FEBRUARY 2027
Making new music is the only good part of this hell called fame. All the tours, every meet and greet, and every magazine cover all take a small piece of my soul until one day, there will be nothing left at all. But every new record recaptures a part of me that I always worry will be lost forever.
I wrap up, laying down one of the final album tracks, and leave the recording room behind with a deep breath. Chris sits on one of the couches, a pleased-as-punch grin on his usually tight lips. Of all the managers in the world, I was lucky to land one that isn’t a piece of shit, but I still only trust him as far as I can throw him.
“It sounded good!” Chris says gleefully, his eyes sparkling.
“I’ll love it until I have to sing it a million times in front of crowds that make me want to chop my own arm off,” I complain as I toss myself onto the sofa beside him.
“It was good,” Mike, my producer, points out with a small smile under his long beard. “You beat yourself up too much, kiddo.” He skips around and plays the chorus of “No Longer Here” with a small divot between his brows. “This part coulduse some heavier guitar though. Are you good with me bringing Clive back in to lay it down?”
I wave him off. “Whatever you think it needs.”
Mike bends back over the board, messing around with the track that I love but I know I’ll hate in only a few months. That’s the way it goes. I write a song, love it, record it down, and then hate it for the rest of my life.
Chris taps my leg with his phone to get my attention. “Benji’s back at your house.”
My face goes hot at just the thought of another weekend with Benji. “How long is he here for?”
“Open-ended,” Chris answers as he types away at his phone.
“What?” That can’t be right.
Chris shrugs. “Let me know when to send him packing. You’re out here for a few more weeks and you’re making good headway on the album. You deserve a break. Maybe it’ll help you get your brain back in the game too.”
“Maybe.”
Sometimes I think the only way to get my head back in the game is to take my head off, empty it out, and screw it back on. But I don’t say that to Chris because I don’t want him to worry more than he already does. The label has already thrown aroundmental health retreatsa few times after I got sober a few years ago. Back when I was drinking, everything was so much easier. Using liquor to kill all the worst parts of myself off so that I couldn’t even remember most days. They’re lucky I can still write now that I’m sober.
Nerves roll through me as I drive back to my house tucked away in the Hills. The sky darkens the further up the hills the car goes, as the lights from the city bleed away. When I pull through the open gate, I notice a few lights are already on inside, indicating that Chris was telling the truth, and that Benji is waiting for me inside.
I sit silently in the car for a few moments, gathering myself. Steadfastly avoiding the mirror, I run my fingers through my hair, hoping that it’s not a rat's nest after today's recording session. Alright, time to go inside and get fucked mindless.
The alarm system beeps as I step quietly through the front door. For the first time, my house smells like something besides whatever supplies the cleaning crew uses. My stomach growls at the savory smell. God, I can’t remember the last time I ate a full meal. The sizzling sounds of food on the stovetop drags me towards the kitchen. The sight that greets me sends my heart thundering in my chest, my rib cage suddenly ten times too small.
Benji turns his head to take in the sight of me, a small smile tilting up his plush lips. His eyes are just as light blue as I remember, the color of the sky in the early dawn. A few more freckles than I seem to recall him having last year are smattered across his nose. He’s infuriatingly cute, it makes me want to bite him, maybe even kick. Is this cute aggression or just my normal fury?
“Sorry, got hungry waiting,” Benji apologizes sheepishly.
“Help yourself. Mi casa es su casa,” I tease with a sweeping gesture of my arm.
Benji snorts as he returns his attention to the bubbling food on the stovetop. “I’ve made enough for us both. Figured we could eat so we have energy to go all night.”
I wander deeper into the kitchen, only coming to a stop once I’m beside him. He smells the same, like fresh clean sheets, with a hint of something flowery, maybe lavender. A sleepy kind of smell.
“What are you cooking?” I ask, voice small in the large, usually empty kitchen.
Benji grins and dips his head to hide his face from my gaze. “You didn’t have much, so I just threw something together. It’sjust garlic, zucchini, chicken, spices, and some noodles I found in your pantry.”
“Smells good,” I tell him, because it does.
Benji shyly meets my gaze. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, make me a bowl. I’m going to go shower the recording studio off of me.”
I can feel Benji’s gaze prickling at the back of my neck as I quickly flee the kitchen. That entire interaction was too much. We should definitely stick to just fucking. The hot water rolls over my skin as I bathe the day away, burning everything about Nolan Hastings from my brain, until I’m just any other man. I spend a few extra minutes prepping for our fuck fest, because I’m a good little bottom. I’m bad at a lot of things, but never that.
By the time I return to the kitchen dressed in just low-slung sweatpants, Benji is plating our dinner. His gaze lifts to slide over me, from my toes, all the way to my messy, still slightly damp hair.
