When the track ends, the room stays silent for a moment longer than necessary. No one reaches for the talkback. No one breaks the spell.
We all know when something lands right—when the music becomes bigger than the people making it.
"Again," Julian finally says, voice rough from the take.
They run it back.
I watch Tommy this time.
The way his shoulders stay tight even when the music loosens. The shadows under his eyes that makeup can't quite hide—dark circles that speak of too many nights running on empty. The way he never quite relaxes, even when he's in his element. Like he's braced for impact from something the rest of us can't see coming.
I know that look. It's the look of someone carrying too much for too long. Of secrets stacked so high they start to leak through the cracks.
You can't outrun that kind of weight. Not by staying busy. Not by staying loud. Not by keeping moving and never looking back.
It just waits.
When I was younger, that voice in my head told me things I believed. That I was disposable. That I deserved what happened. That if I stopped moving, stopped numbing, everything would catch up and swallow me whole.
I lived inside that voice for years. Let it dictate every decision, every relationship, every moment of self-destruction I convinced myself was control.
I learned the hard way what happens when you let that voice get comfortable.
They take a break after the third run.
Water bottles crack open. Levi stretches, rolling his shoulders. Sonny scrolls his phone, already checking messages from whoever's waiting for him outside these walls.
Tommy doesn't move. Just sits there, guitar still in his lap, staring at nothing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I answer, stepping away from the console.
"Ollie."
His voice hits me like a wave. Loud. Warm. Familiar.
"Well shit. There he is. Jesus, I miss your face."
I smile before I can stop myself. "You say that like we don't text every other day."
"Not the same," he says immediately. "When are we going for a surf? I need to squeeze in some wave time before this newborn starts kicking my ass with no sleep."
"Smart," I say. "Get it in while you can."
"Damn right," he laughs, and I hear the grin threading through his voice. "Mia says I'm in denial about how much my life's about to change."
"How is she?" I ask, settling back against the mixing desk. The studio chatter fades to background noise.
"Beautiful yet somehow so terrifying," he says, pride woven through every word. "Doctor says maybe five weeks."
Five weeks until everything changes for him. Until he becomes someone's father. I lean back, staring at the scuffed floor, at the decades of wear that map out every band that's passed through here.
"You're going to be a dad, Oliver.”
"I know," he says without hesitation, without false modesty. "Best one too. Kid's gonna have jokes, good looks, style, and an uncle who hangs out with The 1975 during the week. You're free to babysit on weekends though, yeah?"
I huff a quiet laugh. "If it means I can teach them how to play guitar, then yes."
