When the last note fades, the small crowd applauds politely. Lily claps enthusiastically, bouncing in her seat. Rye doesn’t move at all.
“Thanks,” I tell the audience. “I’m going to take a quick break.”
I leave the Martin on its stand and head backstage, knowing she’ll follow. The narrow hallway behind the stage smells like old wood and fresh paint from where we patched the walls last week. I lean against the wall, waiting.
She appears less than a minute later, leaving Lily with my family.
“That song,” she starts.
“Was for you. Both of you.”
She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the war happening behind her eyes. “You can’t just?—”
“Would you ever let me stay?”
The question hangs between us like a held breath. It’s the real question, the one hiding under all our careful dancing around each other.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I think she might walk away. “Would you ever let me fall?”
The counter-question hits harder than any answer would have. She’s not asking if I’ll catch her—she’s asking if I’ll let her trust me enough to risk falling in the first place.
“Every day if you want to.”
“That’s not?—”
“It’s exactly what you asked. You want to know if I’ll let you be vulnerable, if I’ll hold space for you to risk everything the way you’ve been afraid to since your ex left. The answer is yes.”
She steps closer, close enough that I have to look down to meet her eyes. “I told Laura no,” I continue. “Called Rex’s team directly. Told them if they want me, they can find me here.”
“You didn’t have to?—”
“Yes, I did. Not for you, for me. Because I’m tired of running toward things that look good on paper but feel empty. Because teaching Lily guitar matters more than any producingcredit. Because what we’re building here—the music, the venue, whatever this is between us—it’s worth more than anything they’re offering.”
Her hand finds my face, thumb tracing my jaw. “You’re sure?”
“Never more sure of anything.”
“Even though I’m complicated and have walls and might push you away when I get scared?”
“Especially then.”
She rises up on her toes, and I meet her halfway. The kiss is different from our others—no desperation, no fear, just acknowledgment. We’re choosing this, choosing each other, with all the messiness that entails.
When we break apart, she keeps her hand on my face. “You really told them Nashville or nothing?”
“I really did.”
“What if they say no?”
“Then they say no. I’ll find other work. Bishop’s got connections. There’s session work. Hell, I could teach guitar full time if I needed to.”
“You’d do that? Give up the big opportunity for session work and guitar lessons?”
“I’d give up a lot more than that for something real.”
She studies my face like she’s looking for the lie, the catch, the moment where I’ll take it back. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I don’t know how to trust someone again.”
“We’ll figure it out as we go.”
