Page 245 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“Neither am I, yet here we are.”

Gabe takes the bottle from me long enough to pour actual glasses like a civilized person because he was basically born forty-five years old.

We drift naturally toward the lounge after that.

Music starts somewhere along the way.

Old records spill softly through the sound system, warm guitar and low vocals wrapping around the room while rain taps gently against the windows outside.

Willow curls into the corner of the giant sectional couch with Daisy sprawled across her lap.

Xander sits beside her, eventually. His hand settles behind her along the back of the couch, fingers brushing absentmindedly against her shoulder every now and then like he can’t quite stop himself.

Gabe notices, too.

I end up stretched out on the opposite couch, one sock missing because life happens fast, watching Willow argue with Gabe about whether cereal technically counts as soup.

“It has liquid,” Gabe points out reasonably.

“It also has joy,” she counters. “Soup never has joy.”

“That’s because you’ve never had good soup.”

“That sounds threatening.”

I grin into my whiskey glass.

This.

This right here.

This is the stuff nobody tells you about when you’re famous.

Nobody talks about the quiet moments you miss. The normal ones. The stupid arguments and warm rooms and people laughing so hard they snort a little and get embarrassed afterward.

I used to think the best moments of my life happened on stage.

Turns out I was wrong.

At some point, I put music on. Something old and loud and impossible not to move to.

Willow points at me. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No dancing.”

“You can’t say that before the chorus even starts.”

“I absolutely can.”

I’m already pulling her off the couch before she can protest more.

She squeals as I drag her into the middle of the lounge while the guitar kicks in through the speakers.

“There are literally no rules here,” I inform her.

“That’s obvious.”