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We echo him. Quiet, but firm.
To Dust & Fire. To Melissa and Ryan. To something new.
The moment hangs in the air like smoke after a firework—bright, tender, and echoing. We’re still riding the aftershock when the door to the greenroom flies open hard enough to smack the wall with a dramatic thud.
Alex storms in like a man halfway through a rage spiral. His tie is crooked, his hair’s a mess, and his phone is clutched in one hand like it personally betrayed him.
“Okay, which one of you motherfuckers decided to drop life-altering career news and not loop me in?” he snaps, eyes blazing as he glares around the room like he’s ready to fight someone.
Everyone freezes.
Fletch blinks. “Uh—”
But before any of us can respond, Alex yanks at his tie, rips it loose, and throws it on the floor like it personally offended him.
“Fuck the label,” he growls, running a hand down his face. “I’ve been waiting for you assholes to say that for two years.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Thorin straightens up from where he’s sitting on the floor with Reese and raises a brow. “You want in?”
“You’re starting your own label?” Alex demands, eyes narrowing.
Thorin nods. “Yeah. Dust & Fire. We’re building something new. From the ground up. Want to help us do it?”
Alex opens his mouth, ready for some signature dramatic pause.
But instead, he cuts Thorin off before he can finish the question.
“Yes.”
Everyone bursts out laughing. Even Benji, who hasn’t moved from the couch in half an hour, lets out a wheeze.
Fletch grins. “Dude, you didn’t even hear the pitch.”
“You said new,” Alex says, shrugging out of his blazer like he’s shedding the weight of every tour schedule and corporate clause he’s ever endured. “That’s the pitch. And honestly, I’m not even asking about salary yet, which tells you how much I need this.”
Carson leans back, arms behind his head. “You good, man?”
Alex exhales like a deflated balloon. “I’m great.”
He tosses his blazer on top of his discarded tie, then plants both hands on his hips like he’s just solved world hunger. “I’m in. All in. With one condition.”
Fletch raises a brow. “What’s that?”
Alex grins, eyes bright with exhausted rebellion. “I’m going on vacation first. An entire month off the grid. No calls. No emails. No texts unless someone dies or Beyoncé personally asks me to manage her comeback tour.”
Reese laughs, hand over her mouth. “That’s fair.”
“You’ve earned it,” Thorin agrees. “We all have.”
Alex nods, a little breathless now. “You guys are building something real. I want in on that. But right now? I want cocktails with umbrellas and someone else managing my damn calendar.”
We all laugh—really laugh this time. The kind that rattles your ribs and rings through your chest like a victory bell.
Carson’s already on his feet, ducking behind the bar tucked in the corner of the greenroom. “We’ve got three bottles of bourbon, someone’s half-drunk soda, and at least two warm beers,” he calls over his shoulder. “No umbrellas, but I’m pretty sure there’s a paper straw shaped like a flamingo.”
Benji groans from the couch. “Why do you say things like that with so much hope?”
