But even in the ease, my thoughts are a little tangled.
Because as much as I’m trying to justbein this moment—something I’ve never been particularly good at—the truth is, I’m thinking about everything.
About the way his voice sounded in the booth.
About the way his eyes never left mine as he recorded that final track.
About the way the producer whispered “damn” under his breath and how Annie smiled softly like she’d known all along.
And about how, just before he stepped out of the recording room, Jaxon had said, “It’s called Izzy’s Song.”
No arguments. Nothing from his team.
Just understanding.
I didn’t say anything in the moment. But my throat got tight and my heart stretched just a little more than I expected.
Now, as he drives us through the quiet streets of Nashville, the lights of his security team behind us, I steal a glance at him. His jaw is relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on my leg like he needs the contact to keep himself grounded. His gaze is on the road, but he seems distant.
“You okay?”
He nods. “More than okay.”
“You looked like you were somewhere else for a second.”
His smile turns a little wistful. “I was just thinking how different it all feels now. Recording used to be the most important part of my life. But now?” He turns onto a side street, slowing as we approach a red light. “It’s still important. I still love it. But it’s not the whole thing anymore. It’s notme.You are.”
It’s too much and not enough all at once. My fingers tighten around his.
The light turns green, and we drive the rest of the way in silence—comfortable and full.
When we pull into the gated drive of his Nashville home, Jaxon waves at Tim as he sits in the gatehouse, talking to Annie.
“Oh hey, Annie. Imagine finding you here,” Jaxon teases his assistant.
“Go home, you two,” she scolds, but from the look of pure happiness on both their faces, I know they don’t mind.
We reach the house, and Jaxon parks but doesn’t move to get out right away. He turns toward me, brushing a piece of hair away from my face.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
I follow him inside.
The house is quiet, the team off doing their own thing, and Jaxon leads me down the hallway to his music room. The one he’d shown me last time on the tour, but we never spent any time in. The floors are old wood, the walls lined with guitars, shelves stacked with notebooks and awards.
The energy here is different.
It feels like him.
He sits on the edge of the low leather couch, pulling out a tattered notebook from under the coffee table.
“I wrote this when I was nineteen,” he says, flipping it open. “Before the first tour. Before the fame. Before the producers and the execs started telling me what I should be. I found it when I was here after the HMAs. When all I wanted was to be with you.”
He hands it to me, and I scan the first page.
It’s messy. Scratched-out lines, uneven margins, ink smudges.
The song is about a girl.
