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“I will.” And I mean it. With everything I’ve got.
Because this band is my lifeblood.
But she—they—they’re my heartbeat.
I wake to the sound of silence.
No fans. No reverb. No Alex barking out orders or Carson yelling for coffee or Benji practicing riffs on whatever poor surface he can bang his knuckles against.
Just the heavy quiet that comes after the storm.
The curtain’s half drawn, sunlight slicing across the floor in a soft gold spill. My neck’s got a crick in it from sleeping on the couch, but I don’t move right away. Just breathe in the stillness. Let it settle. Let myself feel the weight of last night—because we fucking did it. We played the Garden. We cracked open everything and bled through a mic stand and walked off stage with thunder in our wake.
But not untouched.
Never untouched.
There’s movement in the kitchen. A kettle clinks, then clicks. Soft footsteps on tile.
I sit up, rub the back of my neck, and stretch until my spine protests.
Thorin’s already dressed. Barefoot, in jeans and a black hoodie, hair a mess, face pale. He looks like a ghost someone half-invited back into the world.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, pouring hot water into two mugs. His voice is rough. Grated and dry.
“Didn’t,” I mumble, pushing off the couch. “Just needed a minute to remember I’m not still on stage.”
Thorin doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. Just hands me a mug and stares out the window, eyes fixed on the gray morning hovering over Manhattan.
We stand like that for a while. Drinking in silence. Breathing in the things we still haven’t said.
And then, quiet as a confession:
“I almost didn’t go out there last night.”
I glance at him, but he doesn’t look at me.
“I was in the greenroom, and all I could think was… I can’t. I can’t sing her song like she’s still here.”
His hand tightens around the mug. Not hard, not dramatic. Just… grief in motion.
“She is,” I say softly. “Just not in the way she used to be.”
Thorin lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob pressed flat.
“When I wrote Sanctuary, I thought I understood what love was. Thought I’d already lived the worst day of my life. I didn’t know it could get worse.”
The words hang there.
Quiet.
Devastating.
Like something sacred pressed between two breaths.
I don’t rush to respond. Let him say it. Let it live in the space between us, where it belongs.
Because I get it.
