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She turns to me slowly, her lips quirking in that almost-smile that guts me every time. “You sure?”

I nod. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re letting someone pamper you for once.”

Reese snorts. “Thank you. Someone gets it.”

She hooks her arm through Mya’s before Mya can change her mind, pulling her toward the house with zero chill. “Go get changed. Something fluffy. Something feminine. Something that screams I’m a mom who hasn’t had a pedicure in months.”

Mya shoots me a look over her shoulder—one part amused, one part helpless—and I just grin.

“Have fun,” I call after them, already reaching for my keys. “And be safe.”

“Don’t text her,” Reese yells without looking back. “Let her have her moment!”

I lift both hands in mock surrender as the front door slams behind them, then turn toward the truck.

The studio’s calling.

But damn if watching her disappear into that house doesn’t make me wish I was going wherever she’s going instead.

The studio is half-lit and humming with static. The air smells like old soundproofing foam, reheated burritos, and the kind of ambition that frays your nerves if you sit in it too long.

Carson’s already at the board, one AirPod in, head bobbing as he isolates a drum loop. He doesn’t look up when I walk in, just slides a bottle of water toward the edge of the console like he’s been waiting for me.

“You’re late.”

“I brought caffeine,” I say, holding up two iced coffees like some kind of peace treaty.

Benji pops his head out of the vocal booth like a groundhog on a mission. “Praise be,” he mutters, snatching one. “I’ve been mainlining sadness and stale air for the last hour.”

“You’re welcome.”

He flops into the nearest chair with all the grace of a dying starfish. “You missed Carson’s existential spiral about the second verse.”

“I did not spiral,” Carson says without looking up. “I said it needs a sharper edge. It sounds like a love song.”

Benji slurps his coffee obnoxiously. “And God forbid we write something that doesn’t sound like a cry for help.”

Carson sighs. “It’s not supposed to be sweet. It’s about starting over. Not… basking in it.”

I drop my bag by the amp stack and run a hand through my hair. “So you want it to ache.”

Carson meets my gaze then. “Yeah. I want it to ache.”

I nod. “All right. Let’s bleed.”

We set up like muscle memory—Benji tuning his guitar, Carson at the keys, me sliding the headphones on and stepping up to the mic like I haven’t done it a thousand times. Like this time means something different.

Because it does.

We’re almost done with this album. The first one I’ve written anything for. The first one since Eli lost his parents. Since Thorin’s world cracked open. Since I watched Mya break and fight her way back with nothing but stubbornness and those twin boys holding her heart hostage.

This whole record has grief in its bones. But it’s got hope too. Quiet, messy, reluctant hope.

Carson hits record. The track starts slow—just heartbeat percussion and Benji’s voice cutting through the static like thunder rolling in from the distance. Then it’s my turn.

I close my eyes.

I don’t think about stage lights or screaming fans. Not tonight. Not like last time. Not like that night.