Chapter Six: Rory Kells Ruins Everything

Cleaning someone else’s apartment while they sit three feet away drinking coffee you made is a very specific kind of awkward.

It’s like being a ghost with a mop.

I wiped down the kitchen counter again because apparently my coping mechanism was polishing surfaces that were already clean and tried to pretend I wasn’t hyper aware of the fact that Jace Wilder was on the couch behind me in sweatpants.

Barefoot.

Quiet.

Existing like a normal tired teenager who happened to have his face on billboards.

Every few seconds, my brain attempted to sabotage me by screaming: This is the lead singer of NEON ATLAS.

And every few seconds, I told my brain, Yes. And dust still exists.

I took my gloves off, checked my laminated list, and moved toward the hallway.

“I’m going to do the bathroom,” I said, because announcing your movements makes you seem professional, and also because I needed to hear my own voice to stay grounded.

“Okay,” Jace said softly.

He sounded like he’d been bracing for me to say something else. Like, Can I have a selfie? Can you sing for me? Can I touch your hair for spiritual healing?

Instead, I just said, “Bathroom.”

I headed down the hall with my supplies, passing a closed door that I assumed was his bedroom. The air back here felt different, less bright, more lived in. Like the apartment’s front half had been staged for cameras, and the back half was where he ran out of energy.

The bathroom was immaculate in a way that made me suspicious. I cleaned anyway, wiped the sink, sanitized the counter, polished the mirror until my reflection looked like a girl trying very hard not to implode.

As I scrubbed, I tried not to think about how ridiculous my life had gotten in under forty eight hours.

Two days ago: chemistry homework and pretending I didn’t know all the lyrics to “Starlit Ache.”

Now: cleaning “private accommodations” during press week while the person who sang “Starlit Ache” stared into his coffee like it held the meaning of existence.

I finished the bathroom quickly, there wasn’t much to do and stepped back into the hallway.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside the windows.

Jace was still on the couch, but he wasn’t watching me anymore. He was staring out at the skyline, face turned slightly away, shoulders slumped. The coffee mug sat untouched in his hands like he’d forgotten it existed.

Gloomy wasn’t even dramatic enough a word.

It was more like… the lights had gone out behind his eyes.

I slowed, and for a second I considered pretending I hadn’t noticed. That would be the safest option. That’s what most people do when they see someone looking like that, look away so they don’t have to carry it.

But he’d looked cornered last night.

And I knew what it felt like to be tired in a way that wasn’t fixed by sleep.

So I cleared my throat gently. “Hey.”

His eyes blinked, like he was coming back from somewhere far away. He straightened too fast, like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Hey,” he echoed, voice a little brighter than it had been two seconds ago.

The mask.

Not the full stage mask. But the habit of it.

“You good?” I asked, because I’m apparently the kind of person who asks questions and then regrets them.

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

I waited a beat.

He exhaled and tried again, quieter and more honest. “I’m… fine. Just… thinking.”

“Cool,” I said. “Thinking is overrated.”

That earned me a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like a small victory for humanity.

I walked back toward the kitchen, checking my list again so I had something to do with my hands.

“Do you have a lot of stuff this week?” I asked, because “small talk” was safer than “emotional excavation.”

Jace made a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. “Yeah.”

“Like… interviews?” I prompted.

He nodded, staring down at his mug. “Radio tomorrow morning. TV the day after. A signing event. A photo shoot. Meetings about the next tour.”

My eyebrows lifted before I could stop them. “That sounds… horrible.”

He looked up fast, surprised, like people weren’t supposed to say that part out loud.

I shrugged. “I mean. The photo shoot might be fun if you like standing in different jackets while someone tells you to tilt your chin ‘like you’re thinking about your dreams.’ But the rest of it… yeah.”

A real laugh slipped out of him then, brief, quiet, like it startled him. He covered it quickly with a sip of coffee, which made me feel weirdly proud of my coffee.

“I hate the signing events,” he admitted after a moment. “Not because of the fans. They’re… good. It’s just.” He stopped, jaw tightening. “It’s like you’re a product. Smile. Sign. Smile. Sign. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t look tired. Don’t.” He cut himself off, eyes dropping.

I kept my voice light on purpose, because heavy emotions in luxury apartments felt like they would echo too much. “Bright side,” I said.

He glanced up, skeptical.

“At least you’re staying in one city for a few weeks,” I said. “No airports. No living out of a suitcase every night. You can… be tired in the same location.”

His mouth quirked. “That’s the most depressing bright side I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s realistic optimism,” I said. “A specialty.”

He leaned back a little, and for the first time since I’d walked in, his shoulders loosened like he wasn’t bracing for impact.

“Do you always talk like that?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like… you’re not impressed,” he said, but it didn’t sound offended. It sounded curious.

I wiped the counter again, because apparently I liked making my point while cleaning. “I am impressed,” I said honestly. “Your vocals are insane. But you’re still just… you.”

He watched me for a moment, and something soft crossed his face, relief, maybe. Or gratitude he didn’t know how to show without turning it into a performance.

Then the doorbell rang.

The change in him was immediate.

His spine went stiff. His eyes sharpened. The quiet calm cracked like thin ice.

He set the mug down carefully, like sound itself might betray him.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.

“No,” he said too quickly.

The doorbell rang again.

A third time, immediately after, like whoever was outside had the patience of a toddler with a sugar addiction.

Jace stood, already moving toward the door with a tension in his shoulders that made my stomach tighten.

He checked the peephole.

His posture eased a fraction.

Then, to my surprise, he opened the door without calling security.

Two boys tumbled in like a controlled explosion of energy.

One had messy blond hair and a grin big enough to power the building. The other moved more carefully, dark hair, sharper eyes, calm in a way that looked practiced.

Both were instantly recognizable, even in street clothes.

Rory Kells and Micah Sato.

My brain tried to leave my body out of self-defense.

Rory’s gaze snapped to me like I was a shiny object.

“Oh my.” Rory breathed, and then he pointed like he’d just discovered a rare species. “IT’S PLANT GIRL.”

I froze mid wipe.

Jace’s head whipped toward Rory. “Don’t.”

Rory ignored him completely, stepping farther inside with a paper bag in his hands. “No way. No. This is fate. This is cosmic. This is."

Micah’s gaze flicked from Rory to me, instantly assessing. “Who’s she?”

I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’m Quinn. I’m… working.”

Rory gasped like I’d just delivered a plot twist. “You’re the girl from last night.”

“I… don’t know what you mean,” I said, because I had signed a confidentiality agreement and also because I valued my continued survival.

Rory beamed like that was confirmation anyway. “You totally saved him.”

Jace closed his eyes briefly, like he was begging the ceiling for patience.

Micah’s expression stayed neutral, but his eyes were sharp. “You’re staff?”

“Yes,” I said. “Westbridge Staffing.”

Micah’s gaze flicked to Jace. “Drew knows?”

Jace rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t know it was her until she walked in.”

Rory dropped the bag on the counter and leaned in toward me, stage whispering like there weren’t three people in the room who could hear him perfectly. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who screamed his name and didn’t mean ‘come here.’”

“That was… the goal,” I said.

Rory laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “I love you.”

Micah shot Rory a warning look. “Rory.”

“What?” Rory said innocently. “I’m being appreciative. Plant Girl is a hero.”

I hated how warm my face got.

“I’m not.” I began.

Rory held up a hand. “Nope. It’s official. Plant Girl. That’s your name now.”

Jace finally spoke, voice tight but not angry. “Her name is Quinn.”

Rory blinked dramatically. “Quinn Plant Girl. Even better.”

I cleared my throat again, because apparently my throat was my emergency brake. “I’m not supposed to… interact much,” I said, aiming for professional.

Rory’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, she’s professional. She’s like… a secret agent.”

“I’m a cleaner,” I said.

Micah nodded once, like he respected the bluntness. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Rory turned toward Jace, shoving the paper bag toward him. “We brought food because you will forget to eat and then you’ll get all ‘poetic ghost boy’ again.”

“I’m fine,” Jace muttered.

Micah raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t eaten since the hotel.”

Jace’s jaw tightened.

Rory opened the bag and began pulling out containers like he was setting up an emergency buffet. “Okay. Soup. Rice. Something green. And these,” he said, holding up a packet of cookies, “for emotional support.”

Jace stared at the cookies like they might fix his entire life.

I stood there, suddenly feeling like an intruder in something that mattered, friendship, routine, their strange little orbit around each other. For all the screaming fans and glossy interviews, this looked like the real part of their lives: showing up with food, checking in, noticing when someone hadn’t eaten.

The bright side of fame, maybe.

That they had each other.

Rory snapped his fingers at me. “Do you want some? We have.”

“No,” Micah said immediately.

Rory’s head turned slowly. “Micah.”

Micah kept his eyes on me. “It’s not personal. It’s policy. Drew would lose his mind if he found out we were sharing takeout with staff in a private unit.”

I lifted both hands. “I’m good,” I said quickly. “I already ate.”

Which was a lie, unless you counted half a granola bar and stress.

Jace glanced at me like he knew I was lying.

I refused to acknowledge that.

Rory looked disappointed for half a second, then brightened again because Rory seemed physically incapable of staying disappointed. “Okay, fine. More for us.”

Jace leaned against the counter, watching Rory unload food with the tired fondness of someone who’d seen this exact ritual a hundred times.

Micah leaned slightly toward Jace, voice low. “You okay?”

Jace nodded once. “Yeah.”

Micah’s eyes didn’t quite soften, but they eased. He glanced back at me. “She signed an NDA?”

“Yes,” Jace said, a little firmer. “She told me.”

Micah’s shoulders loosened slightly, like that mattered. Then he looked at me again. “No photos. No posts. No telling anyone.”

“I know,” I said. “I like my life. I’m not trying to… explode it.”

Rory laughed. “Plant Girl is wise.”

“Quinn,” Jace corrected automatically, but there was a hint of amusement in it now.

Rory grinned at him. “Quinn,” he agreed, as if he was doing Jace a personal favor.

Then Jace’s phone buzzed on the counter.

His entire expression changed just from the vibration, like his body recognized stress before his brain did.

He glanced at the screen.

“Drew,” he said flatly.

Micah immediately straightened. Rory’s grin dimmed a notch.

Jace answered, putting it on speaker because apparently privacy was a joke in this apartment now.

“Where are you?” Drew’s voice snapped through the phone. Crisp, controlled panic disguised as professionalism.

“In the unit,” Jace said.

“Good,” Drew said. “Don’t leave. I’ve got an updated schedule. And listen, security flagged extra fan activity around Hartwell today. No opening the door unless it’s me, Micah, Rory, or security.”

Rory mouthed extra fan activity at me like it was gossip.

Micah shot him a look that could freeze lava.

Drew continued, “Also, I’m told staff was assigned to the unit today.”

Jace’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

There was a brief pause, the kind where you can tell someone is choosing their words carefully.

“Keep interaction minimal,” Drew said. “No unnecessary conversation. And make sure she understands confidentiality is non negotiable.”

I stepped forward before Jace could speak for me, because I was not about to be framed as the weak link.

“I understand,” I said clearly.

There was another pause.

Drew’s tone shifted slightly, like he’d just realized I could hear him. “Good. Thank you. That’s all.”

The call ended.

The apartment fell quiet again, the air a little tighter than before.

Rory lifted a cookie like it was a toast. “Well. That was… a delight.”

Micah exhaled through his nose. “Eat.”

Jace stared at the food like it was a chore and a comfort at the same time. Then he sat at the counter and opened one container.

Rory looked at me and, to his credit, lowered his volume. “Sorry,” he said, surprisingly sincere for someone who’d named me after indoor landscaping. “We’re not trying to make your job weird.”

“It’s already weird,” I said.

Rory’s grin returned. “Fair.”

Micah nodded once, like that was the correct answer.

I grabbed my supplies again. “I’m going to finish the floors,” I said, because normalcy required tasks.

Jace looked up mid-bite. “You don’t have to.”

“It’s literally the job,” I said.

He blinked, then nodded like he was learning a new language.

I vacuumed the living room while Rory talked about something ridiculous, an interviewer who’d asked him what his “spirit animal” was, and how he’d said “a raccoon in sunglasses” just to see what would happen. Micah corrected him on the schedule twice. Jace mostly listened, quiet but present.

And the more they talked, the more the apartment felt less like a staged glass box and more like… a place where people existed. Messy, loud, hungry people.

When my shift neared the end, I packed my kit, checked my list, and headed for the door.

Rory waved at me like I was an old friend. “Bye, Quinn Plant Girl!”

“Bye, Rory,” I said. “Try not to get eaten by fans.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “She’s one of us.”

Micah gave me a small nod. “Take care.”

I nodded back, oddly relieved by his approval, even though it came with the warmth of a security scanner.

Jace followed me to the door, quieter now that the joke energy had faded.

“Quinn,” he said.

I paused, hand on the handle. “Yeah?”

He looked like he wanted to say a lot of things and didn’t know which ones were allowed.

Finally, he settled on something simple. “Thanks. For… being normal.”

I snorted softly. “Don’t oversell it. I screamed your name in a hallway like a maniac.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah. But today you… didn’t.”

“That’s growth,” I said.

For a second, his eyes held mine, tired, but lighter than they’d been when I walked in.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, then immediately seemed to regret how that sounded. “I mean, if you’re assigned.”

“I go where the mop takes me,” I said, deadpan.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Okay. Good.”

I stepped into the hallway, the door closing softly behind me, and finally let out the breath I’d been holding for most of the shift.

In the elevator down, my phone buzzed with a text from Sienna.

Sienna: HOW WAS YOUR FIRST SHIFT. WHERE ARE YOU WORKING. I WILL GUESS.

I typed back:

Me: I CANNOT TELL YOU. CONFIDENTIALITY. ALSO IT WAS FINE.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Sienna: ARE YOU CLEANING FOR SOMEONE FAMOUS.

My stomach dropped.

I stared at the message as the elevator descended, feeling the bright side of the day, job, money, steady hours, get shadowed by one inconvenient truth:

I was going to have to lie to my best friend.

Again.

Before I could respond, another notification popped up, a link from Sienna with a caption:

Sienna: QUINN. LOOK AT THIS. IS THAT YOU???

I clicked.

A video loaded, grainy, shaky, shot from the arena hallway.

A crowd screaming. A blur of dark hair. Security.

And then, for half a second, the camera swung and caught a girl near a giant fake plant, hood up, face half turned, screaming and pointing down the corridor.

The angle was bad.

The quality was worse.

But the stance, the jacket, the stupid bag strap across the shoulder.

It looked like me.

My heart started sprinting again.

Because the universe, apparently, wasn’t done being creative.