Blake lays out on her side, his arm flung over his face, and I move to her other side. We lie there for a while, not moving, catching our breath. He’s grinning like an idiot.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice ragged. “That was—“
Raina giggles, and even though it’s scratchy and broken, it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
I nuzzle her hair and kiss the corner of her mouth. “You good?” I ask.
She nods, then snuggles into my chest, pulling Blake’s hand in with her. She kisses his knuckles, soft and sweet.
And for the first time since her attack, it feels like things are returning to a new normal. We fall asleep like that, the three of us, a tangle of bodies. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but for the first time in my life, I don’t care.
We’re a fucking band. A family. We’ll make it work.
I’m alone in the quiet living room, the sun shining through the open sliding door as the breeze gusts into the room, bringing the sharp spring air. The Atlantic’s pulse thuds softly against the walls, a distant reminder of the vastness beyond this bubble of glass and sand. Outside, the world tumbles in endless cycles—the surf swelling, breaking, swallowing. Inside, the air hangs heavy with a silence that’s both sanctuary and prison.
Blake sits outside talking on the phone with his cousin, shaking his head in disappointment. The muffled sound of his response is swallowed by the waves crashing and an untimely seagull squawking.
Keaton, Nash, and Tris are working out in the gym, and Dare rummages in the kitchen. I’m not sure what he’s doing in there, making a snack or getting a drink, but I once again find myself alone.
After spending last night sandwiched between Blake and Nash, I’m suddenly reminded how much I love being around my guys all the time. I had to process my depression in my own way,but I’m starting to heal from the mental aspects of my injury now, not only the physical ones. It leaves me aching to have one of them close by when not long ago I’d wished they’d leave me alone.
Oh, how quickly things can change.
My phone rests in my hands, my finger tapping the edge, it’s cool, unnervingly smooth, yet burning with potential. For weeks now, I’ve kept it tucked away, a stone in my pocket. Avoided the pull of social media, the endless whirl of pictures, words, the manic flood of other people’s theories of what’s happened to me. I told myself that I didn’t want to know, that what I didn’t see couldn’t wound me.
But it’s not that simple.
Biting my lip, the restless itch beneath my skin wins. Maybe it’s boredom, or maybe some morbid curiosity for what people are saying after the official announcement from Lexington Productions. Whatever it is, I’m flicking through videos, leaving it up to chance if I stumble on something about me.
The universe must take my thought as a challenge, because I suddenly find Tristan filling my screen. He’s the farthest thing in my mind after watching bookish videos and other random subjects, and yet here he is smack in my face.
I jump, startled, heart lurching, throat burning with the familiar ache that’s become its own kind of language. My thumb hits the screen, making it pause. The video freezes, his eyes half-lidded in dim light, frozen in time much like our relationship. Everything can start again if I let it, all I have to do is unpause.
The phone rests softly in my palm. I’m not sure why, but I’m almost expecting this to be another betrayal. Another instance of Tristan trying to rip me back to my lowest of low points. My breath catches, an uneven edge to the air, an echo of pain both past and present. I want to pull away, throw the device across theroom to remove temptation, but the pull—curious and terrible—is stronger.
My thumb hovers over the play button, trembling almost imperceptibly. I strain my ears for any sounds in the house like a child about to do something they know they shouldn’t and don’t want to get caught…
I tap it.
It’s easy to recognize the room downstairs immediately. It’s washed in muted blue-gray light, pristine floorboards and cables curling like ivy around amps and microphones. Tristan sits there, guitar balanced on his knee, shadows swallowing half his face but leaving the other half soft, vulnerable, and exposed. He speaks directly to the camera, voice rough and uneven, tinged with nerves.
“Hey, everyone. I have something that keeps playing through my mind, and I need to share it with someone. I really shouldn’t be playing right now. Shouldn’t be able to, actually,” he says, fingers trembling over the strings, “but I figured, fuck it. Maybe you’ll tell me it’s good enough to share with Raina. But first, I want to tell you the story that inspired what I wrote.”
His voice hangs between the chords, a raw note that digs under my skin.
His fingers find the strings, drawing out notes that falter and pause, the guitar’s sound raw and weathered, like memories pulled from dusty corners. I listen as he talks about a song we wrote together in his parents’ garage during a thunderstorm. My throat tightens when he mentions how I kept it just for us. We never talked about it, but it felt like a promise to keep it between us. I’d never be able to force myself to perform it without him, not even when my label pushed for more material.
Some memories should stay private. Some songs aren’t meant for strangers.
“It was a song for us,” he says quietly, “one that she never performed. She kept it safe... and I always appreciated that.”
The music curls through the shadows, fragile, aching—a melody wrapped in silence and unsaid things. I feel the old pull in my chest, like a sudden storm rolling through years of dust.
“These chords aren’t the ones in that song. I’ll protect it the same as Raina, but this story had me thinking about safeguarding the things most precious to us. It’s something I’ve failed at miserably, and I’ve recently apologized to Lexi about.” His gaze pierces through the screen like he’s pinning me in place. “If any men are watching this, well I suppose this goes for anyone really, but if you’ve done something wrong, don’t be too proud to admit it.”
He clears his throat and glances at where his fingers lightly pluck at the strings, a wince of pain crossing his face as the wood of his instrument presses into his ribs. I’ll have to remember to chide him later. Even if I know the desperation to express what we’ve gone through by way of music.
His fingers hesitantly press down, weaving a sorrowful tapestry of sound, each note weighted with apology and hope, each pause trembling with the fear it won’t be enough. His voice breaks in the dark studio like a whisper caught in a storm.
