It’s gone.The music is gone.
The reply is instant. A call.
I answer on the first ring, swallowing hard. “Hello?”
“Lu—” Banks’s voice is steady, low. A grounding force. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m… I can’t. It’s all gone,” I gasp, words tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t write. I can’t even hum a damn song. It’s like—like everything that ever made sense is gone, Banks. I’m broken.”
He exhales gently, the way someone might approach a wild animal, palms open. “You’re not broken. You’re decompressing. You’ve never… lived without pressure before. You’re in a different environment, you’re doing things your way. No producer. No cameras. No schedules. No Jett.” His tone softens. “Your brain doesn’t know what to do with freedom yet.”
I press my palm to my eye until stars spark behind the lid. “I don’t have time,” I whisper. “I don’t—everything feels empty.”
“Lu, listen to me. You’re not—”
A sound interrupts him.
Footsteps below the porch. Slow. Deliberate. Not the casual thump of wildlife or a neighbor passing by. My heart slams against my ribs.
My breath seizes.
“Banks,” I whisper, scanning the shadows.
“What? What’s wrong—”
But I’ve already ended the call. I clutch the phone like a weapon and reach for the guitar with my other hand.
I’m ready to swing. Smash. Fight.
“Wait—”
His voice cuts through the rising panic.
Ethan.
Relief punches the air from my lungs so hard I sway.
He steps into view near the stairs, not coming up, just… standing there. Watching me with careful eyes, a respectful distance between us. He’s holding a small box pressed against his chest.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says quietly. “I, uh—this is for you.” He lifts the box a little. “Tinder. For your fireplace. I figured… You might need it.”
His voice is calm and even, but there’s something gentle under it. Something that doesn’t ask anything of me.
Not a rescue.
Not a demand.
Just simple kindness offered without fanfare.
I lower the guitar slowly, embarrassment burning hot in my cheeks.
He studies me for a moment, brow tightening almost imperceptibly.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and it’s the softness that undoes me; the care hidden inside the restraint.
I try to answer and fail. My throat closes around everything I don’t want anyone to see.
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t pry. His voice stays level, steady as stone.
