Rain's POV
It was supposed to be five minutes.
Grab batteries. Maybe cough drops. Get Sky her stupid strawberry milk and drag her out before she started petting stuffed animals or buying glitter glue again.
Instead, she was bouncing through aisle six like a toddler on espresso.
"I need these." She held up unicorn stickers and sparkly pens. "What if I start journaling?"
"You've said that every week for three years."
"This time it's real! Look—this one even smells like bubblegum!"
I didn't answer. I just grabbed the batteries and turned toward the pharmacy. She followed like a duckling in platform boots, her mile-long hair swishing behind her like it had its own personality. I swear it knocked over a box of chewing gum.
"Rain," she whispered like it was a secret. "They have 99-cent glitter lip balm!"
"No."
"You didn't even look!"
"No."
"You're no fun."
I kept walking. She almost tripped on a display of seasonal chocolates and caught herself on my arm, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Her hand stayed there.
I didn't move.
Not until the door jingled open behind us. I heard it before she did.
Footsteps. Voices. Cameras.
"Rain Ashford! Sky! Are you two dating?!"
Sky froze.
I stepped in front of her instinctively, jaw clenched.
The lights hit fast—white, sharp, searing. I threw my hood up, but it didn't matter. I was six-foot-something, in a black hoodie with a face people called "intense" on polite days and "scary" in gossip columns.
Sky peeked over my shoulder. And instead of freaking out—
She smiled.
Actually smiled.
"Hi!" she said, waving like they were fans and not hyenas. "We're just buying cereal!"
I almost choked.
She held up a box of Lucky Charms like it was proof. "Not dating, just hungry!"
They kept shouting. I put a hand on her waist, firm. "Sky."
She looked up at me. Unbothered. Glitter lip balm in her other hand.
She was chaos incarnate. Sunshine wrapped in sequins. The kind of girl who could smile through a storm like she'd invented it.
And I hated that it scared me.
Because I couldn't control her. Couldn't predict her. Couldn't protect her from cameras or questions or the way people would twist her softness into weakness.
But right now—she was laughing.
And I didn't stop her.
We got out eventually. I shoved a few flashes away with my glare and she skipped next to me like it was a field trip, sipping her strawberry milk like it was champagne.
"That was wild," she giggled. "You looked like you were gonna commit a felony."
"I was considering it."
She beamed.
"I like when you're all protective and grumpy. It means you care."
I didn't answer.
But I held the car door open for her.
And when she fell asleep on the ride home, head against the window, cereal box in her lap—I didn't wake her.
I just watched.
And wondered when, exactly, she'd stopped being just a bandmate.
And started becoming the only chaos I didn't want to live without.