Chapter 6 Taylen
TAYLEN
My skull feels like it’s being split open with an axe, each throb a new strike against bone.
The unfamiliar mattress beneath me is too soft, the blanket too heavy, the morning light streaming through unknown windows too bright.
Everything feels wrong, including the fact that I’m wearing nothing but my underwear in a strange wooden room that smells of pine and coffee.
I groan and press my palms against my eyes, trying to piece together the fragments of last night.
There was Joe’s Bar, Finn’s concerned face, too many beers, and then…
nothing. Just a black hole where my memory should be.
The room spins slightly as I attempt to sit up, my stomach lurching in protest.
The walls around me are bare wood, unfinished but smooth, giving the space a cabin feel. Through the window, I see snow-covered fields stretching toward the tree line. Familiar territory, but from an angle I don’t recognize.
My clothes are nowhere in sight, and panic starts to creep in around the edges of my hangover. Where the hell am I? This isn’t Finn’s guest room with its wall of vintage concert posters. This isn’t my house with its perpetual smell of apples and cider. This is…
The sound of footsteps makes me freeze. Heavy boots on wooden floors, coming closer. I clutch the blanket tighter, suddenly very aware of my near-naked state, as a figure appears in the doorway.
Bastian fills the frame, wearing a red-and-black checked shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry despite my cottony hangover.
His jeans, perpetually worn through at the knees, fit him like they were painted on.
He looks exhausted, with dark circles shadowing his eyes, his usual perfect posture slightly slumped.
“Where am I?” My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been gargling gravel.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The movement pulls his shirt tighter, and I force my eyes back to his face. “My place,” he says simply.
“Your…” I blink, trying to process this information through the fog in my brain. “This isn’t your place.”
He shifts his weight, and I catch a flash of something in his expression. Defensiveness, maybe, or irritation. “I own my place. I should know what it looks like.”
My thoughts tumble around in my head, pieces of memories I can’t quite assemble.
“Did we…?” I start, then stop, unsure how to phrase the question burning in my throat. “I mean, did anything happen…last night?”
“Like what?”
“Like…?” I point at me and then at him.
His expression shifts from tired to annoyed in an instant. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you think I’d take advantage of someone that drunk, but then again, you do have a habit of underestimating me.”
He turns and disappears from my line of sight, returning a moment later with a mug of coffee and two white pills that he places on the bedside table with more force than necessary. The coffee sloshes slightly, a few drops escaping onto the wooden surface.
“Take those, drink the coffee. Gouta wants to see you. I have work to do. See yourself out,” he says, already turning away.
Before I can say anything else, he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
I stare at the coffee cup, steam rising in lazy spirals. The mug is plain white ceramic, utilitarian, nothing like the collection of band-themed mugs his mother keeps in the main house. This space feels almost deliberately different.
My head throbs again, a reminder that I’m still very much hungover and possibly still a little drunk.
I reach for the pills, trying not to think about the possibility of Bastian’s hands on me last night, removing my clothes while I was passed out.
Trying not to imagine him carrying me to this bed, or sleeping just a room away while I was nearly naked under his blankets.
I’m not sure these are memories I want in my head, so I grab the cup.
The coffee is perfect. Strong and black with a little sugar, exactly how I like it. Of course he would get my coffee right. Little Mr. Perfect.
I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the warmth spread through my chest. The pine scent is stronger now, mixing with the coffee aroma and something else. A smell I do remember from last night. Bastian.
This is his space, his sanctuary, and I’m an intruder here.
The thought sits heavy in my stomach, alongside the whiskey and regret from last night. I need to get out of here, need to put distance between myself and this room that smells like him, this bed where he laid me down, these walls that have seen a side of him I’m not meant to know.
But first, I need to stop feeling like my head is going to explode. I swallow the pills and sink back against the pillows, telling myself the lingering warmth in my chest is just from the coffee.
The click of hooves on hardwood makes me look up just as Gouta trots through the open doorway like she owns the place, her red ribbon slightly askew. She spots me and lets out a pleased bleat before launching herself onto the bed with the grace of a much smaller animal.
“Easy there.” I laugh despite my headache as she headbutts my shoulder affectionately. “Look at you, acting all domesticated. You’re supposed to be teaching Bastian about farming, not learning house-pet manners.”
She settles against my side, warm and solid, her presence oddly comforting in this unfamiliar space.
“I’m a legend,” I tell her, running my hand along her soft fur. “Spent weeks training you to be the perfect farm menace, and instead, you’ve gone and turned into a lap dog. Jackson would never let me live this down.”
Her only response is to press closer, demanding more attention. The coffee and pills are starting to take effect, the sharp edges of my hangover softening into something more manageable. I spot my clothes from last night folded neatly on a chair by the window.
“Come on, girl,” I say, gently nudging Gouta aside so I can stand.
My legs are steadier than I expected as I cross to the chair and pull on my jeans. They smell faintly of laundry detergent. The thought of Bastian doing laundry while I slept makes me uncomfortable in ways I don’t examine too closely.
Once dressed, I take in the rest of the cabin properly.
The bedroom opens directly into an open-plan living space, the kitchen along one wall flowing into a modest living room centered around a massive stone fireplace.
The stones look old, like they might have been salvaged from somewhere else on the property, each one unique and weathered.
The kitchen is sparse but functional, full of high-quality basics without any of the fancy gadgets I would expect someone like him to have.
Someone like him.
Rich? Successful? Used to the good things in life?
I’m starting to think I don’t actually know Bastian, or what someone like him is like.
A French press sits in pride of place on the counter, alongside a grinder full of fresh beans. No dishwasher, just a deep farmhouse sink beneath a window that looks out toward another building. That must be the recording studio Finn told me about.
Gouta follows as I move through the space. The living room furniture is simple but comfortable-looking, with a deep leather couch that’s seen better days, a reading chair angled toward the fireplace, and a coffee table that looks handmade.
What catches my eye is what’s missing. There’s no television, no laptop, none of the usual trappings of modern life.
The walls hold a few framed photographs of the band in their early days, all baby faces and big dreams, a shot of the whole Hall family at Christmas, maybe ten years ago, and one of Jackson and Bastian on the old tractor, guitars in hand. The same one that hangs proudly at Joe’s.
My throat tightens at that one. I remember taking it, remember Jackson asking me to redo it over and over again, while Bastian pretended to be annoyed at having to pose.
Also noticeably absent are any signs of Bastian’s success. No platinum records, no awards, no magazine covers. It’s like he’s created a space deliberately separate from that part of his life.
This is the perfect place to build his life.
Close enough to his family but with some separation.
I don’t want to think about Bastian bringing men here, but the image forms unbidden in my mind.
Bastian pressing some nameless man against that leather couch, those capable hands sliding under clothes, that mouth…
My phone rings, startling me out of thoughts I definitely shouldn’t be having.
Finn’s name flashes on the screen, and I’ve never been more grateful for his terrible timing. Gouta headbutts my leg as I answer, clearly annoyed that I’ve stopped petting her.
“You’re alive.” Finn’s voice comes through, tinged with equal parts relief and amusement. “I was starting to worry.”
I sink onto the couch, trying not to think about who else might have sat here, what might have happened on these cushions.
“Barely,” I mutter, scratching Gouta’s ears as she settles at my feet.
“So why exactly didn’t I crash at your place last night?
” I keep my voice casual, but I know I’m not sober enough to get away with it.
Finn’s pause lasts a beat too long. “Work stuff.”
“At midnight?” I press, remembering fragments of last night—Finn checking his phone repeatedly, wearing the concerned look he gets when he’s trying to manage too many situations at once.
“Um…” he starts, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s uncomfortable. “I’m having some work done, and the place is a mess. Last thing I needed was you stepping on a rusty nail in the middle of the night and getting some…um…rusty infection.”
I pretend that I believe him because my head hurts too much. “You could have just said that,” I mutter. “Instead of pawning me off on your brother.”
“First of all, you weren’t pawned off. Bastian offered. And second”—his voice softens slightly—“maybe it wasn’t the worst thing to have someone looking out for you last night. You were in pretty rough shape, Tay.”
I grunt noncommittally, refusing to examine too closely why I was drinking so heavily in the first place. “I don’t even remember seeing him at the bar.”
“He came in late. You were…enthusiastically explaining your theories about sustainable farming to anyone who’d listen.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Please tell me I didn’t try to lecture Bastian about farming.”
Finn’s laugh does nothing to ease my embarrassment. “No, but you did tell Old Jim that his fence-line theories were, and I quote, ‘more outdated than your flannel collection.’”
“Christ.” I press my free hand against my eyes. “I’m never drinking again.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Finn reminds me, then his tone turns serious. “Look, I’ve got to run. You going to be okay?”
“Yeah.” I sigh, standing as Gouta protests the loss of her pillow. “Thanks for…you know.”
“That’s what friends are for. Even if sometimes being a friend means calling in backup.”
We end the call, and I pocket my phone, taking one last look around the cabin.
Outside, the air is crisp enough to soften the remaining edges of my hangover.
There are no signs of Bastian, so I allow my curiosity to take me toward the recording studio. The building is a modern structure with large windows. It looks out of place next to the rustic cabin.
The windows are clear enough to see inside. A guitar rests on the couch, papers scattered across a desk, coffee cups on every available surface. Signs of recent and regular use that make my jaw clench. So much for coming back to be a full-time farmer.
“All for show,” I mutter, turning away from the evidence of Bastian’s real priorities. “Just like everything else.”
Movement near the barn catches my attention. Bastian’s tall frame is easy to spot, his shoulders set in that familiar line as he works. The cows are out in the pasture, which means he’s probably doing the morning cleaning.
He straightens as I approach, wiping his hands on his jeans. Those gray eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I forget what I came here to say, distracted by the way the morning light catches the growing silver in his hair.
“Thanks,” I force out, my voice colder than the air between us. “For last night.”
His eyebrows draw together slightly. “You already said that.”
“Did I? Must have been too drunk to remember.” The words come out sharp, pointed. “Kind of like how I must be too drunk to notice you’re not exactly sticking to the whole ‘full-time farmer’ story.”
“What’s your problem?” He turns to face me fully, his height advantage more noticeable now that we’re close.
“People who lie.” I gesture toward the studio. “Especially people who claim they’re here to stay while keeping their escape route well-maintained.”
Something flashes in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I step close enough to smell his hay-and-leather scent. My neck hurts from looking up to meet his eyes. “I must have mistaken farm invoices and paperwork in your studio for music sheets. My bad.”
His jaw tightens, and I see his hands clench at his sides. Good. Let him feel a fraction of the anger I’ve been carrying.
“You don’t get to judge my choices,” he says, voice low and controlled. “You don’t know anything about why I’m here or what I’m doing.”
“I know enough.” I turn away, unable to look at him anymore without saying things I might regret. “Thanks again for the hospitality. Next time, just leave me in the truck.”
I walk away without looking back, my boots leaving deep prints in the snow. Each step puts distance between us, but does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Behind me, I hear the barn door close with more force than necessary, and I tell myself the satisfaction I feel is because I’ve exposed his lies, not because I’ve managed to crack that perfect control of his.
I glance behind me, expecting to see Gouta following, but she’s not there.
Traitor.
Just like my heart, which can’t stop hoping that, for once, what it wants is within reach, only to get crushed over and over again.
Because Bastian is going to leave. Because he always leaves.