The precinct appearsat the top of a gentle rise, tucked into Eden's rolling hills like it's always belonged there.
A weathered wooden sign at the turnoff readsMeridian Studioswith an arrow pointing left, and below it, smaller:Private Cabinswith an arrow pointing right down a narrow gravel path that disappears into the trees.
I slow the car, taking it in.
The main studio building sits to the left—modern and understated, all glass and warm wood designed to let in light while maintaining the kind of acoustic integrity that probably cost a fortune. Solar panels catch the afternoon sun. Through the windows I can see movement, people working, the controlled chaos of creativity happening in real time.
To the right, barely visible through the pines, are the cabins. Small structures scattered across the property, each with its own deck and garden, private and secluded.
I sit at the fork in the road, engine idling, trying to decide.
He built this. He actually built it.
Every conversation we had in Málaga comes rushing back—late nights tangled in sheets, his voice rough with sleep as he talked about the studio he wanted to create. The space forartists who needed room to breathe, to experiment, to fail safely.
I'd believed him even then, even when we were young and broke and the future felt impossibly far away.
But believing and seeing are different things.
I stare at the two signs, at the choice laid out in literal arrows.
Left to the studio. Right to the cabins.
If he's even here—and that's a big if—he'd be in the studio. That's where he'd spend his time.
What the hell am I doing? This is such a bad idea.
I take a breath and turn left, following the arrow toward Meridian Studios.
The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the small parking area. I kill the engine and just sit there for a moment, staring at the building, overnight bag on the passenger seat, suddenly nervous in a way I wasn't expecting.
Showing up unannounced feels presumptuous, but texting felt worse somehow.
I grab my bag and get out of the car before I can change my mind. The gravel crunches under my feet as I approach the entrance.
I'm reaching for the door handle when it swings open from the inside.
And there he is.
Nate freezes mid-step. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me standing there with my overnight bag, and for a second we just stare at each other.
He's wearing a faded black t-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up to reveal those tattoos I still can't stop noticing, hair slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it while working.
"Hey," I manage, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "I was just?—"
Something shifts in his expression, surprise giving way to something warmer, something that makes my stomach flip.
"You came."
"I should have called. Or texted. I just—the lake house is chaos and your mom said more people were coming later today and I thought?—"
I'm rambling. I stop myself, grip tightening on my bag strap.
"Is it still okay if I stay in one of the cabins?”
"Yeah." He steps back, holding the door open wider, and his scent hits me as I pass—soap and something woodsy that shouldn't feel as familiar as it does. "Yeah, of course it's okay. Come in."
I follow him inside, and the interior takes my breath away.
