They slid in between the notes: Jake’s mouth, tasting of lake water and cheap beer. The way Jake’s hand skimmed down his spine, rough and certain, nothing like a friend’s touch.
Then Noah’s shadow cutting across them, the rage in his voice louder than Milo’s racing heart.
What the fuck are you doing?
Milo jerked back into the present, his breath caught in his throat. The train hummed on, oblivious. He pressed his forehead to the cold windowpane, forcing himself to look at the blur of fields instead of the lake replaying in his head.
He pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving before his brain could catch up. A new note. One line only:
If you burn down the house, don’t cry over smoke.
He stared at it, the words bitter and sharp, then saved them. No edits. No polish.
His hum returned, quieter this time, but even so, the ghost of lake water clung to his tongue.
The studio was on the first floor. Milo climbed the stairs, aware of how he looked with his scuffed boots and his guitar slung across his back like a shield. He slipped into the room in silence, head dipped.
A guy with light brown hair and cool eyes stared at him. “Milo Harrison?” Milo nodded. “I’m Theo Sinclair, and this is Max Rivers.” Theo peered at the guitar, his pen stilling over his notes. “You’re here to sing, not play.”
Milo kept his eyes on the tuning pegs as he twisted one, listening to the string tighten. “I know.” He plucked and adjusted. “It helps me breathe, that’s all.” Then he glanced at the two men.
Max didn’t bother to rein in his smirk, which earned him a look from Theo, who settled back in his chair. “When you’re ready.”
Milo began with simple first chords, the kind any busker might strum outside a train station. But when his voice slid in, aching and textured, carried on the smallest tremor, he felt something shift in the air. He focused on making the melody lean, haunting, as though every note had been dragged through salt water before reaching his lips.
He built carefully, weaving a second line of harmony against the guitar’s, layering his own loneliness into stereo. The silence around him became part of the song, his breath filling the gaps as if the absence itself were another instrument.
And then, without warning, he turned the song on its head. His guitar muted, his mouth transformed into rhythm, clicks, thuds, and sharp bursts of vocal percussion that stacked beneaththe melody. A one-man rhythm section rising under his own falsetto, every beat precise and alive.
The effect was stunning, and better than he’d expected. Rawer, too.
The last harmony hung in the room like smoke as Milo lowered his guitar, his fingers trembling slightly against the neck, his eyes fixed on the floor.
The silence that followed was not emptiness. It smacked of reverence. Milo’s pulse thudded in his ears, and when he couldn’t stand the quiet a moment longer, he raised his chin.
Max leaned back, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Okay. Well. Damn.”
Theo didn’t smile, however. His pen hovered over the page. “Do you arrange?”
“Yes. And I write too. I find music easier than people.”
Max snorted, shaking his head. “That’s not always true. You just madeusshut up.”
Theo’s gaze finally softened. “Do you wear leather?”
Milo’s throat tightened. “Ihavedone…” His voice dropped. “Not since…” He couldn’t finish.
Something flickered in Max’s expression. “You don’t have to tell us.” His voice was low, his tone compassionate.
The sentence landed like a hand on his shoulder, unexpected and solid.
Theo cleared his throat. “If you’re in, rehearsal’s next week on Thursday.”
Milo nodded. Then the words hit home. “IfI’m in? Then… you want me?”
Max smiled. “I thought that was a given. I mean, you don’thaveto accept, but yeah, we want you.”
Milo allowed himself to smile. What echoed in his head were Max’s words.
