I laugh, the first real laugh today. “God, yes.”
We take everything out to the back patio — coffee, pastries, his endless commentary — and the second I step outside, I pause.
The lake is glittering.
The sun is warm, bright, a complete betrayal of yesterday’s storm. Birds are loud. The breeze is soft. It looks like the world has reset overnight and forgotten to tell me.
Banks throws himself onto a patio chair, kicking his boots up on the railing. “Now this,” he says, soaking in the view, “is the kind of place you’re supposed to heal in. Not brood like some tragic poet.”
I snort and sit beside him. “I wasn’t brooding.”
“You were absolutely brooding,” he says, handing me a pastry. “Your hair even has ‘brooding heroine’ volume right now. Mousey brown suits you.”
I take the pastry and try not to smile too much.
Because he’s right.
And because, for the first time today, Ethan isn’t the only thing in my head.
The sun warms my legs, the lake sparkles, and for a moment — just one — I remember what it feels like not to drown.
Banks lounges back, sipping his coffee while I nibble the pastry, pretending everything in my head is totally normal. It isn’t. So I reach for the notebook I abandoned earlier and hold it out.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “I… started something.”
Banks lifts his brows. “Music?”
“Yeah. It’s not finished. It’s barely anything. But—”
I swallow. Hard. “I want to show Jett. Maybe he can help me shape it. In the studio.”
The shift in Banks is instant. His shoulders drop. His expression tightens.
He sighs like he’s been holding this breath for months.
“Lucky.”
Just my name — but it lands heavy as stone.
“I know what you’re gonna say—”
He cuts in, voice gentle but firm. “Working with Jett Langford is what broke you. The control he had. The pressure he put on you. That’s what brought you here.” He gestures around the bright, perfect lakeside like it’s a recovery ward. “How many more crashes until you can’t get back up?”
I stiffen. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he says softly. “It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.”
“It’s not,” I snap, voice rising before I can stop it. “You act like Jett is some villain who kept me chained in a basement. Without him, I’d still be some kid shuttled between foster homes. Or worse.” My throat burns. “Who the fuck knows where I’d have ended up? Maybe sky-high on something cheap, passed out in a parking lot, just like my mom.”
I jab a finger at my chest. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, remember?”
Banks’s face twists — like I just slapped him.
“Lucky,” he says sharply, “Jett didn’t rescue you. He saw you. And then he shaped you into whatever version earned him money, praise, and control. Don’t rewrite history just because you’re scared. You don’t need him to produce your own music.”
“I’m not scared.”
He lifts his brow. “Then say it.”
