Before I can say anything else, he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
I stare at the coffee cup, steam rising in lazy spirals. The mug is plain white ceramic, utilitarian, nothing like the collection of band-themed mugs his mother keeps in the main house. This space feels almost deliberately different.
My head throbs again, a reminder that I’m still very much hungover and possibly still a little drunk. I reach for the pills, trying not to think about the possibility of Bastian’s hands on me last night, removing my clothes while I was passed out. Trying not to imagine him carrying me to this bed, or sleeping just a room away while I was nearly naked under his blankets.
I’m not sure these are memories I want in my head, so I grab the cup.
The coffee is perfect. Strong and black with a little sugar, exactly how I like it. Of course he would get my coffee right. Little Mr. Perfect.
I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the warmth spread through my chest. The pine scent is stronger now, mixing with the coffee aroma and something else. A smell Idoremember from last night. Bastian.
This is his space, his sanctuary, and I’m an intruder here.
The thought sits heavy in my stomach, alongside the whiskey and regret from last night. I need to get out of here, need to put distance between myself and this room that smells like him, this bed where he laid me down, these walls that have seen a side of him I’m not meant to know.
But first, I need to stop feeling like my head is going to explode. I swallow the pills and sink back against the pillows, telling myself the lingering warmth in my chest is just from the coffee.
The click of hooves on hardwood makes me look up just as Gouta trots through the open doorway like she owns the place, her red ribbon slightly askew. She spots me and lets out a pleased bleat before launching herself onto the bed with the grace of a much smaller animal.
“Easy there.” I laugh despite my headache as she headbutts my shoulder affectionately. “Look at you, acting all domesticated. You’re supposed to be teaching Bastian about farming, not learning house-pet manners.”
She settles against my side, warm and solid, her presence oddly comforting in this unfamiliar space.
“I’m a legend,” I tell her, running my hand along her soft fur. “Spent weeks training you to be the perfect farm menace, and instead, you’ve gone and turned into a lap dog. Jackson would never let me live this down.”
Her only response is to press closer, demanding more attention. The coffee and pills are starting to take effect, the sharp edges of my hangover softening into something more manageable. I spot my clothes from last night folded neatly on a chair by the window.
“Come on, girl,” I say, gently nudging Gouta aside so I can stand.
My legs are steadier than I expected as I cross to the chair and pull on my jeans. They smell faintly of laundry detergent. The thought of Bastian doing laundry while I slept makes me uncomfortable in ways I don’t examine too closely.
Once dressed, I take in the rest of the cabin properly. The bedroom opens directly into an open-plan living space, the kitchen along one wall flowing into a modest living roomcentered around a massive stone fireplace. The stones look old, like they might have been salvaged from somewhere else on the property, each one unique and weathered.
The kitchen is sparse but functional, full of high-quality basics without any of the fancy gadgets I would expect someone like him to have.
Someone like him.
Rich? Successful? Used to the good things in life?
I’m starting to think I don’t actually know Bastian, or what someonelike himis like.
A French press sits in pride of place on the counter, alongside a grinder full of fresh beans. No dishwasher, just a deep farmhouse sink beneath a window that looks out toward another building. That must be the recording studio Finn told me about.
Gouta follows as I move through the space. The living room furniture is simple but comfortable-looking, with a deep leather couch that’s seen better days, a reading chair angled toward the fireplace, and a coffee table that looks handmade.
What catches my eye is what’s missing. There’s no television, no laptop, none of the usual trappings of modern life.
The walls hold a few framed photographs of the band in their early days, all baby faces and big dreams, a shot of the whole Hall family at Christmas, maybe ten years ago, and one of Jackson and Bastian on the old tractor, guitars in hand. The same one that hangs proudly at Joe’s.
My throat tightens at that one. I remember taking it, remember Jackson asking me to redo it over and over again, while Bastian pretended to be annoyed at having to pose.
Also noticeably absent are any signs of Bastian’s success. No platinum records, no awards, no magazine covers. It’s like he’s created a space deliberately separate from that part of his life.
This is the perfect place to build his life. Close enough to his family but with some separation. I don’t want to think aboutBastian bringing men here, but the image forms unbidden in my mind. Bastian pressing some nameless man against that leather couch, those capable hands sliding under clothes, that mouth… My phone rings, startling me out of thoughts I definitely shouldn’t be having.
Finn’s name flashes on the screen, and I’ve never been more grateful for his terrible timing. Gouta headbutts my leg as I answer, clearly annoyed that I’ve stopped petting her.
“You’re alive.” Finn’s voice comes through, tinged with equal parts relief and amusement. “I was starting to worry.”
