little shrug, like the weight of it was finally sitting on his shoulders where it belonged.
"That was the plan. I'd go first. Act like a clown. Break the nerves. Then Roxie. She'd see how dumb it all was and maybe loosen up. Let herself shine a little. Let Dianna cheer her on and crack jokes about her pitch."
He swallowed.
"And then Violet."
He looked away. Toward the empty stage.
"She was supposed to go last. Big finish. Let Dianna blow the roof off once Roxie was already laughing. So it felt safe. So it felt like us."
He paused there. Just for a beat.
"And the guy switched the names. Somehow. Violet got called second."
He looked down at the tabletop, hands curled useless in his lap.
"I didn't fix it."
That landed harder than anything.
"I should've," Jorge said, quieter now. "I should've jumped up, waved it off, played it like a mistake. But I didn't. I just thought… maybe it'd be okay. Maybe it'd still land."
His voice faltered.
"And then she looked back at Roxie," he whispered. "And the world tilted."
Silence. He didn't beg. Didn't plead. He just sat in it. And let Tiny judge.
Because in the end, Jorge knew the truth of it better than anyone. It had all started with a joke. But the fallout wasn't funny. Not at all.
Tiny listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't flinch.
He just let Jorge say his piece, lay it out plain across the table like a man who knew he was setting down his own sentence.
When it was done, the silence that followed was deep. Heavy. Not awkward—weighty.
Tiny stared into the stein like it held the truth at the bottom. Then he set it down. Real gentle.
Like a man laying flowers on a grave.
He looked at Jorge—really looked—and spoke in that low, even voice that always seemed too kind until it wasn't. "I hear you," he said. And he did. That much was clear. "I believe you."
He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, fingers laced together like he was about to offer prayer—or deliver judgment.
"But if your little gag?" Tiny said, slow and steady, "If it broke this? If Roxie don't come back—if she don't look at Dianna the same way ever again?" He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
"I'm gonna hurt you."
There wasn't any anger in it. Just truth. Just inevitability.
"And if Dianna never recovers? If that light she had in her, that little spark she was finally lettin' shine, goes out because of what you pulled—"
He tapped the table once, like the final note of a hymn.
"Then that pain?" he said. "That ache she'll carry 'til her last breath?" Tiny's eyes never wavered. "It'll get to the afterlife just ahead of you." A pause. "Just long enough to hold the door."
He sat back then. Calm as Sunday. Sure as scripture. And Jorge? Jorge didn't argue. He just nodded.
Because some truths don't need repeating.
Tiny rose without drama.
No chair scraping, no grand gesture.
Just stood.
And Jorge—bless him—didn't even flinch. He just sat there like a man who'd been weighed, measured, and found wanting.
Tiny looked down at him one last time.
Voice still even. Still low.
"Go home."
He waited, let that land before finishing.
"Don't call nobody. Not 'til we try to fix this."
His gaze softened, just barely.
"Don't call us, Jorge. We'll call you."
And that was it.
No fire. No fury.
Just the weight of the Pack closing behind him like a door.
He turned, walked over to the bar, and dropped enough cash to cover everything they'd touched, plus a tip big enough to apologize for the air left behind.
Then he stepped outside.
And there they were.
His girls.
Ashley and Emily rising from the circle of limbs and gravel, smudged with glitter and mascara but standing tall again. Elizabeth brushing off her skirt, composed but raw.
And Dianna.
Still on the ground. Still curled small.
But talking now. Quietly. To no one in particular. He walked over, slow.
Didn't say anything. Just stood by her. Like a shadow, like a wall, like a man who'd rather bleed than let her be alone again.
She didn't look up.
Just kept talking, soft and far away, like listing the reasons might be enough to call Roxie home.
"She folds the toilet paper, even when it's just us in the house," she murmured. "Like she thinks God checks."
Ashley hovered beside her, arms crossed tight.
"She doesn't like to eat the corner pieces of cake. Says they're too proud."
Elizabeth's eyes flicked skyward. Listening. Measuring.
"She sings along to musicals under her breath but pretends she doesn't know the lyrics."
Emily wiped her nose on her sleeve. Quietly offered Dianna a water bottle.
"She apologizes to bugs before she kills them. Like she thinks they're gonna rat her out in heaven."
The Pack gathered.
No plan.
Just presence.
Tiny finally knelt beside her. One hand resting near, but not on, her shoulder.
"She hums when she thinks I'm asleep," Dianna whispered, then got to her feet. Shaking but standing. "But not lullabies. Hymns. Like she's trying to keep me safe."
Tiny nodded once. And the Pack stood. Brokenhearted. Grieving.
But whole.
They moved into the night as one, without fanfare or direction, just a shared purpose: find their angel.
And Dianna whispered, "I miss her already."