He has a manager. A damn manager. A team. And his tea, gave him the best recording studio in San Francisco so he can work on his debut album.
His voice is everywhere right now. His covers keep blowing up—one hit a million views in six hours. Another ended up charting on Spotify’s viral playlists even though it wasn’t an official release. His follower count jumps every single time he posts anything, even if it’s just a clip of him tuning his guitar.
And the comments... God. Thousands of people telling him how his voice makes them cry, how they replay his videos in the middle of the night.
He pretends he doesn’t read them, but I know he does. And I see the way his cheeks turn pink.
The label already expanded part of his contract even before he starts the tour—talks about stage direction, vocal arrangements, merch designs, branding. There’s even been chatter about a documentary-style mini-series to follow his debut year to add in Emily’s tour mini-series. Nothing official, but... they wouldn’t be discussing it if they didn’t believe in him.
And next year—next year he’ll be standing on the biggest stages in the country, with thousands of lights on him, with an entire crowd chanting his name.
Sometimes I look at him in the studio—hair messy, sleeves rolled up, guitar on his knee—and it hits me all over again:
The whole world is about to fall in love with him.
And I get to be the one who already did.
“We never really got a proper first date,” he says, grinning over his shoulder.
Before I can answer, he scoops me up bridal-style and keeps running, laughing breathlessly as he carries me down the glowing shoreline. The sunset paints everything gold and pink, the waves sliding over the sand, warm wind rushing past us.
He finally stops—and my jaw drops.
There’s a beach blanket spread out on the sand, piled with soft pillows and surrounded by flickering candles stuck into the sand. Two huge takeout bags from that new Italian restaurant Maggie and Sam fell in love with last week sit on the corner of the blanket.
I had told him—just once—that I wanted to try it with him someday.
And, like always, he remembered.
Vincent sets me down gently, lips curved in that soft smile he only uses with me. I sink onto the blanket with him and immediately climb into his lap, straddling him, arms around his neck.
“Baby... this is beautiful,” I whisper before kissing him softly.
He chuckles, reaching into one of the bags and pulling out a breadstick. He raises it to my lips. “Taste.”
I bite into it, and the flavor explodes across my tongue.
“Oh my god,” I mumble around the bite, almost moaning.
Vincent bursts out laughing, head tipping back. “Jesus, Nova, it’s just bread.”
“Good bread,” I insist, grabbing his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss.
I stay settled in Vincent’s lap, my knees on either side of him, while he reaches into the first paper bag like he’s unveiling some sacred treasure. The sunset behind him dips lower, turning the sky into a watercolor of pink and deepening violet.
“Okay, okay,” he says, clearing his throat dramatically. “For our very official first date—starter number one.”
He lifts a plastic container with a flourish.
I gasp. “Bruschetta!”
He grins. “See? You guessed the thing with tomatoes on top of bread. I’m right when I say you’re a fucking genius.”
I swat his shoulder. “Shut up.”
He laughs and spoons some onto a slice, bringing it toward me. “Say ‘ah.’”
I laugh. “Absolutely not. I can feed myself.”
