Jax’s smile grows, and someone in the audience screeches her undying love for him. His rich voice echoes over the park. “Hello, New York City!” More screaming. He pauses until it dies down a little. “Tonight is special. Tonight is for the beautiful ones we have lost, and for all the beautiful ones who suffer in silence.”

A few people whistle, but it’s gone so quiet that you can hear the rough emotion in Jax’s voice now. “We’re raising our voice tonight to let the world know that it no longer has to be silent when it comes to mental health. To let them know that they will be loved.”

Tears blur my vision, and I press a hand to my chest. Months in the making, my first project with Kill John was to help put this concert together. Dozens of artists have donated their time to perform to raise awareness for mental health and suicide prevention. Kill John will go first, mostly singing songs by idols we’ve all lost.

A heavy guitar riff slices through the air as Killian starts to play; Whip and Rye join in. The crowd goes wild. Jax begins to sing Nirvana’s “Drain You.” It isn’t sentimental or sweet, but Jax said it was one of Cobain’s favorites, so that’s what Kill John picked.

They don’t sound like Nirvana, though. They sound like themselves, perfect in their own way. I dance along, watching my man lean into the mic, all at once tight with power yet loose with confidence. As soon as the song ends, Killian and Jax start a duet of Soundgarden’s “Fell On Black Days.”

I love watching them together, the way they feed off each other, and how they’ll fall back and give it to Rye or Whip. These guys are a seamless machine, and yet they still have a raw enthusiasm. I know they feel total joy up there, and it’s contagious.

When they play “Apathy” and “Rush Love” a newer song of theirs, their energy lights up the night. Then Jax, sweaty and now gloriously shirtless, sets down his guitar and adjusts his mic. “You’re going to hear a lot of classics tonight. This one is a bit different. It’s for someone special to me.” Somehow, his eyes meet mine and he gives me a smile, that secret smile that belongs to no one else but me. “For Stella, ‘The resolution of all my fruitless searches.’”

My heart turns over in my chest, and I blow him a kiss.

Killian, though, leans in and laughingly asks, “Are you sure you want to do this? It doesn’t always go as expected, man.”

Whip drums out a campy, “da-dum-dum” on his drums. The audience laughs. Every Kill John fan knows that Killian once infamously dedicated Prince’s “Darling Nikki” to Libby, not realizing the context of the song wasn’t exactly the message he’d wanted to send.

Jax smirks at Killian. “Unlike you, I pay attention to the lyrics.” He glances back at me, his heart in his eyes, then turns his attention to the crowd. “I’m hoping you know this song enough to help me out and sing along.”

Despite their banter, the band has clearly planned this. Rye moves to a keyboard, and they start as one. It takes a few notes for me to get the song, but when I do, I smile wide, tears welling in my eyes. At my side, Brenna leans close, nudging my shoulder with a happy grin.

Jax sings Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” His voice is rough with emotion, his gaze mostly on me. The crowd sings with him, thousands of voices lifting up as one. Shivers break out over my skin, and I know in that moment what it means for Jax to be on that stage, how it feeds his soul and how he gives it back to the world. I sing too, return the words, meaning them with all I am.

As soon as they’re done, Jax jogs off the stage, waving his thanks to the cheering fans as he goes. He heads straight to me without falter, like he knew exactly where I’d been the whole time. Covered in sweat and glowing with vitality, he smiles, and I fling myself into his arms. “I love you.”

He lifts me off my feet, hugging tight before setting me down. “I love you too, Stella Button.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say, kissing his cheek, his lips, his chin.

He chuckles and holds me close. “That turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Totally,” I whisper in his ear, unashamed, loving the way he tenses, then moves his hand down to cup my butt. “When can we go?”

“Not for hours,” he says with a small groan. But I can wait. For him, I’ll wait as long as it takes, for however long he needs—because he is always worth it.

The next day, John ushers me out of the house. He’s taking me someplace but won’t tell me where.

“Not even a little hint?” I ask as we ride the elevator down from his loft. I still live with Brenna, but I spend most of my time at John’s. Neither of us has talked about moving into together, but it seems to hover in the air, this final, silent barrier between us.

I don’t even know what’s holding me back, only that some small part of me still has a protective wall around it. I think John realizes it, but he never says anything about it; he simply gives all of himself every day. And it makes me feel worse because I love him more with every day.

On the street, John flags a cab and gives him an address in Murray Hill, an area of massive old brownstones with tree-lined streets and clunky brick high-rises looming on the perimeter. I’m not really paying attention, though. All of my being is focused on the man next to me.

I feel the warmth of his body and his smooth skin along the whole of my exposed side. His familiar spicy scent teases my nose every-so-often, making me yearn to lean in and press my face into the crook of his neck. I love that spot on him. I love that I know when I kiss him there, he’ll shiver, then grunt low in his chest and pull me closer.

The cab stops in front of a big, lacy, wrought-iron gate tucked between two brick townhouses. John gives me a small smile and produces a key. Beyond the gate is a long alleyway lined with trees and potted plants.

“It’s an old mews,” John tells me, opening the gate and stepping back to let me enter. It’s a bit like stepping back in time to the nineteenth century. The sunlit space has an almost hushed air about it. Red brick townhouses with massive arched windows that run along two floors make up each side.

“It’s totally private.” John stops at an inky black door that has ivy climbing up along the side. “Another world tucked inside the city.”

Gaslights flank the door, flickering and hissing in the silence.

“It’s beautiful.” I have no idea why we’re here, but John has a key for this place as well. He takes a deep breath before opening the door, like he has to brace himself, and I have the urge to hold his hand.

Inside is filled with light, the walls creamy white plaster with huge onyx-framed windows. The worn wood floors give a slight creak when we walk over them, giving the space a sense of history. The place is empty, and our steps sound hollow beneath the high ceilings.

“There are four floors,” John says, leading me through a big living room with a black marble fireplace. “A library is over here.”

He’s pointing out features with the efficiency of a realtor, and I smile.

“What’s with the tour? Are you thinking of buying this place?”

John stops beside the big arched window and sunlight pours over his tall frame. “Not exactly. Come on. There’s more.”

He shows me a smaller room, lined with walnut wood bookshelves and a big window with diamond panes. As if he can’t help himself, he takes my hand. His is warm but slightly damp, and I know he’s actually nervous. I give his fingers a gentle squeeze as he leads me to a wide circular staircase made of mellow wood honed to a gentle sheen.