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“Because I am hope,” Carson deadpans, popping a bottle and pouring into mismatched cups like he’s been bartending since birth.

Thorin gets up too, helping him pass drinks around—some in solo cups, others in chipped ceramic mugs that say things like Backstage Dad and Live. Laugh. Lanyard. Reese gets sparkling water in a wine glass. I get ginger ale in a chipped enamel mug with Venue Gremlin sharpied across the side.

Fletch tucks in behind me, arms circling my waist, his chin dropping onto my shoulder.

Alex raises his glass, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled halfway up his forearms now, hair completely wild, but a light in his eyes I haven’t seen in years. Maybe ever.

“To Dust & Fire,” he says. “To the music that saved us. And the lives we get to live now because of it.”

Thorin lifts his glass, eyes locked on Reese. “To coming home.”

Benji leans into Carson’s side with a lazy grin. “To not living out of a suitcase anymore.”

Carson raises his glass high. “To making our own damn rules.”

Fletch tightens his arms around me, voice low and certain. “To building a life we don’t have to recover from.”

And me?

I raise my glass, the fizzy ginger bubbles catching the light.

“To doing it all,” I say softly. “Together.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

MYA

Now that the band is home for good—and not just home, but really home, with guitars in the studio and plans scrawled across whiteboards and Alex screaming at people who don’t meet deadlines—they’ve started building something that feels solid. Permanent. They’re creating their own label from scratch, carving out a space in the world that’s entirely theirs. And I’m proud of them. Proud to be part of the machine humming to life behind it all.

But while they’re dreaming forward, I’m going back.

The cemetery is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your bones feel hollow. That eerie, impossible stillness where even the wind holds its breath. Like the earth is pausing to let you grieve.

I shift in the back seat of the car, fingers twisting the edge of my sleeve. I shouldn’t be this nervous. But I am. Because today is the first time I’ve come to visit Kingston’s grave since he died. Since we were eighteen. Since he was my whole world, and then suddenly… wasn’t.

The Uber pulls to a stop, tires crunching softly on gravel. I swallow past the lump in my throat as I reach for the door handle. My dad’s already standing there, waiting for me with a weathered look on his face and hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He doesn’t say anything when I step out. Just offers a small nod like he knows this is something I need to do on my own—but not alone.

“Hey,” I say, my voice tight.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He opens his arms without a word, and I fold into them, letting the familiar weight of his presence anchor me for a moment. “You sure about this?”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s time.”

We walk in silence through the rows of headstones. The sun is out, but it’s a watery kind of light, the kind that makes everything look faded around the edges. I spot Kingston’s name before we reach him. Like his grave has been calling to me ever since I stepped foot in Newton.

I stop in front of the polished granite. The letters of his name seem too sharp. Too final. My breath hitches.

Kingston Maddox

March 3, 1999 – October 18, 2017

“You were golden.”

I fall to my knees, fingers brushing the edge of the stone. “Hey, King.”

There’s a tremble in my voice I can’t quite hide. “Sorry it’s taken me so long. I wasn’t ready before. But I think… I think I am now.”

My dad steps back, giving me space, even though I know he’s still close enough if I need him.