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You do, fucker. You do.

I ignore the voice in my head and glance at her again, catching the brief furrow of her brows before her familiar icy expression settles back into place.

But I saw it.

I see more of her than she realizes. The little cracks in that carefully built armor. The softness she tries so hard to hide.

Lately, she’s all I see.

Even when I close my eyes, she’s there.

My muse.

My fucking undoing.

twenty-six

. . .

Not so Lonely

“I spent years convincing myself I preferred being far away from other people. Then Stephen arrived and ruined the theory.” – A

By the time night settles over Winter Storm, I’ve finished five songs.

Five.

I stare at the files lined across my monitor.

Five fucking songs.

A week ago, I couldn’t finish one.

Now I can’t seem to stop. Not that I want to.

The studio looks like a disaster zone. Empty protein-shake bottles sit beside the mixing console. My notebook is open across the desk, pages covered in crossed-out lyrics and half-finished ideas. My piano is resting against the wall, and my headphones are hanging from the back of my chair.

I should probably get this room in order.

I don’t.

I’m too busy smiling.

Actually smiling.

What the fuck?

I lean back in my chair and listen to the last track again.

The beat comes in low.

Then the bass.

Then my voice.

I close my eyes.

There it is.