He selects something jazzy that fills the space without demanding attention—bass and piano trading phrases like old friends catching up. Not his music, I notice. Never his music when we’re together, like he knows that would be too much, too close to the world I’m trying to keep at arm’s length.
“Tell me something,” I say, sliding chicken into the oven. “What were you doing when you got my text?”
“Sitting on my couch, trying to write, failing spectacularly.”
“Writer’s block?”
“Writer’s distraction.” He hands me wine, fingers brushing mine in a way that feels intentional. “Hard to focus lately.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
He looks at me directly, not playing games. “You know why.”
Heat spreads through my chest. I turn back to the tomatoes, needing something to do, something to look at besides his eyes. “Bishop must love that. You’re probably a dream for him, but too distracted to finish anything.”
“Bishop understands that good songs take time.”
“Does he? What about when venues want to book you? When people start expecting Darian Mercer to tour again?”
He moves closer, not touching but close enough that I feel his warmth through my shirt. “Is that what this is about? You’re worried I’m going to disappear?”
“Aren’t you? Eventually? It’s what musicians do. You chase the music, the next gig, the next city.”
“I’m not any of those piece of shit musicians you’ve dated.”
His statement lingers between us, heavy with history. “I know you’re not.”
“Do you?” He sets down his wine, studying me. “Because sometimes when you look at me, I see you calculating how long before I leave.”
“Can you blame me? You know what they did. What they took.”
“Those men were thieves and cowards,” Darian says quietly. “I’m neither of those things. I think I’ve proved as much when Apex pounded on my door.”
He had.
“No, but you’re still a musician. You still have a life that exists in tour buses and green rooms and cities I’ll never see.”
“That’s my job, not my life. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? When you’re gone for months, when Lily asks where you are?—”
“Then I call her. Every night if she wants. I send her postcards from every city. I come back the second the tour ends.” His voice carries certainty that makes me want to believe him. “I’m not going to take your music or your trust and disappear. When I leave for a tour, it’s for work. When I come back, it’s because this is home. You’re home. Lily’s home.”
“How can you say that? We’ve barely?—”
“We’ve been dancing around this for weeks, Rye. And before you say it’s just physical, we both know it’s more than that.”
He’s right. What happened in his apartment, at the venue—that was heat and need and trying to scratch an itch. But the family dinner, teaching Lily guitar, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—that’s something else entirely.
The timer cuts through the moment, beeping until I silence it and pull the chicken out. The smell fills the kitchen—garlic and lemon and herbs—familiar and grounding. We eat mostly quiet, the music filling gaps where words might go. But the silence carries weight, charged with everything we’re working toward.
“How are the new hires working out?” he asks, breaking the tension.
“Jessa’s good. Experienced. Cade’s enthusiastic, maybe too much so. Jovie caught him trying to alphabetize the liquor bottles by distillery yesterday.”
“Ambitious.”
“Or desperately trying to impress someone. He keeps asking when you’re playing again.”
