Julian smiles, and it's genuine, reaches his eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually thanked you for that.”
“For what?”
“You gave me a shot when no one else would. When I was nobody from nowhere who showed up at a bar with a guitar and some songs I'd written in shitty apartments and shelter beds. And for that, I'll never be able to thank you enough."
"There's nothing to thank me for, Jules," I counter. "The music was already there. I just gave you the space to let it breathe. And a significantly better recording setup than whatever you were using before."
"You know, you're just about the only person in my life that actually calls me by my real name."
"Would you prefer I didn't?"
"No, I kind of like that you're the only person that does."
He shifts his weight, and there's something vulnerable in his expression now.
"You've been more than a producer or a label head, Nate. You've been... I don't know, like the older brother I never had. The one who actually gives a shit whether I eat or sleep or burn myself out chasing perfection."
I look away for a second, swallow hard.
"You made that easy. You've always been a good one. Most people your age are still figuring out that other people have internal lives."
"Learned from the best," he says simply.
"Yeah, well. I learned from making every possible mistake, so really you're just benefiting from my extensive catalog of fuck-ups."
He grins at that, and I'm grateful for it—for the way we can move between heavy and light without either feeling false.
We sit in that shared understanding for a moment. The kindthat doesn't need dressing up or explaining. This feels familiar. Sitting across from someone younger, hurting in ways that look different but feel the same underneath.
Nick sat with me like this when I was newly sober and everything felt too sharp, too real. He'd let me talk myself into clarity without forcing it, stayed when it got ugly, trusted I'd find my way if I wasn't abandoned to it.
Never tried to fix me, just made sure I knew I wasn't alone in the mess. Which, looking back, probably required the patience of a saint and the tolerance of someone who genuinely hated being helpful.
The shape of that reflects back at me through Julian now. How I've tried to be for him what Nick was for me.
"You don't have to have the right words when you see her," Julian says finally, pulling us back. "You just have to show her who you are now, not who you were when you left. That's all anyone can really ask of you.”
I exhale slowly, something loosening in my chest.
"Alright seriously, how old are you really?”
“It’s just the perks of having a good teacher." He pauses. "Also can't discount the trauma. That shit really speeds up the whole wisdom process."
"Right. Should we add that to the label bio? 'The Row: Emotionally Intelligent Through Collective Suffering'?"
"Catchy," he says with a straight face. "Not sure how marketable though."
We both laugh when my phone buzzes on the desk.
I glance at it—another unknown number blowing up my phone, another thing demanding attention—but I don't reach for it.
Not yet. The world can wait five more minutes.
"You sticking around today?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "Thought I'd work through some new material. Tommy's supposed to show too, if he makes it."
