For the first time in years, nothing is wrong. Everything funnily enough is finally, perfectly right.
"I need his help breaking a contract."
There's a pause.
Then Marcus's voice comes back, careful. "What kind of contract?"
"The kind that's keeping me in LA when I should be going home."
CHAPTER 44
WESTBROOK LANE
NATE
The song fades out slow,like it's not ready to let go of the room yet. Neither am I. My fingers stay on the strings even after the last note dies. The studio hums around me, it’s quiet in that way that feels earned. Like something important just happened, even if no one's here to witness it.
This one's hers.
Because it’s the kind of song you write when you don't trust yourself with words anymore.
There's a knock that comes at the door and breaks my chain of thought. Three soft taps, tentative, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be here.
I open the door and Dom's standing there with two coffees and an expression that's equal parts hopeful and uncertain.
He's wearing the same leather jacket from the first time he showed up here, jeans that have seen better days, and work boots that suggest he actually uses them.
"Hey," he says. "Hope I'm not interrupting. I texted but?—"
"Sorry, my phone's on silent whenever I'm in the studio," I say, stepping back to let him in. "It's fine. Come in."
We’ve been communicating more and more since he firstshowed up. He enters carefully, like he's afraid of taking up too much space.
His eyes scan the studio—the mixing board, the instruments on the walls, the gold records, the photographs.
Taking it all in.
"This setup is incredible," he says quietly. "You built all this?"
"Most of it." I take the coffee he offers. "Thanks for this."
"Figured you could use it." He gestures to the guitar leaning against the wall. "You were playing when I got here. Didn't want to interrupt."
"Just messing around."
"Didn't sound like messing around." He sets his coffee down, moves toward the guitars with the kind of reverence that tells me he understands what they mean. "Mind if I...?"
"Go ahead."
He picks up the Gibson—the same one he played when he first showed up weeks ago—and settles onto the stool like he belongs there.
His fingers find the strings immediately, adjusting the tuning with muscle memory that mirrors my own.
"What were you playing?" he asks.
"Something new but it’s not finished yet."
"Can I hear it?"
