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It’s such a simple question, but for some reason it stuns me. No one’s ever asked me that. No one’s wanted to know.

“I mean, I don’t usually write,” I admit, suddenly hyperaware of the calluses on my fingers, the scratch of denim against my knee. “I’ve always just been the guy who lays down rhythm. The guy who keeps the beat so everyone else can shine. But after everything with you—” I break off, swallow. “I couldn’t not write.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt. Just watches me with those eyes that have always seen more than I’m comfortable with.

“The first song was messy as hell,” I continue. “Didn’t rhyme, didn’t follow structure. It wasn’t even meant to be a song. Just… noise in my head I couldn’t turn off. And then Carson read it and said it was the best thing I’ve ever written.”

A breeze lifts the hem of her hoodie and carries the smell of chamomile and earth across the porch. I can feel her gaze on me like gravity.

“What was it about?” she asks, almost a whisper.

“You.”

Her breath hitches. Her tea goes still in her hands.

“You, and how I didn’t mean to fall for you but I did. And how losing you was worse than any song I could ever write. Worse than silence.”

I reach across the space between us and curl my fingers over hers where they cling to the mug.

“Let me prove it, Mya,” I say softly. “Let me prove that all I want is you… and our sons.”

The porch groans under the weight of emotion we’re both holding up like scaffolding. But for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t pull away.

And that’s enough—for now.

There’s a kind of high that comes from nailing a take in the studio.

It’s not the same adrenaline I get on stage, sweat-soaked and deaf from the roar of a crowd. No, this is quieter. Deeper. Like striking a match in the dark and watching it catch. A slow burn that spreads from your chest outward until you’re shaking from the inside out.

That’s what today feels like.

The barn smells like dust and cables and stale Red Bull, and the walls practically vibrate with the hum of amps and the ghost of songs we haven’t finished yet. We’ve been locked in here for hours, laying down layers like scaffolding—drums, bass, rhythm guitar—each one building toward the thing I’ve been too scared to name.

My song.

Benji finishes his final harmony with a guttural “fuck yes” into the mic before yanking off his headphones and clapping Thorin on the back. “You’re disgusting, bro. That bridge gave me actual chills.”

“Good.” Thorin grins, breathless. “It should hurt a little.”

Carson swivels in his chair at the soundboard, all loose limbs and laser focus. “Levels are clean. Benji, your mix is layered but not overpowering. Thorin, I’m isolating your harmonies on the bridge for a double back—we’ll lift that into the chorus and cut it with the chorus gang vocals.”

He cracks his knuckles. “That just leaves you, Fletcher.”

Everyone turns toward me.

My throat goes dry.

I’ve played hundreds of sets. I’ve backed dozens of tracks. I’ve never had to be the voice. Not like this.

I tug my beanie lower over my ears, roll my shoulders, and step into the booth.

Mya’s curled on the worn-out couch just outside the glass, one knee pulled up under her, eyes glued to me. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word.

But she sees me.

And suddenly, I can breathe again.

“Mic’s hot,” Carson calls through the monitor. “Whenever you’re ready.”