Jami caught her gaze like he wanted to say more.He didn’t.He played the progression, the room falling quiet around the notes.The melody found a pocket and settled.Her throat went tight.
She moved back to the bar before she started crying like a fool in a room full of musicians.
Grant’s second email arrived.
Cease and Desist delivered.Third letter drafted regarding tour use.Holding per your timing.
She typed back, Send in forty-five.Then she stood, stretched, and walked the perimeter of the barn with her phone, framing small shots.Sean’s bare feet braced on the rug.Maddyn checking a cable.Axel counting off under his breath.Tony leaning on the soundboard, eyes closed, just listening.
She stitched a ten-second reel of those quiet beats and saved it for later.No captions yet.She wanted to watch more before she chose the words.
“Hey.”Jami’s voice was behind her, lower now, used up in a way she recognized from show nights.“Come hear something.”
She followed him into the studio.He shut the door, not to hide, but to build a small place where the sound stayed theirs.He set a travel notebook on the stool between them and flipped to a page filled with lines she couldn’t quite read from the angle.
“Rough,” he warned.
“I prefer rough to polished lies.”
He huffed out a laugh and played.The chords were familiar now, the skeleton getting muscle.Then he sang a verse that wasn’t a declaration, wasn’t a performance.It was a simple admission set to a melody that felt like a hand, held steady in a crowded room.
She blinked fast.“It works.”
“You’d tell me if it didn’t.”
“I would.”She touched the edge of the notebook.“Who are you singing to here?”
“You.”He didn’t soften it.“But also anyone who needs a door that opens.”
Her breath snagged.“That’s a lot to promise.”
“It's not a promise.It's a wish I can work for.”
She looked at him for a long moment, every part of her aware that this man loved like he sang, full voice or not at all.The divorce had taught her to love with the lights on.The years since had taught her to set her own terms.She heard both lessons in the way he waited without pushing.
“About the house,” she said.
He didn’t move.“Yeah.”
She glanced around to see if the others were listening.Taking a deep breath, she exhaled and lowered her voice.“I am not sloppy with my life anymore.”She rubbed her palms on her jeans, needing the scrape of denim.“If I move anything into your place, it is because I intend to show up there after bad days and good ones.I do not need a rescue.I need a choice.”
“That is all I want you to have.”
She nodded.“Then here is mine.I will move my office upstairs if the offer stands.I will move in with you.Not in a suitcase-on-the-floor way.In a toothbrush-in-the-drawer way.”
Relief flickered across his face, quick and unguarded.“Yes.”
“One more thing,” she added.
“Name it.”
“We do dinner at a table.Phones somewhere else.At least twice a week when we are in the same town.I am not building a life that runs on headlines.”
He smiled with his eyes, not his mouth.“Twice a week is light work.”
“Start small.Keep it.”She glanced at the notebook again.“Play it once more.”
He did.The second pass landed deeper.She slipped out while he continued honing the song, and she pulled up the scheduled post from earlier.She changed the caption.
