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Sebastian can feel the phone cameras on him as he stands in the VIP section of the stadium. The Three Words tour is your first tour of entirely stadium shows, and you’ve been infuriatingly vague about the setlist, despite it easily being his favorite album of yours. Unsurprisingly, an album of songs entirely about him has been quite the ego boost — aside from the three you’d written during those unfortunate two weeks that he’s reluctant to call a breakup.
The lights go down, and the entire stadium starts screaming as the kick drum begins to echo through the air, strong enough that Sebastian can feel it in his chest.
Spotlights slice through the air before converging at the center of the stage, and the screaming grows louder as you rise through the floor, grinning as you hold your mic — the screens on either side of the stage show the glint of your wedding ring.
The set is nothing short of incredible — it reminds him of the penthouse, just a bit, with the occasional change to make it less hazardous to dance and sing in. There’s the grand piano in the corner, and the long dining table surrounded by chairs at the front.
“Somewhere, we forgot to stop faking,” you sing, stepping onto the table as your dancers dance in pairs — of course you’re starting with “Daisy Chain” — “It’s the red string, daisy chain, love of our own making.”
When the song ends, he grins ear to ear as thousands of your fans scream again. That’s my wife, he thinks. It’s not new — nearly six months now — and yet, those words never fail to make him smile. His wife.
“Right,” you say. “Welcome, everyone, to the Three Words tour — ” More screams cut you off, and you laugh. “ — All right, you’re excited,” you say. “How about a round of applause for the band for a change?”
The fans oblige, and you have to talk over them. “And let’s not forget the best opener you’ve ever seen — the incredible Priscilla Wakefield!” you exclaim — when they finish cheering, you grin. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Two dancers, both with enough muscles that they practically have tree trunks for arms, reach up to either side of your outfit, tearing it away to reveal a bodysuit that has Sebastian’s mouth going dry. The drum slows, just a little, to a sultry beat he recognizes well, mimicking a thumping heartbeat.
It’s “Sweet as Sin.”
Also known as Sebastian’s favorite song of yours.
He can still remember the first time you’d played it for him, albeit somewhat shyly — you’d wanted to make sure he was okay with putting something so personal to your lives on the album.
He has zero regrets about giving you the go-ahead as you raise the microphone to your lips. “This song goes out to my husband,” you say, grinning as the audience cheers — the lights pulse before settling on you.
One of your dancers — a tall man with brown hair and olive skin — lifts you at the waist, spinning you around before setting you down in front of the table, and something about the way he smiles at you makes Sebastian’s stomach turn.
The way you smile back doesn’t help either.
Sebastian Sallow doesn’t consider himself a particularly jealous or possessive man — he has his moments, sure, but they’re few and far between. He loves you, you love him, and that’s enough. Still, he can’t help but keep an eye on that dancer through the rest of the show.
It’s just choreography, he reminds himself when the dancer leans in uncomfortably close to you. It’s both of your jobs — like when he was in that rom-com and had to kiss his costar. It’s irrational — if normal — to be jealous, he thinks, like when you’d pouted after watching said rom-com.
When the show ends, he resolves not to mention it to you. He doesn’t want to overshadow your night — which is exactly what he’ll end up doing if he brings up that dancer. He can talk to you about it some other time if he has to.
Backstage, you’re practically glowing, sweat-soaked and grinning, and you run into Sebastian’s arms, letting him spin you around.
“You were incredible, love,” he tells you as he sets you down, kissing your forehead.
You smile, taking his hand and squeezing. “You liked it?” you ask, your voice hoarse from singing but still overwhelmingly happy.
“I loved it,” he replies emphatically. “It’s better than freefall.”
You roll your eyes as you start walking, hand-in-hand. “You’re just saying that because the album I’m touring for is about you.”
“Not my fault I’m a better muse than Eric Northcott,” he says, unable to hide the smugness in his voice.
You stop walking and look up at him. “Something’s up with you.”
“Nothing’s up with me,” Sebastian says, scoffing. “Unless you’re referring to the fact that I’m deeply proud of my wife.”
You pin him with a look, and he knows he can’t hide anything from you.
“Fine,” he relents. “I didn’t love the way one of those dancers was looking at you.”
You sigh, but the corner of your mouth lifts like you’re amused. “I hired all of my dancers,” you tell him. “If they do anything they aren’t supposed to, I can fire them.”
The dam having broken, he can’t stop the jealousy from pouring out. “And what if they do something I didn’t like?” he asks, no longer caring how petulant he sounds.
You fold your arms. “Like what?”
“Like lifting you by the waist and then smiling like he’s the one married to you.”
You laugh — actually laugh. “You’re talking about Amit,” you say. “Seb, he’s married — he has been for years.”
He frowns, but before he can mumble anything else, you take both of his hands in yours.
“He’s married to a man,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Oh,” Sebastian says, feeling very, very stupid.
You raise your eyebrows at him, squeezing his hands. “Are you done being jealous?”
“I wasn’t jealous,” he mutters, ignoring the fact that he absolutely was. “Like I said, you put on a great show, love.”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you start walking again. “Sure you weren’t,” you say. “How about we go home?”
“Let’s,” he agrees, wanting nothing more.