That earns another round of laughter. Rowan’s still smiling when it quiets, and I catch the look he gives her. It’s soft and protective. He’ll always be her big brother and band manager, equal parts guardian and teammate. It’s the same look he gives all of us when he thinks we’re not watching.
I glance around the small space of my rig, trying to see it from an outsiders prospective. The bookshelves, the mismatched mugs, the laughter, and the way everyone fits together like we were always meant to be together.
This is it.
The quiet heartbeat of everything we’ve built.
It’s in these moments, tucked between chaos and cameras, that I rememberwhyRowan built this band the way he did. So fans could just focus on the music.
We don’t need spotlights to make it real. The magic’s in mornings like this with our bare feet on cold vinyl floors, laughter that comes easy, and love that doesn’t ask for proof.
Just as Shiloh starts guessing whether the mystery gift is a bracelet or some bespoke moonstone ring, Korbyn’s phone buzzes against the tabletop.
She glances at the screen and grins. “Speak of the devil.”
We all quiet a little as she answers. “Hey, babe.”
Her voice softens, turns airy and private in that way it only does when she talks to her husband. I’ve heard her yell until herthroat went raw, laugh until she cried, but that tone? It’s pure tenderness and just for him.
The rest of us pretend not to listen. Rowan sips his coffee and maintains eye contact with his drink like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever encountered. Shiloh picks at her braid. And Linkin starts silently mouthing exaggerated kissing noises until I launch another dish towel at his head.
He barely dodges it.
I turn back to the kitchen to clean up from our breakfast, but my eyes flick back to Korbyn, and I see her smile falter.
“Wait, what happened?” I hear her quietly ask. “You said you were cleared.”
A pause.
“Oh. No, no, I get it. It’s okay. Really.” Her voice is steady, but her knuckles turn white around the phone.
When she finally hangs up, the silence in the rig stretches thin.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soft.
Korbyn exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair. “He’s not gonna make it tonight. Got called into a last-minute crisis with one of his bands and can’t get out of it.”
“Ugh, management life,” Shiloh mutters sympathetically.
“But,” Korbyn continues, sitting a little straighter, “he’s going to meet us in Nashville. He said he’s gonna make it up to me.”
Linkin smirks, waggling his eyebrows. “Oh, he’s gonnamake it up to you,huh?”
Korbyn tosses a crumpled napkin at his face, but her laugh is genuine. “Shut up.”
“You shut up,” he says in mock-indignation. “I’m just saying—I feel like James is a man of his word. If he says he’s gonna make it up to you, you’re about to bespoiled.And if he doesn’t spoil you in the way you deserve to be spoiled, then I’ll take care of you.”
Beneath the teasing, there’s something softer—an affection that sneaks through even Linkin’s endless jokes. His smile shifts into a quiet and genuine one; it’s his look that saysI mean it.
And through the disappointment still flickering behind Korbyn’s eyes, she regains a little of her post-show glow.
They’ve been together since they were kids, with the love that grew up right alongside them. They survived braces, bad haircuts, and long-distance while he was in college. Hell, they survived her joining a shadowy, semi-anonymous world-touring band with a cult-level fanbase.
She doesn’t talk about their relationship often, but when she does, it’s with this quiet certainty that you can’t fake. She always tells us that James is her home, even when he’s not physically here.
“He’ll make it,” she says after a beat, more to herself than anyone else. “He promised me.”
“Damn right he will,” Linkin says, raising his coffee mug. “To the man who puts the ‘husband’ in ‘husband goals.’”
