#preciado

The crew was setting up soundcheck when you finally lowered the drone, satisfied with the angles. You were wiping the dust from your camera lens when Markus, one of the long-time lighting roadies who was famously territorial and bitter, walked past.

Markus had always been a nuisance, making misogynistic jokes and resenting any perceived attention the band gave you.

He stopped, eyeing you up and down. “Oh, look who’s actually working. Good girl. Heard your boyfriend finally figured out you were wasting his time and ditched you in St. Louis. Smart guy.”

The casual cruelty, coming from a complete stranger, hit harder than any of Jaime’s calculated insults. It stripped away all the rationalizations you had built around the breakup.

You stiffened, trying to muster a dismissive response. “My personal life isn’t relevant to the lighting crew, Markus.”

He smirked, leaning in, his breath smelling like stale beer. “Sure it is. You and your high-roller fiancé were keeping the good room quiet. Now you’re alone, and the bass player is probably going to run through you like a cheap hotel towel. Don’t worry, happens to all the hot girls who get too close to the stage. Just don't let him leave you with any souvenirs.”

The comment wasn't about Ethan; it was about Jaime. It confirmed your worst fear, that the crew already saw you as a target, just another temporary conquest. The secret you were fighting so hard to protect was already an assumed reality in the disgusting mind of a bitter roadie.

You felt a sickening wave of heat rush to your face. You couldn't speak. You just turned away and walked off the stage riser, your hands shaking violently. You didn't even pack up your drone. You walked straight out of the venue and hailed a cab to the hotel.

You burst into your room and finally collapsed. The tears came. Not the hot, cleansing rage tears, but quiet, shuddering sobs born of pure, cold humiliation. You cried for the end of your relationship, for the lie you were living, and for the realization that Jaime's toxicity had immediately made you a public joke.

You didn't hear the light, controlled knock on your door. You only heard the quiet click as the door opened.

Jaime stood silhouetted in the doorway. He was still in his soundcheck jeans, a black t-shirt, and his arms were bare and heavy with his tattoos. He had clearly come directly from the venue, fueled by the memory of the photo and the anticipation of a messy, angry hookup to punish you for teasing him.

He was ready for war. He was ready for the fire.

He took one step in, his eyes immediately assessing the room and then they landed on you.

You were curled up on the carpet, shaking, your face buried in your knees, the silence of your sobs more desperate than any scream.

The aggressive, confident posture drained out of him instantly. The predatory look in his eyes vanished, replaced by an expression you had never seen before: confusion, vulnerability, and a sudden, sharp empathy.

He closed the door quietly, the lock engaging with a soft, final thud. He didn't move toward you with lust. He moved with a cautious hesitation.

"Y/N?" he asked, his voice low, completely stripped of its usual drawl or command. It was just a quiet, genuinely concerned question.

You flinched but didn't look up. "Get out," you choked out, the words muffled.

He ignored the order. He sank down onto the carpet a few feet away from you, resting back on his heels. He didn't touch you. He just waited, letting the silence fill the room.

"What happened?" he finally asked.

"It doesn't matter," you whispered, pushing the heel of your hand hard into your eye socket. "It just confirms everything you've been saying. Everything I did was stupid."

He didn't argue. He didn't say, I told you so. He just watched you.

"Was it Markus?" he asked quietly. "Did he say something to you about... about Ethan?"

You nodded miserably. "He said you were going to run through me like a cheap hotel towel. He said I was wasting Ethan's time."

Jaime closed his eyes for a moment, a muscle twitching in his jaw. When he opened them, the casual indifference was gone. He looked genuinely furious, not at you, but at the situation, at the roadie, and perhaps, at his own role in setting this mess up.

He crawled closer, moving with an unprecedented gentleness. He reached out and lightly rested his hand on your back, the heat of his skin immediately sinking through your shirt.

"Look at me, Y/N," he ordered, the voice still commanding, but soft.

You slowly lifted your head. Your face was blotchy, your eyes red and streaming. The sheer embarrassment of letting him see you like this,this raw, broken mess, was almost worse than Markus's insult.

He didn't comment on your appearance. He just looked at the tracks the tears were leaving on your cheeks.

He lifted his hand from your back, his eyes fixed on yours. His thumb was rough, calloused from his bass strings. He slowly, carefully, used that thumb to wipe away a stream of tears from beneath your eye.

Then, he leaned forward, his mouth replacing his thumb. He pressed his lips softly to the exact spot where his hand had been, right on your cheekbone, tracing the path of the tears.

It wasn't a demanding kiss. It wasn't about sex or ownership. It was a kiss of shared human pain, a quiet apology for the chaos he had invited into your life. He tasted of the stale smoke and adrenaline from the venue, but the gesture was pure, unexpected tenderness.

He shifted his weight and pulled you gently into his lap. He didn't speak. He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, letting you bury your face against the solid comfort of his neck.

"Markus is an idiot," he finally murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "And what we do is none of his business. Don't let him ruin the entire fucking tour for you, Y/N."

He held you for a long, silent time. He didn't demand anything. He simply provided a safe, heavy weight, an anchor in the middle of your emotional storm. It was the kindest, most intimate treason he had ever committed.

You stayed curled in his lap, pressed against the solid strength of his chest, for what felt like hours. The quiet weeping subsided into shuddering breaths, and eventually, into the heavy calm of emotional exhaustion. Jaime remained silent the entire time, his arms simply holding you: a solid, non-sexual embrace that was a hundred times more intimate than any of their aggressive encounters.

His scent, usually a trigger for anger and lust, was suddenly a pure comfort. You focused on the slow, steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear and the feeling of his calloused fingers gently stroking the hair at the back of your neck. It was the safe harbor you hadn't known you were desperate for.

You weren't thinking about the shame, or the roadie, or even the contract. You were simply resting in the unexpected warmth of his humanity.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, finally took over. Your muscles relaxed against his, your breathing deepened, and you drifted into a deep, heavy sleep, the first genuinely restful sleep you’d had since leaving Ethan.

You woke up slowly, disoriented by the heavy curtains drawn over the hotel windows. The room was dark and still.

Your body registered immediately that the anchor was gone.

The solid weight beneath your cheek was replaced by the cold, coarse texture of the carpet. The heat was gone. The rhythmic heartbeat was gone.

You sat up abruptly, your heart giving a painful lurch. You were alone on the floor, still curled in the fetal position where he had held you.

You scrambled to your feet, looking around the dim room.

The door was closed and securely locked.

The room was silent.

Jaime was gone.

He hadn't left a note. He hadn't sent a text. The only indication he had been there was the slight indentation on the carpet where his body had been, and a large, empty water bottle sitting on the coffee table beside your camera bag.

The sudden, cold absence was a crushing blow. He had given you what you needed: tenderness, comfort, and protection and then, as soon as the need was filled and the danger of true connection arose, he had vanished. He was a force of nature; he couldn't stick around for the sunshine.

You walked over to the coffee table. You reached for your phone, desperate for a message, a sign, an explanation.

There was nothing. Not even a timestamp on his last communication.

You walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on your face. You looked at your reflection. Your eyes were still red and slightly puffy from crying, but the panic was replaced by a familiar, hard resentment.

He was a master of emotional withdrawal. He had given you a glimpse of safety, knowing that the immediate retreat would hurt more, confirming that while he might be capable of empathy, he was structurally incapable of commitment.

You quickly checked the time on your phone. It was 7:00 PM. You had slept for hours.

The band would be well into their evening routine, probably already heading toward dinner or pre-show soundcheck.

You grabbed your camera, your energy suddenly focused. You had a job to do, and you needed to put distance between yourself and the empty spot on the floor.

As you rushed out the door to head back to the venue, your phone buzzed,not a text, but a notification from your banking app.

It was a small, immediate deposit labeled: "Denver: Drone Repair."

A direct, financial acknowledgment of the reason you had left the venue,the damaged equipment,and a silent compensation for the emotional wreckage. A transactional confirmation that the moment of tenderness was over, and the only currency remaining was business.

He was already back to being the bastard.

And you were already back to being angry.

The venue was already pulsing with pre-show energy, a mix of stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and the booming reverberations of the house music. You walked through the loading dock, adrenaline masking the exhaustion from your long sleep. The drone was irrelevant now; your priority was finding your crew and resetting the boundary with Jaime.

You located the band's dressing room, a chaotic scene of scattered laundry, empty bottles, and road cases. Vic was leaning against a wall, looking relieved when he saw you.

“Y/N! Where the hell did you go? We thought you were having altitude sickness or something. The drone is fine, just dusty. You need to get out there; the lighting test is starting.”

“Sorry, Vic. Massive headache,” you lied easily, already scanning the room.

Tony waved from across the room, smiling. “You look way better than you did this morning, Y/N. See? Sleep works miracles.”

Jaime was sitting in the back corner, stringing a bass. He was surrounded by his gear and his protective crew, his expression distant and focused. He was talking quietly to Loniel about a tempo change.

He looked up as Vic was speaking to you. His eyes dark, intense, and completely unreadable, met yours across the crowded room.

The air thinned.

He offered no greeting. No smirk. No acknowledgment of the tears, the silence, or the shared sleep. His gaze was professional, sharp, and lingering, a private inspection under the guise of casual awareness. He was checking to make sure you were functional, ready to perform your role in the public lie.

You met his gaze directly, holding it for a beat longer than was comfortable, making sure he understood you were not fragile. You offered him a tight, cool nod. The perfect signal of professional annoyance.

He responded with an infinitesimal tightening around his mouth, not a smile, but a subtle acknowledgement of your communication. He then immediately dropped his eyes back to his instrument, utterly dismissing you.

The performance was perfect.

You grabbed your main camera and headed to the stage wings. The house lights were down, bathing the massive venue in a low, expectant purple haze. You began shooting the lighting test, focusing your attention on the harsh, beautiful chaos of the stage.

You were watching Loniel adjust a microphone when you felt the change in the air behind you.

Tony walked up, leaning against the cold concrete wall beside you, watching the stage.

“Hey, Y/N,” he murmured. “Look, I know Jaime is an absolute asshole most of the time.”

You focused the lens, pretending to check a setting. “I haven’t noticed.”

Tony gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah, right. Everyone notices. But I wanted to say, I’m glad you ditched Ethan. He was a wet blanket, and you deserve better. Plus, he hated our music, which is a sin.”

You felt a genuine wave of warmth for Tony. He was one of the few people on this tour who seemed to see you as a person, not a resource.

“Thanks, Tony. It was time,” you said quietly.

He paused, then added, “It's just... I saw you talking to Markus earlier. Don't let that idiot get in your head. He’s been trying to get kicked off the tour since Tuesday.”

He looked toward the back of the stage, where Jaime was now standing near a monitor, adjusting an earphone.

“And honestly? Jaime’s been in a mood all day. Quiet, focused, not his usual loud, womanizing crap. He was actually pissed when Vic told us you left the venue. Said you were supposed to get shots of the drone test. He’s usually thrilled when his photographers disappear.”

Tony lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think he’s actually impressed that you’re not taking his shit, Y/N. Don’t let him know that, though. Keep the wall up.”

Tony didn't realize the massive irony of his advice. The wall was up, but it was hiding a burning building.

You nodded, accepting the advice, trying to process the idea that Jaime had been pissed, not because he missed you, but because your absence disrupted his schedule. That felt more real than the fleeting kindness in the hotel room.

You started shooting the wide stage setup, deliberately moving away from Tony. As you moved toward the downstage left monitor, you found yourself directly across the stage from Jaime.

He was testing his bass, running a low, resonant riff through his amp. He caught your eye again.

This time, the look wasn't cold. It was calculating, a silent communication that acknowledged the new, complicated truth: I was nice. I broke my own rule. Don’t you dare tell anyone, and don't expect it again.

You responded with a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head. A clear sign that the moment of tenderness was forgotten and the transactional contract was back in place.

He finally offered a tiny, controlled smirk, his way of accepting the terms of your renewed cold war. He adjusted his stance, settling his bass strap over his shoulder.

He raised his hand not waving, but a subtle gesture toward your camera and then pointed toward the center mic, where Vic was testing his vocals.

It was a direct, professional order: Stop looking at me. Get back to work.

You immediately lifted your camera, focusing the lens, accepting the dominance. You hated him for the ease with which he shifted between comfort and command, but you were addicted to the rhythm. The show was about to start, and you were ready to capture every facet of his dangerous performance.

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