The walls are covered with framed photographs: John Mayer laughing in what looks like this exact studio, Oasis mid-performance, newer artists I recognize from streaming charts. Gold and platinum records catch the light. Awards I didn't know existed.
"Nate, this is—" I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in, hyperaware that he's standing near enough that I could reach out and touch his arm if I wanted to.
I don't. I won't.
"It's incredible."
"Thanks." There's pride in his voice, restrained but real.
He's watching me instead of the studio, like my reaction matters more than anything else, and the intensity of his attention makes my skin prickle.
"Come on, I'll show you to the cabin." He gestures to my bag and takes it from me. "And let you get settled."
"I don't want to interrupt you if you're busy."
"I'm always busy," he says with a small smile that does dangerous things to my pulse. "Doesn't mean I can't take a break."
He grabs a set of keys from the reception desk, his fingers brushing the wood surface, and I watch the movement, remembering those hands, remembering?—
I force myself to look away as he leads me back outside.
The morning air is crisp and clean as we follow a stone paththat winds through the property, the cabins coming into view—spaced for privacy, each one its own small sanctuary.
The architecture is modern but warm, lots of windows and natural wood, clean lines that don't feel cold.
We walk in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. It's familiar in a way that scares me, this ease of being near him without needing to fill the quiet.
“Whoa,” I murmur, taking it all in. "Nate, this is?—"
"Here." He stops at one of the cabins, unlocking the door, and when he turns to hold it open for me, we're suddenly too close.
The faint scar above his eyebrow. The way his eyes track down to my mouth before flicking back up.
"This one's got the best view."
I slip past him into the cabin, putting distance between us because standing that close makes it hard to remember why I shouldn't reach out, shouldn't let my fingers brush against his forearm just to see if touching him still feels the same.
The interior stops me in my tracks.
It's perfect.
Open living space with a small kitchenette, a bedroom visible through a half-open door, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the hills. There's a wood-burning fireplace, bookshelves already stocked, a record player in the corner with a collection of vinyl that looks carefully curated.
“Seriously.” I set my bag down, turning in a slow circle, needing movement to dispel the energy humming under my skin. "This is too much."
"It's a cabin," he says simply, leaning against the doorframe in a way that's entirely unfair—casual and confident and so much steadier than the boy I knew seven years ago. "And it's empty. You'd actually be doing me a favor—these places should get used."
I give him a look that says I know that's bullshit, but he just shrugs, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that way that used to undo me completely.
Still does, apparently.
"There's coffee and basics in the kitchen," he continues, pushing off from the doorframe to step inside, and suddenly the cabin feels smaller. "WiFi password is on the fridge. You need anything else, I'm usually at the studio."
"Usually?"
"Always," he corrects with a small smile.
He's standing a few feet away, showing me where the light switches are, pointing out the thermostat, being helpful and normal while I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
