State-of-the-art equipment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. A space he designed himself.
Right after he came back from rehab. Ollie mentioned it casually, the way you mention something you assume the other person already knows.
"Did you hear Nate opened that studio? The one he always talked about building."
And I'd nodded, said something vague, then gone home and typed his name into the search bar just once.
I'd looked at the photos of the studio—the exposed beams, the vintage equipment, the vinyl collection lining the walls—and felt the same sharp, contradictory ache I'm feeling now.
Pride and loss. Happiness and anger.
I'd closed the browser and promised myself I wouldn't do it again.
Not since that one time three years ago.
Until tonight.
The familiar ache returns—anger and joy wrapped together, inseparable.
I take another bite, staring out into the empty kitchen, and let myself sit in the truth of it.
I have everything I thought I wanted.
And somehow, it feels like I'm living someone else's life—a version of me that learned to stop asking for what she actually needs.
CHAPTER 6
ALFIE
NATE
Julian stands in the booth,headphones on, eyes closed like he's somewhere else entirely. Dark strands fall across his forehead, damp with sweat from the second take. He's lean, restless energy contained in a frame that never quite settles—always shifting weight, always moving.
His voice carries through the speakers—raw, unpolished, honest in a way you can't fake. You hear it in the way he drags a syllable just a beat longer than expected. Like he's afraid to let it go.
Tommy sits hunched over his guitar, cigarette tucked behind his ear instead of lit. Dark hair that’s lighter at the ends, falling past his collar in a way that makes him look younger than twenty-two. His fingers move like they're translating something only he can hear.
Ink covers both forearms—half-finished sleeves he adds to every few months, like he's writing his story in images instead of words.
The riffs come easy for him. Too easy. He doesn't think—he feels, and the music follows. It's instinct. Gifted in the way that scares me a little, because people like that burn fast if they don'tlearn how to rest. If they don't learn that brilliance isn't sustainable without recovery.
Levi counts them in, steady and grounded. The oldest at twenty-five, broad-shouldered and solid behind the kit. Short dark hair, beard trimmed close. He's the anchor—the one who shows up on time, who remembers soundcheck schedules, who keeps the chaos from spinning completely out of control.
Sonny locks in on bass, eyes sharp, listening harder than he plays. Twenty-one and still growing into himself—tall and lanky, all angles and elbows, blondish hair twisted into short locs. He's the new kid, but he's earned his place. Knows when to push, when to disappear into the pocket.
This is the first time they're all here together since Tommy went quiet. Since the missed rehearsals. Since the worry lodged itself somewhere behind my ribs and refused to leave.
I've been carrying it around for weeks now, this low-grade fear that something's breaking down where I can't see it.
The song builds slowly. No rush. No shortcuts. Just patience and trust layered over themselves until they become something larger.
It reminds me why I believe in them.
Why I'm certain—unshakably certain—that if they keep their heads straight, if they stay alive long enough to see it through, this band could be one of the biggest in the world.
They have what you can't teach. What you can't fake or force or manufacture in a writing session.
Chemistry. Truth. The kind of raw honesty that makes people stop what they're doing and listen.
