The music from the suite blares behind the glass, but out here on the balcony, the silence between you is heavy since you confronted him about the cheating scandal. He’s leaning against the railing, his breath hitching in the cold Toronto air, staring at his reflection in the dark windows as if he’s checking his "sad" angles.

​Tommy speaks first, but he doesn't look at you. He uses that low, velvet tone he usually saves for the bridge of a ballad—the one that’s designed to make you feel like you're the one being difficult.

"I knew you were going to bring up the photos, and honestly? I’m glad you did. I’ve been sitting in this headspace for three cities now, just... suffocating under the weight of how you’d react. But you have to realize that what you saw on that screen? That wasn't 'us.' That was just a moment where the tour got too loud and I couldn't hear the signal back home anymore."