He scoffs. "That's ridiculous."
"I'll be back before filming starts on the adaptation," I add, more to convince myself than him.
"Where the hell are you going?" he asks sharply, voice rising now.
I don't hesitate.
"Home."
His face changes. Something flickers there—surprise, maybe, or the first real recognition that I might actually leave.
"Home? This is your home."
"No, Wes. It's yours."
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now.
"This is insane. You can't just leave in the middle of everything?—"
"I can," I say. "And I am."
"What about us?"
The question sits between us, heavy and complicated.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But I know I can't think clearly here."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then his expression shifts, hardens into something cold and final.
"Fine. Go. But don't expect everything to just be waiting for you when you get back."
The threat is clear.
"I know," I say quietly.
And for the first time in a long time, the word feels like a choice.
CHAPTER 10
YOUNG BLOOD
NATE
The email has been sittingunread in my inbox for twenty minutes before I open it. The sender tells me everything before I click. The subject line tries too hard to sound casual.
An opportunity. A really good one too. But to me it just sounds like another one. They come often enough now that they no longer feel like proof of anything. Just doors that appear, waiting to be opened or left alone.
Produce the opening track for a new film. Some big director with a big budget has specifically asked for me. The kind of job people say yes to without thinking, the kind that reminds the world you're still relevant, still at the top of whatever invisible hierarchy the industry maintains.
You know, in case I'd forgotten that my worth is measured in credits and collaborations. I lean back in my chair and read it twice, then a third time, slower.
There's nothing wrong with it. Nothing that should make my chest tight or my shoulders tense.
Normally, I'd forward it to Nick, ask for his thoughts, let the logistics sort themselves out while I focus on the creative.
But he has enough on his plate with the funeral arrangements.
So I don't respond. Instead, I shut my laptop and stare out through the glass wall of the studio.
