The words land harder than they should. I open my mouth, ready to explain what I mean; how it would build anticipation, make the drop hit harder, but Dean’s already adjusting his guitar, the producer calling for another take.
Conversation moves on without me. Like the idea never existed. I nod, spinning the stick once between my fingers. “Yeah, okay then.” The sarcasm is missed by everyone butHayden, who’s staring straight at me. I shrug and count us back in.
The rhythm comes easy. Muscle memory takes over. I hit every beat exactly where it belongs. I’m locked in and give them reliable and safe. The take ends and everyone nods approval through the glass.
Luc gives me a thumbs up. Good job, drummer. I force a grin. Inside, something tightens. It’s not doubt, it’s frustration. Because I know I’m right about this. I just don’t push it. At least, not today. We run the track again. And again. Each take tighter than the last. Each one feeling a little less like mine.
By lunch everyone sprawls across couches and folding chairs, food containers open, conversation loud and easy. Dean launches into bachelor party plans for what feels like the hundredth time, Luc laughing while he scrolls through his phone, showing us a picture of Larkin that Lily texted.
I pick at my food, listening more than talking. Hayden sits across from me, calm and unreadable as always. His movements slow, precise, like nothing ever rattles him. His gaze flicks toward me once. It’s sharp and observant, like he noticed something I’m trying not to show. I look away before he can say anything.
The afternoon drags. My shoulders burn from repetition. Sweat cools against my skin between takes. The air in the studio feels thick, heavy with sound and stale coffee. Every time we restart the track I hear the version in my head - the one we’re not playing. I stop bringing it up. No point. By the time we finally wrap, exhaustion settles deep in my muscles. I pack up slowly, winding cables, tossing sticks into my bag. Everyone’s in good spirits. Productive day. Another track basically finished. I should feel good. We nailed the take. But all I hear is the version we didn’t play, like I left something unsaid sitting in the room.
I head home, hands shoved into my pockets, replaying the studio moment on a loop. I’ve been trying lately. Showing up differently. Less chaos. More focus. And all they still see is the fun drummer. I’m more than the little brother who’s along for the ride.
The thought sits heavy until I turn the corner toward my building. And suddenly all I want is to be inside. Home. That realization stops me for half a second. Since when did going home become something I look forward to?
The apartment is quiet when I walk in, but I know she’s here. Her bag sits by the door. Her shoes are kicked off near the couch. I turn the corner and see her in the kitchen, hair loose, sleeves pushed up, scrolling on her phone. She glances up immediately. Her smile fades a second later. “You okay?”
“Shit day.” I shrug, a wary sigh escaping as I drop my keys onto the counter, my hand gripping the back of my neck as I look over at her. “I’m just going to take a shower and hit the hay.”
She studies me for a beat longer than usual. Then she shakes her head slightly. “Okay. Nope.”
I blink. “What?”
She points at me like she’s making an executive decision. “We’re not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This mood.” She steps toward the fridge. “Whatever it is. I reject it.”
I laugh quietly despite myself. She starts pulling things out; ice cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, lining them up across the counter with ridiculous seriousness.
“What is happening right now?” I cross my arms over my chest as I scan the contents on the counter.
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Therapy. The Quinn version.”
I lean against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen. The heaviness in my chest loosens just a little. She hands me a bowl. “Sit. Participate.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a mock salute and do as she commands.
She snorts softly. We build ridiculous sundaes, piling toppings higher than necessary. She piles on sprinkles like she’s proving a point.
“You don’t think that’s a little excessive?”
“Sprinkles can never be too excessive.”
“If you say so.” I grin over at her. “You are the professional.”
She gets chocolate on her finger and makes a face, licking it off absently, and I’ve never wanted to be chocolate more in my life. The action grabs my attention hard. She notices me watching. “What?”
I shake my head, scooping another spoonful. “Nothing.”
A second later she sprays whipped cream straight at my face. It lands across my cheeks and my nose. I freeze, my mouth falling open in disbelief.
Laughter bursts out of her, bright and unfiltered. “Ooops.” She feigns innocence, her fingers moving to cover her mouth.
I wipe it off slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You’re dead.”
