Still Into You

by Erin Connor

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

Two exes reunite for a make-or-break interview that will either bring them back together . . . or drive them apart forever.

Sloane Donavan dreamed of being a rock journalist ever since she posted her first MySpace blog. Now, one journalism degree, a failed internship, and dozens of backstage passes later, she’s struggling to land a full-time staff position. So when punk rock’s most notorious and elusive frontman offers her his first interview in eight years, Sloane should be jumping at the opportunity—but taking it would mean reconnecting with the only guy she’s ever loved (and lost), Dax Nakamura.

Unable to pass up a shot at making her name—and helping Dax clear the reputation that’s plagued his—Sloane agrees. It’s only a conflict of interest if anyone finds out. But the article Dax wants and the salacious tell-all Sloane’s editor is expecting are two completely different stories. And as old feelings resurface, Sloane’s journalistic integrity hangs in the balance. This is the career-making piece she’s been waiting for, but it comes with a price: the chance to rewrite the ending with her first and only love.

Release date: February 10, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Sloane Donavan, Alternative Press.”

Tugging my press pass from my back pocket, I hold it up for the beefy man in the overtight black shirt that reads SECURITY.

He gives his stickered clipboard a cursory glance before opening the graffitied door for me. A blast of music ushers me inside, and I return the badge to my pocket while my eyes adjust to the darkness of the venue. This is my first time here, but all backstages are roughly the same. Bare-bones, all the effort put into the part the concertgoers will see. Back here, it’s all metal rigging and scuffed wooden floors covered in leftover tape from past events.

I love it. It’s my second-favorite place in the world.

Once I can see, I follow the flow of bodies, weaving in and out of roadies trying to do their jobs amongst the ever-growing crowd backstage. Amidst the flurry, I find the bespectacled woman I seek.

“Robb!” I call over the crowd.

Head whipping to the side, her eyes meet mine and she gestures me over, making room for me side stage. Everything sounds terrible in the wings—too much drums and not enough of literally everything else. I never watch shows from here, but it’s where we always converge beforehand, where all the latest gossip is traded. Musicians, groupies, photographers, roadies, journalists—we’re all crammed in here and everyone has stories to share. I’ve never been big on talking, but listening? That I can do.

I wind through the clusters of people toward Robb, one of the senior writers at Alternative Press. That alone is enough to make me idolize her, but her effortless style—pixie cut, thick black-rimmed glasses, and Monroe piercing—would also do it. Robb oozes cool, the older sister I always wanted in a house full of brothers. With her dark blue eyes and (albeit bleached) blond hair, we could be sisters.

As soon as I reach her, I recognize the face next to her, the very person we came to Battle of the Bands to see: Hudson Chase, lead singer of Hollow Graves and the next big thing to come out of Cleveland, if my instincts are correct, and I’m usually right about these things. I don’t have a musical bone in my body—save for my ear—but I know talent. Maybe it’s from growing up next door to a boy who’s now the drummer for Post Humorous, whose single has dominated the alt-rock charts all summer. Or maybe it’s the sheer number of hours I spent in skate parks as a gangly teen, listening to the local Boston bands. Whatever it was, it got me my internship at The Offbeat, the alt-music offshoot of Rolling Stone, and now, freelancing for Alternative Press.

“Hudson,” he says, introducing himself.

I always find it endearing when the lead act isn’t too proud to introduce themselves.

“Sloane Donavan,” I say for the second time tonight.

I can’t help but full-name myself. It’s a leftover habit from childhood. Growing up with four older brothers in a sports-obsessed Boston suburb, the Donavan name was well-known for gracing the back of a lot of jerseys. That name may not mean the same thing here, but it does get me in the door.

What I don’t expect, however, is the spark of recognition in Hudson’s eyes. It’s a little too knowing. I’m not vain enough to think it’s because of my prowess as a writer. I’ve only been out of college for two years, and while I’ve worked for impressive magazines, I’m no one. I’m not even a full-time staff member—yet. But even most veteran journalists aren’t on a name-recognition level. I’m a part of this world, sure, but I’m a fly on the wall, observing, not the spectacle. I don’t know why he recognizes my name, but my anxiety automatically assumes it’s a bad reason.

“Sloane started at AP last month,” Robb tells him. “You’ll be seeing a lot of her, I’m sure. She’s helping me with the Artists to Watch column.”

Hudson’s brows rise, intrigued. It’s a list any up-and-coming artist would kill to be on, as it’s bolstered many a band from local talent to household name. “We’ll have to get you by the studio sometime.”

“I’d love that.” I realize a moment too late I’m talking too loud, the crowd having finally quieted in anticipation of the opening act taking the stage.

I grimace apologetically. Hudson hangs his head, wavy brown hair falling forward to hide his smile. Yes, Hollow Graves is absolutely going to blow up. In part due to their talent, which even from their demos is undeniable, but also because Hudson’s boyish charm is so refreshing amongst the sea of overconfident, cocksure vocalists. I’m intrigued to see how this translates on stage.

The opening band takes the stage with a scream of “Battle of the Bands 2010, let’s fucking gooo!” and Robb gets dragged into a conversation with someone I don’t know.

I dither awkwardly in place. I hate being new. Making friends has never come easily to me. I’ve learned how to make small talk when I’m working—how to get other people talking, that is—but making actual friends on purpose is not a skill in my arsenal. I blame being grandfathered in by my older brothers, always tagging along behind them, the five of us inseparable after our mom left. Then Charlie—my neighbor in the band—introduced me to his bandmates, who are my closest (and only) friends a decade later. I have no idea how to make friends as an adult. I think Robb and I are becoming friends, despite our eight-year age gap. I’ve got an old soul and resting bitch face, and I think she kins with that.

Catching Robb’s eye, I jerk my head in the direction of the crowd and she nods, gesturing that she’ll catch up with me.

“You going into the pit?” Hudson asks with a twinkle in his startlingly light eyes.

I laugh. “Absolutely not. I’m headed to the sound booth.” It’s the best place to watch a show. Far enough back that you can see and hear everything, with no one elbowing you to get to the front.

“Can I come with you?” he asks earnestly.

I smile. “Sure.”

We make our way around the side of the room before venturing out into the crowd. No one stops us or recognizes Hudson. I flash my badge and the sound technician lets us into his booth—a rectangle of metal fencing barricading the crowd from thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment.

As we settle into the booth, I exhale deeply. This is my favorite place in the world. The constant buzz of anxiety inside me quiets when I’m at a show. I’m fully present in a way I’m normally not. I’m not five years in the past, overanalyzing everything I could have done differently, done better. I’m not five years in the future, laying bricks to follow, paving the path to my dreams. I’m here, now. I’m simultaneously anonymous and a crucial part of something bigger than myself.

Leaning over, I bring my mouth close to Hudson’s ear so he can hear me. “You won’t be able to do that much longer.”

“Do what?” he asks with a smirk, already knowing full well what I’m going to say. The humility is incredibly charming.

“Walk through a crowd undisturbed.”

He tries and fails to contain a grin. This is why I still spend so much time at smaller venues, skulking around skate parks I’m starting to feel too old to visit. I love being the first person to discover a talent. I know some people find it insufferably snobby—I knew them before they were cool—but watching the crowds at their shows get bigger, the venues growing larger to accommodate them, until the crowds are bursting at the seams there, too… It fills me with proud papa bear feelings.

It’s my job now, sure, but being a small part of someone else’s journey to actualizing a dream—that’s not work to me.

The band playing isn’t bad. All female, which piques my interest. Even one woman or person of color in a band is a welcome sight on the punk scene. These girls are young, high school age at most, but they’re talented. Musically, at least. They haven’t quite figured out their stage presence yet. They look like they all saw the same photo of Courtney Love and said, “Yeah, that’s the look.” I can’t help but find it endearing, because I did the same thing—albeit with her other half.

My mom left when I was in kindergarten. Growing up in a household of only men and cargo-short hand-me-downs, I was predestined to be a grungy tomboy. But by the power of Kurt Cobain and Winona Ryder, I scrapped together some semblance of a personal style—even if it is just the same jeans and band tees over and over, like a cartoon character with a closet full of one outfit and one outfit only.

As the headliners, it’s obvious Hollow Graves will be winning tonight’s Battle of the Bands and thus the prize—a feature in Alternative Press—but I make a mental note to put something together for these girls, too, before the next pitch meeting. Unlike the writing staff, freelancers aren’t guaranteed assignments, so I’m constantly on the hunt for my next article—and my next paycheck.

At the end of their set, the band leaves the stage to lukewarm applause. Robb joins me in the sound booth and Hudson takes his leave to warm up with his bandmates backstage.

“Get ready,” Robb warns.

“For what?” I ask in alarm, pivoting to the side to scrutinize her and her odd greeting.

She doesn’t clarify, but I already have my answer. Over her shoulder is Hudson, in one of those half-hug handshakes with the lead singer of Final Revelations—hands down the biggest band to come out of Cleveland in the past decade. The lights dim as the next band takes the stage to enthusiastic applause, and it’s only that which saves Dax Nakamura from being recognized by a crowd of metalheads. Over six feet tall, half Black, half Japanese, industry bad boy turned straight edge and every groupie’s white whale, he couldn’t blend in if he tried.

He breaks away from Hudson—who’s due on stage next—and is now heading toward our makeshift sound booth. If he spotted me, recognized me, I don’t know, my attention now trained straight ahead.

Robb leaves my side to open up the barricade for Dax, but because she stepped aside to let him into the tiny booth, the only place for Dax to stand is… directly next to me. My heart knocks around inside my chest like tennis shoes in a dryer.

The last time Robb, Dax, and I were in the same room was on what was supposed to be my first date with Dax. We made a pit stop at the AP office because Dax had merch to sign for some fundraiser. Running errands on our date: the height of romance, I tell you. But I met Robb, and that ended up paying off for me when I decided to leave The Offbeat and needed an in at AP.

The last time I saw Dax was in my hometown of Boston, where I broke up with him. The East Coast leg of Punkapalooza was over. I was touring with Post Humorous as their PR manager (aka MySpace blog writer), and since it was their last tour stop, it was my last stop, too. As one of the headliners, Dax was continuing on. He invited me to go with him, but I had other plans. Plans to complete the final year of my journalism major and an internship in California. And what was the point of delaying the inevitable? I was in Boston, he was on tour, in lots of cities, none of them mine. That was three years ago.

And now, he’s here. I’m here, in his city, with an apartment I signed a year lease on in the hopes AP will hire me full-time.

Once I’m sure he’s watching the stage, I sneak a peek, drinking him in under the premise of tucking my hair behind my ear.

He must’ve spent time in the sun recently, his normally light brown skin deeper, warmer, like if I were to brush my knuckles along his unfair cheekbones, trace the line of his singular, rarely seen dimple, I could feel the sun’s kiss on his skin. His hair is the same, the curls atop his otherwise close-cropped hair sticking out in every direction. A silver septum piercing winks at the bottom of his nose, drawing my attention to his mouth. I don’t allow my gaze to linger there. I can’t. Not when the memories of what he can do with that mouth are branded on my skin like an invisible tattoo. At the base of his throat, the chain that holds his sobriety chip disappears under the frayed collar of his shirt. I don’t spy any new tattoos, but real estate on his body was already hard to come by three years ago. I can smell his soap from here, the same piney scent I mourned when it faded from his sweatshirt I stole.

I close my eyes against the flood of memories, but the smell of him wraps around me like the sweatshirt I still wear. I face forward again and stop breathing for a moment in the hopes that it clears my head. I knew seeing him again was an inevitability. I just thought I was prepared for it.

I could not have been more wrong.

He leans down, lessening the difference in our heights, his lips brushing against my hair, the evergreen smell of him surrounding me once more. “Hi, Sloane.”

My eyes snap open, the low timbre of his voice like velvet, my skin tingling like static between silk sheets, something inside me waking up after a three-year nap.

The sound of my name in his mouth sends me back to when he first said it, three years ago.

It’s 2007, the second day of Punkapalooza. I’m sunburnt, hungover, dehydrated, and lost in a parking lot. I had to trudge all the way back to the van to unearth my Nokia charger from my duffle. A simple enough task for a hungover girl with a dead phone, except the fairgrounds we’re playing at today are a maze. I’ve been wandering amongst the towering tour buses three times the size of our dinky van for the past ten minutes trying to find the chain-link corridor that connects the parking lot to backstage. I tie my hair up so I can concentrate better.

“You lost?”

Of course I’d meet Dax Nakamura for the first time after sweating my ass off all day. I can feel the Georgia humidity pasting my baby hairs to my neck and forehead.

It doesn’t bode well for my future in journalism that I’m completely tongue-tied, but I’d argue that I should get a pass when it comes to Dax. I didn’t think people this attractive existed in the real world. The headline “Hot People: They’re Just like Us!” flashes through my mind, with placeholders for images of Dax doing mundane activities like grocery shopping and taking out the trash. I can’t fathom it. Surely his trash just sets itself on fire to save him the hassle, much like I want to do right now.

After a day in the stifling Georgia heat, I look like a sad, twice-warmed-up lasagna. Dax looks insufferably perfect. The way his warm brown skin drinks up the blood orange of the sunset has my cheeks reddening worse than my sunburn. I’ve been silent way too long, staring—gawking—at him. To my horror, I realize my mouth is hanging slightly open. A moment longer and I may be drooling.

His whiskey-colored eyes, which have been so intent upon my face, flick down, assessing me briefly. It’s like breaking a spell, the instant he relinquishes me from his gaze. The sounds of the festival come rushing in, as if it, too, had been holding its breath. I breathe shakily, and my tongue unsticks. Unfortunately, it chooses to form a completely nonsensical response to his question.

“I’m allowed to be back here,” I hear myself saying like a dolt.

The corner of Dax’s mouth twitches up, not quite a smile. “I know.”

His response makes even less sense than my statement. He couldn’t possibly know. Tour started yesterday, and I’ve only seen him 1.5 times—from a distance. (Not that I’m counting.) There’s no way he knows me. He must have glimpsed the VIP badge hanging from my back pocket.

He jerks his head in the direction of the festival. My desire to get out of this parking lot maze overrides my desire to get away from him before I can embarrass myself again. I nod, falling into step with him as he confidently begins cutting through the rows of buses.

I can’t help but try to smooth over my weird proclamation. “It’s just, I left my badge in the van this morning and security had me escorted out. It was a whole thing.”

I’m boring myself with this line of conversation. I can hear myself talking, droning on, but I can’t stop, can’t find more interesting words to say to this industry icon who will forget this entire interaction in a matter of hours. I, on the other hand, will spend the rest of eternity cringing about The Time I Met Dax Nakamura and Was a Complete Wet Blanket. This is not the way it goes in my daydreams. In those, I always have the perfect quip, some scintillating story where the punchline always lands. This is… not that.

He nods. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s also bored by me or if that’s just his face. “You’re with Post Humorous, right?”

I trip, barely recovering before I face-plant.

He gestures down, and I realize my shoes are untied. Kneeling, I pray he keeps walking so I can’t embarrass myself further. Alas, his beat-up black Vans stay firmly pointed in my direction as I make bunny ears out of my laces, a rote task that shouldn’t feel as mortifying as it does.

I try to remember what he said before I tripped. Dax speaking to me, I can wrap my head around. Dax knowing who I am? That doesn’t make sense at all. But it does remind me that I’m not some groupie trailing after him. I am here of my own merit. (Okay, a slightly fudged merit that I’m my friends’ band’s PR manager.) Despite being escorted out earlier today, I am allowed to be here. When I straighten, my posture is less slouchy than usual.

“You didn’t have to wait on me,” I tell his shoes because I cannot meet his gaze.

“It’s not like they can start without me.”

There’s that famous Dax ego. Alas, he’s not wrong. Glancing up, he looks abashed for half a second before shrugging it off. He doesn’t care if some random girl thinks he has an ego—earned or not. He jerks his head, taking off again. I fall into step with him and try to reconcile the guy I’ve heard about—a diva, a lush, a liability—with the guy who patiently waited for me to tie my shoes before safely seeing me back to the venue. It doesn’t feel like I’m talking to one of the most famous people on the tour. He’s just… a dude.

“Besides”—he speaks as languidly as he walks—“I could use the company.”

We’re through the chain-link tunnel now, reentering the fray of backstage. I glance meaningfully at the crowd we’re weaving through. “Yeah, company must be so hard for you to come by at such a massive festival.”

Dax scoffs, something akin to surprise flickering across his perma-bored expression.

As the youngest of five and the only girl, petulance is in my DNA. Based on the way he’s eyeing me, I don’t think he minds.

Our steps slow to a halt as we near the main stage—time for us to go our separate ways.

His gaze is sharper, like he wasn’t fully paying attention before, but he is now. “I’m Dax, by the way.”

As if I don’t know that. He knows I know that. “I know.”

Brilliant, Sloane. You make words in the right order so good.

Dax shakes his head, looking away and laughing under his breath. I want to drown in the deep, husky sound of it. “I figured, but—” His full attention is on me now, the corner of his mouth quirking up in another not-quite-smile. This time, a ghost of a dimple winks at me. Is he—Oh my god, is he flirting? Or is he just hot and talking? Do I want him to be flirting? God, no. I’ve barely made it through this laughable excuse of a conversation. I have no desire to continue mortifying myself in front of this man. “I was trying to get your name.”

“Ah” is all I can manage, still struggling to wrap my head around the concept that Dax Nakamura could maybe, possibly, be flirting with me.

Surprise flickers across his face once more. He’s losing the fight against his smile, one corner creeping higher and higher the longer we drag this out. “Are you… are you really not going to tell me your name?”

My mouth twists off to the side in a show of consideration. I don’t know why giving it to him feels so big. As an aspiring journalist, I should want one of the biggest names in the industry to know my name. But… if he knows it, he can forget it, and in this moment, nothing feels more tragic than telling him my name, crossing paths with him again in a year, two years, and he’s forgotten it, forgotten me. I don’t want to invite the opportunity to be so devastatingly disappointed, so I shake my head.

If I thought I had his full attention before, I was wrong. Challenge lights his irises from within, his pupils dilating.

I fear I’ve only made him more interested, somehow. Before I can figure out how to assure him I am a lot more effort than I’m worth—just ask every single guy I’ve ever dated—I’m enveloped in a sweaty, sticky hug that smells like cheap beer. My friends have found me.

“SLOOOOOOOOANE!” my friend Drew bellows from across the backstage area before hugging whoever is hugging me from behind. Soon, all five of my friends are squeezing the ever-loving shit out of me.

To his credit, Dax is completely unfazed by the spectacle. Worse, he’s smirking. “See you around”—he says each word like it’s delicious, savoring each syllable—“Sloane.”

Goddamnit, Drew. But god bless Drew and my friends for hugging me so tight right now because my knees are inexplicably weak.

“Let’s hope not.” I was aiming for snark, but it comes out on a wheeze thanks to the sheer number of limbs still squeezing me like a long-lost husband returned from war.

Oh, fuck me. There it is. Dax’s full smile. A quick flash of white teeth, a singular dimple in his left cheek. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. He hums thoughtfully, giving me a curious once-over, like he’s memorizing me, like we’ll be doing this again.

I don’t know what to make of that. When he turns and waves two fingers lazily over his shoulder, I breathe fully for the first time since we crossed paths.

I blink back to the present, the noise and smells of the venue rushing back in. Dax’s voice echoes in my ear and I shiver, goose bumps rising on my skin.

Hi, Sloane.

Three years ago, he won my name. Three years later, he still says it like a prize.

I’m not a coward for hiding in the alleyway between sets.

I’m not.

It’s been three years with no contact. I don’t know Dax anymore, but too much has happened between us to make small talk like strangers. So, after the final supporting act’s set ended, I feigned needing to use the restroom, slipping out of the sound booth that was much too tiny for all that history, and retreated to the alleyway to do breathing exercises. I don’t actually know how to do breathing exercises, but now seems like an ideal time to start.

The alley smells like stale beer and cigarette smoke. I get far enough away from the ragtag group of people clustered out here and rest my forehead against the brick wall, still warm from the sun that set a while ago. For half a second, I’m ashamed for hiding back here, but the idea of exchanging bland pleasantries with Dax—as if we didn’t spend a summer stealing moments together behind tour buses with desperate hands and pleading noises—sounds like my own tailor-made purgatory.

The crowd roars, and I shake my head to clear it—once, twice—before heading back inside. Hollow Graves will go on soon, and I don’t want to miss the start of their set. The sound tech lets me back into the booth, and Dax takes half a step back—as much as he can in the cramped space—so I can squeeze by to be next to Robb. A well-intentioned gesture, except my ass brushes up against Dax’s front as I pass, and even the opening notes of the Hollow Graves set can’t drown out the groan Dax fails to muffle.

I can see the band on the stage, I know there’s music playing, but all I can hear for the entirety of the first song is that moan. The applause that follows the opening song jars me out of… whatever that was… and I shove it all down. I will not let my nostalgia for that summer get the best of me. I know all too well the specific pain of waiting for someone who’s never coming back, but I’m not a five-year-old girl anymore. I have a job to do. If I want Alt Press to offer me a full-time position and, thus, keep my five-year career plan on track, I need to focus—not get swept away.

When the Hollow Graves set ends, Dax is out of the booth before I can blink. I’d be offended if I weren’t so relieved. It’ll be easier to concentrate on work without wondering if he’s sneaking glances at me like I’m sneaking glances at him. It should be easier, except I blink and I’m backstage, with no memory of how I got there, going through the postshow interview on autopilot. I’m supposed to be leading this interview—Robb wants to hand off the Artists to Watch column to me so she can finally launch the vertical she’s been gunning for—but Robb has to jump in a couple times with follow-up questions that I like to think I would have thought of were my mind not half on a man who’s not even here. I hate that it’s affecting me this much, but fuck. Seeing him, hearing his voice, the smell of him that evokes memories of his soap resting on my shower caddy for that one perfect weekend before everything fell apart—

“And how’s working with Final Revelations?” Robb asks, cutting off my trip down memory lane and bringing Dax into the present.

I blink over at her. She didn’t share that fun fact about Hollow Graves with me. She’s avoiding my gaze, and I know the omission was intentional.

Hudson glances at me before answering, and my chest flushes as I realize why he recognized my name earlier. Not many people know about Dax and me. Our “relationship”—for lack of a better word—was brief and bright and burned out quickly. Whatever it was, it’s not a part of my past that I like to flaunt.

While Robb knows I knew Dax—Dax introduced us, after all—I don’t think Robb knew we were more than a tour fling. But there’s no way she doesn’t know now. The tension in that sound booth could’ve been cut with a knife.

Thankfully, Final R. . .