She was halfway down the hall when she heard it—a soft, familiar sound from the recording room. Peeking through thecracked door, she found Jameson on the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, guitar resting in his lap as he strummed quietly.
It was one of her favorite sights: his mouth parted slightly, his fingers moving instinctively across the strings.
Instead of retreating, Daisy opened the door wider, the faint creak announcing her presence.
Jameson looked up, a peaceful grin curving his lips. “Hey,darlin’.”
And just like that—it was back.Darlin’.
The word hit her gently.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked softly.
“I’d never mind, Daisy.”
She closed the door behind her. “Can’t sleep?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m wired.”
“Are you excited for tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he said, then paused, “but that’s not why.”
“Care to share?”
A flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Not really.”
She circled the room slowly, her eyes taking in the framed photos and tour posters. “I think you should. Share, that is.”
He chuckled. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’m guessing we’ve got the same thing on our minds.”
“Is that right?”
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though her pulse raced. “Yeah. I think we both have the same thing keeping us from going to our rooms and sleeping peacefully like everything hasn’t changed.”
He remained silent, waiting for her to say more, needing her to.
Daisy bit her lip and turned toward him, her voice low and trembling. “I always wondered what your life was like here, as a boy, as a man. I used to picture us here, in England. Pickinga season, maybe the fall or winter, or whenever you weren’t on tour. We would have these two lives, one where you were the world’s and the other where you were just mine.”
Her voice softened, eyes glassy with emotion. “I’d imagine us holed up in some tiny bungalow in the middle of nowhere, away from the arenas and the lights. You’d write. I’d paint. And we’d build something that was just ours… something quiet and beautiful, where our love, however messy or innocent it was… would be enough.”
Jameson pressed his hands together beneath his mouth, elbows on his knees, looking up at her like she was a prayer he’d never stopped whispering.
“Do you ever think,” he began carefully, “we could still have a version of that?”
Daisy waited a beat, then crossed the room slowly, kneeling before him, her hand finding his knee in a small act of surrender.
“I think…” she said softly, “we can have anything we want.”
He swallowed hard. “And what doyouwant, Daisy?”
Her gaze lifted to his. In his clear blue eyes, she saw every version of him—the boy who once loved her, the man who still did, and the father who’d learned what kind of magic that love could truly create.
Placing her hand over his heart, she whispered, “I want you, Jameson.”
His breath caught. “All of me?”
