The way the air changes just slightly.
“You’re making noise,” she says.
“Technically music.”
She walks in, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely as she watches us.
Her hair’s pulled back again, but not as tight as before. There are still faint shadows under her eyes from everything we just went through, but there’s something else there too.
Something lighter.
Something steady.
Jesse points at her.
“Dada play.”
“I heard,” she says, her gaze flicking to me.
“And?”
“And it’s not terrible.”
I gasp.
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
She pushes off the wall and steps further into the room, her eyes lingering on the guitar for a moment before meeting mine again.
“You haven’t played in a while,” she says.
“No.”
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“Got busy.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I’m giving.”
She studies me.
“Bron.”
I sigh.
Here we go.
“I used to be good,” I say slowly. “Then I got… popular.”
“That’s how that usually works.”
