I stay by the mic for a second, simply breathing. My throat burns, but not from strain… from release. I didn’t realize how long I’d been holding myself together until now.
Through the glass, Keaton waves me in. I peel the headphones off, the silence pressing strange against my ears, and step into the control room. The guys shift to make room, eyes bright but cautious, like I’m made of glass they’re scared to crack.
Tristan gestures to the board. “You ready to hear it?”
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
I nod anyway.
He hits play.
My voice fills the room, low and rough at first, then blooming into something I barely recognize. The rasp catches at the edges, but itmeanssomething—it carries every ounce of what I’ve been through. It doesn’t float like it used to. Itcuts.
Goosebumps crawl up my arms.
That’sme.
Not the clean, honey-smooth version from the old tracks. Not the girl who used to belt notes like she was untouchable. This voice feels heavier. Older.Honest.
The guys stay silent, simply listening. The song ends, leaving the echo of the last note hanging like smoke.
I turn toward Tris. He doesn’t say anything right away. He simply looks at me, then grins slow and certain. “It’s raw,” he says. “It’s real. It’s better.”
A laugh breaks out of me—half disbelief, half relief. I press a hand to my throat, still feeling the vibration there, still hearing the ghost of that sound in my chest.
“It doesn’t sound like me,” I whisper.
“It sounds exactly like you,” Dare says from his spot near the couch, his voice quiet but firm, the kind of conviction that settles in your bones.
Blake leans forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on me like he’s memorizing the moment. “That’s the version of you people are going to remember,” he says. “Not the girl who could hit every perfect note. The one who lived through it—and made it sound like this.”
I swallow hard, my throat tightening for a different reason this time.
Keaton exhales a slow breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to process it. “I’ve heard you sing a hundred times, Raina,” he says softly, “but that… that gave me chills.”
Nash leans against the wall, arms crossed, his usual easy grin gone. When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You don’t need to sound like you used to. That version of you couldn’t have sungthat.”
The room goes still.
Their words hang there, heavy and reverent, wrapping around me tighter than any melody ever could. I glance from face to face—Tris with his proud grin, Dare’s steady gaze, Nash’s fierceintensity, Keaton’s quiet awe, Blake’s raw honesty—and for the first time since everything fell apart, I don’t feel like the broken one they’ve been protecting.
I feel like part of the music again.
The realization hits hard. My chest aches, my eyes burn, but I don’t look away.
Because for the first time, I believe them.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. The air hums with leftover sound, like the room’s still holding its breath for me. Then, Tris lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Fuck yeah!” In three long strides, he’s across the room, scooping me off my feet before I can even react.
“Tris!” I yelp, but I’m laughing too hard to sound mad.
He spins me once, then twice, the world blurring into lights and motion. My hair whips around, and the air fills with the sound of the guys cheering. Blake’s low laugh mixes with Dare’s whoop, Keaton pounding on the console like a drum, Nash shouting something about finally having their frontwoman back.
When Tris sets me down, we’re both breathless and grinning. His hands stay at my waist, warm and steady, grounding me. For months, I’ve been nursing my hurt, too closed off to really let him in, but now? Now it feels right. It feels likehome.
