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Didn’t mean to fall for you, but there you were⁠—

In a dream I never wanted to wake from.

I thought I’d lost you under pale white light,

But love’s got a heartbeat stronger than silence.

You forgave me in whispers,

Held me in pieces,

Taught me that home isn’t bricks—it’s breath.

And I’ll spend the rest of forever proving

You were worth every song I never wrote⁠—

Until now.

When I look up, Mya’s watching me. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but steady.

She doesn’t ask what I wrote.

She just whispers, “They’re going to make it, aren’t they?”

I nod, throat tight. “Yeah, Mya. They are.”

The porch creaks beneath us as we settle into the twin rocking chairs that face the long, open stretch of the backyard. Mya’s tucked into a hoodie three sizes too big—mine—and nursing a cup of tea that’s more honey than actual tea, her fingers wrapped tight around the mug like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. The moon’s high, silver and soft, bathing the barn in a kind of light that makes everything look gentler than it feels.

I lean back, stretch my legs, and exhale slowly through my nose.

“You notice it’s quieter lately?” I ask, glancing at her.

Her gaze stays on the horizon. “You mean here, or in general?”

“Both,” I say. “But I meant the barn. Carson and Benji… they bought a place in town.”

That gets her attention. She turns, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Yeah. Closed a few days ago. Wanted to be closer to the studio. Less driving, more jamming. Imani’s brother-in-law did the inspection, apparently it’s got this insane back deck and a soundproof garage they’re gonna turn into a rehearsal space.”

Her lips tug into a soft smile, but her eyes dim a little, and I can tell the absence of them hits the same way it hit me—like a note missing from a chord.

“That’s why they haven’t been around,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

“Yup.”

We fall into silence again, the kind that’s comfortable but heavy. The cicadas hum somewhere in the trees. A screen door slams in the distance. I know I should probably say something else, but I’m not ready to shift the weight in the air. Not yet.

“So how’s the album coming?” she asks after a beat, voice low, steady.

I huff out a laugh and run a hand over my jaw. “Fastest we’ve ever started tracking one, actually.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.” I angle toward her. “Usually it’s months of ideas in a voice note or jotted lyrics on napkins, and Thorin dragging his feet until something lights a fire under his ass. But this time… I dunno. We all came back different.”

She tucks her knees up onto the chair and rests her chin on them, that soft curiosity she wears when she’s really listening all over her face. “What’s it usually like?”