Barret is actually good at producing—infuriatingly good.The problem is that the artists he attracts are too green.Wide-eyed kids with trembling hands, big dreams, no timing, and zero understanding of why passion isn’t enough.So he summons Dexter and me to “offer support,” which is basically code for “fix this before I commit arson.”
Dex smooths out vocals, I fix their rhythm disasters, and Barret pretends he’s not one meltdown away from tossing a microphone through the window.I do it because I’m still waiting for life to start, and this is the closest thing I’ve got to forward motion.It’s not a job—no one’s writing me checks—but it fills the hours, keeps my hands busy while I pretend I’m on the verge of discovering my thing.
Everyone else already knows.Eddie with his empire, Barret with his soundboard.Roderick and his chickens and that strangely intense sense of purpose that only poultry seems to inspire.Even Dexter—who spent years hiding—is going back to school, mapping out his plan to bend the music industry to his will.
And then there’s me.Floating.Waiting.Hoping something clicks.
And I ...I do nothing.Unless we count writing in journals, practicing drums, and—apparently—becoming the unofficial emotional support person for my neighbor.Is that a hobby?A vocation?A curse?
No.
Definitely not.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her right now.
She’s off-limits.
Single mom, carrying loss she hasn’t even begun to unpack, trying to build a stable life for her kid.She deserves peace.She deserves someone with a clean slate.
And I’m ...well, me.
But my brain doesn’t listen.It never has.
All I see is Mara on her balcony in the mornings—hair pulled up, breath fogging the air, limbs stretching toward a sun that barely exists in this city.The curve of her waist when she bends.The determination in her eyes when she tries to hold herself together.The light she doesn’t realize she radiates.
The part of her I ache to reach.
To taste.
To lose myself in it might quiet everything else.
And that’s what terrifies me the most.
Because the closer she gets, the more it builds—not just lust, not just curiosity, but a pull that hums beneath my skin.It spreads low and slow whenever she says my name, or passes close enough in the kitchen for her sleeve to graze mine, or looks at me like she hasn’t decided to disappear yet.
I shouldn’t want this.
I shouldn’t want her.
But I do.
Fuck, someone help me with this need because pretending I don’t want her is getting harder every damn day.
Barret is already fiddling with the soundboard like it’s a bomb he’s trying to disarm, muttering about levels and saying, “Dexter was off-key humming the last time you were here.We need to fix that.”
“I didn’t hum,” Dexter protests.“I breathe rhythmically.There’s a difference.”
Barret doesn’t glance up.“You were off-key while breathing.”
“You need someone better at the microphone?”Dexter glares at him.“Call Roderick.”
“I would, but he’s too busy with his chickens,” Barret responds.
I bark a laugh.“Those chickens have more emotional availability than you two combined.”
Dexter rolls his eyes.“Wow, imagine being compared to poultry by your own best friend.”
“Nobody compared you to chickens,” Barret groans.“And if you’re this cranky, maybe you just need to—” He wiggles his eyebrows.“—wink a little, remind Aly you’re good.”
