My fingers tighten on the neck of the guitar, and I think of the lyrics I scribbled down last night, words that spilled out before I could stop them:
You let him in, but I won’t fade,
A shadow lingering, bound by the ache.
You don’t see the storm inside my chest,
But I’ve been screaming, “She’s not his yet.”
Dark, raw, and maybe too honest. But that’s the thing about songwriting—it’s the only way I’ve ever been able to say what I feel without choking on the words. And right now, those lyrics feel like the only way I can hold myself together.
“West.”
Xayden’s voice cuts through my thoughts, abrupt and impatient. He’s leaning on his drumsticks, his brow arched. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, shaking myself out of it. “Just ready to get this over with.”
Xayden nods, tilting his head toward the section Shelley set up for us—the stage where we’ll play live while the models walk the runway in outfits inspired byPrimal Pulse.I follow him over, hooking my guitar into the amp. For the first time since we arrived, my attention shifts away from Ash.
Not that it lasts.
Because the second I straighten, it’s automatic—my gaze finds her again.
“Do you think Ash looks tense?” I ask Xayden, keeping my voice low enough not to draw attention.
He flicks his eyes toward her, studying her for a beat before glancing back at me. “Yeah. Probably regretting whatever happened with Jake, if I were to guess.”
“She wearing the blockers,” I say, the words leaving me before I can stop them.
A half-smile pulls at the corner of Xayden’s mouth as he nods. “I noticed.”
The knot in my chest tightens. Does that mean she’s done with the whole fake dating thing? Done before the rest of us even get a chance to win her over? I don’t ask the question out loud, but I feel it in every fiber of my being.
“Alright, places, everybody!” Shelley’s voice cuts through the hum of activity.
I run my fingers over the strings, flipping on my guitar and stepping into position. The faster we get through this, the faster I can figure out if my date with Ashlyn is still happening tonight.
The first notes of the song echo through the studio, and the models start their walk. Rehearsal was all about getting them comfortable with their marks, but now they’ve disappeared into dressing rooms to put on their chosen outfits.
The first model steps out, working the runway in ripped jeans that sit low on her hips and a shirt I’d probably pick out for myself. It’s a safe choice, clean and understated. Even I can see that from here.
She finishes her walk, and the next model steps onto the runway, wearing a piece that immediately grabs everyone’s attention. Black leather pants with chain accents, a torn red shirt beneath a fitted leather jacket that glitters faintly under the lights. It’s bold, rebellious, and unmistakably inspired by us—by her time with us.
Ashlyn freezes.
Her pen stills in her hand, her gaze locking onto the model like she’s seeing something else entirely. Her shoulders liftslightly, bracing against whatever memory the outfit dragged to the surface.
I know exactly what it is.
The memory slams into me, as vivid as if I were living it again, like it’s been waiting just below the surface to take me out.
We were sixteen, sneaking out of a party we had no business being at. The music was too loud, the people too drunk, and Ashlyn had leaned over, tugging at my sleeve with that mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Let’s go,” she’d whispered, her voice full of a kind of reckless energy I could never resist.
Minutes later, we were running down the street, the rain pouring down in sheets, soaking us to the bone. My leather jacket clung to me, plastering my red shirt to my body beneath it. Her laughter rang out, wild and unrestrained, and it made my chest ache with how alive she looked. Her hair clung to her face, her makeup smudged and running, but she’d never looked more perfect. More like someone I never wanted to let go.
She’d spun to face me, her arms spread wide like she was daring the storm to catch her. “Come on, West!” she’d called, her smile radiant even through the downpour.
