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“You wouldn’t be,” I say. “But I get it.”

“I just…” He swallows hard. “I don’t know how to keep leaving you. The boys. This life we’re building. I don’t know how to be in both places at once.”

“You can’t,” I whisper, resting my forehead against his. “But you don’t have to choose either. We’re not going anywhere. You come back, and we’ll be right here. Just like this.”

His eyes close. A breath shudders out of him.

“I don’t want them to grow up thinking I was more committed to the crowd than I was to them.”

“They won’t,” I say. “Because you’re showing up every way that matters. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

We stay quiet for a moment. Just the soft rustle of blankets and the heartbeat beneath my palm.

“I’ll fly out for one of the shows,” I say finally. “Just for a night. I’ll find someone to watch the boys, and I’ll surprise you.”

His eyes fly open, smile slow and wrecked and grateful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Let me come into your world for a minute. Let me be the face you find when the lights go down.”

He pulls me on top of him, arms locked tight around my back, pressing his lips to my temple like he’s sealing something there.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you more.”

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with the sky just waking outside and the babies still asleep⁠—

It feels like we’ve already survived the goodbye.

Because we’re not breaking.

We’re just bending until we come back together again.

Chapter Thirty-Six

MYA

One Month Later

Nashville feels like music. Like heartbeats and heat and the kind of hope that hums just beneath your ribs.

I hold Kody against my chest, his tiny body tucked beneath a soft blanket, while Kingston squirms in Reese’s arms, his little fists windmilling like he’s trying to catch the beat outside. We’re hidden in the wings, the noise of the crowd spilling through the backstage curtain in waves—booming, blistering, beautiful. My heart’s galloping, and it’s not just because of the bassline vibrating through the floor.

It’s because this moment feels sacred.

Reese and I flew in with the boys earlier today. A surprise, thanks to Maggie’s scheming and Fletch’s inability to stop checking in on us every hour like some grumpy, gorgeous dad-in-training. And now we’re here. Watching from the shadows, letting them do what they were born to do.

Reese is stronger now. Still grieving. But steadier, like a tree that learned to bend in the wind without snapping. She hasn’t said much tonight—she doesn’t need to. There’s this unspoken thing between us now. Like war survivors who don’t have to talk about the bombs because they both still flinch at thunder.

The lights dim. The crowd roars. Fletch appears, strumming the opening chords of Home Again, and the way my throat tightens is almost embarrassing.

But then Thorin sees her.

His gaze slides past the mic stand and stage lights and lands on Reese—on all the bruised-but-breathing proof that she’s still here—and his voice warbles on the second verse. Just a slight hitch. But I catch it. So does Reese. Her breath stutters.

Fletch moves like a current, stepping in to sing the next line before Thorin even fully falters. Seamless. Steady. A band so in sync they don’t need words to hold each other up.

The crowd eats it up. They cheer louder, sensing the emotion without fully knowing the story. “You’ve got this, Thorin!” someone shouts. “We love you!”