Chapter 26
The new studio smells like fresh wood and ozone. The walls are dark and clean, panels of soundproof foam layered like scales. Even the silence feels different up here—dense, alive, holding its breath with me.
We came to the mountains for a new beginning, but standing here, I feel the weight of every note I haven’t sung.
Cables snake across the floor, gleaming under low amber lights. The mic waits at the center of it all, sleek and cold, the pop filter hovering like a question.
I haven’t attempted to record since before the attack. Since before my voice broke.
The guys are already behind the glass. Tristan leans against the console, arms crossed, eyes steady on me like he’s afraid to blink.
His lips curl upward in a way that tells me he believes in me.
That’s all the encouragement I need right now.
Especially from him. He was my rock at the start, and now he’s my rock again.
The others hover nearby, pretending to adjust levels, but I know they’re watching. No one says anything. They don’t have to.
I step up to the mic, and my hands won’t stop shaking. The pop filter brushes my lips as I adjust it. My throat tightens on instinct, remembering what it felt like when I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound. I swallow against the phantom ache.
Tristan’s voice comes through the headphones, low and careful. “Take your time, Lexi. No rush.”
I nod, though my pulse is already racing faster than the metronome ticking faintly in my ears.
The first line of the song rolls through my mind—words I wrote when I still sounded like a ghost. I inhale, deep and slow, the way the therapist taught me. Diaphragm, not throat. Support, not strain.
My pulse thrums so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. Every breath feels too big, too sharp, like my lungs forgot how to hold sound. But my body remembers—how to stand, how to draw air, how to trust the quiet before the first note.
And then I sing.
The note comes out raw, cracked right down the middle. I almost stop. But I push through it, letting the imperfection live. The rasp that used to make me cringe now gives the words weight—grit and grief tangled together.
I close my eyes and keep going. The studio fades away. It’s just me and the sound in my chest, broken but burning. Every scar I’ve earned hums in the edges of my voice. Every inhale feels like defiance.
When the last note fades, the silence hits hard. I lower my head, heart pounding. I don’t dare look up.
Then the intercom clicks.
“That,” Tristan says, his voice rougher than usual, “that’s the take.”
For a moment, I can’t move. The words don’t register. I simply stand there, the headphones heavy around my neck, the ghost of the last note vibrating in my chest. And then his voice cuts through it, rough and certain.
I glance up. Through the glass, he’s smiling. Not the careful kind he used to give me when he was worried—this one’s real. Wide. Proud.
Something in me loosens. My exhale leaves in a shaky laugh.
It’s not the voice I lost.
It’s the one I rebuilt from the ashes.
And for the first time since the night everything went dark, I don’t hate how it sounds.
I stay by the mic for a second, simply breathing. My throat burns, but not from strain… from release. I didn’t realize how long I’d been holding myself together until now.
Through the glass, Keaton waves me in. I peel the headphones off, the silence pressing strange against my ears, and step into the control room. The guys shift to make room, eyes bright but cautious, like I’m made of glass they’re scared to crack.
Tristan gestures to the board. “You ready to hear it?”
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
I nod anyway.
He hits play.
My voice fills the room, low and rough at first, then blooming into something I barely recognize. The rasp catches at the edges, but it means something—it carries every ounce of what I’ve been through. It doesn’t float like it used to. It cuts.
Goosebumps crawl up my arms.
That’s me.
Not the clean, honey-smooth version from the old tracks. Not the girl who used to belt notes like she was untouchable. This voice feels heavier. Older. Honest.
The guys stay silent, simply listening. The song ends, leaving the echo of the last note hanging like smoke.
I turn toward Tris. He doesn’t say anything right away. He simply looks at me, then grins slow and certain. “It’s raw,” he says. “It’s real. It’s better.”
A laugh breaks out of me—half disbelief, half relief. I press a hand to my throat, still feeling the vibration there, still hearing the ghost of that sound in my chest.
“It doesn’t sound like me,” I whisper.
“It sounds exactly like you,” Dare says from his spot near the couch, his voice quiet but firm, the kind of conviction that settles in your bones.
Blake leans forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on me like he’s memorizing the moment. “That’s the version of you people are going to remember,” he says. “Not the girl who could hit every perfect note. The one who lived through it—and made it sound like this.”
I swallow hard, my throat tightening for a different reason this time.
Keaton exhales a slow breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to process it. “I’ve heard you sing a hundred times, Raina,” he says softly, “but that… that gave me chills.”
Nash leans against the wall, arms crossed, his usual easy grin gone. When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You don’t need to sound like you used to. That version of you couldn’t have sung that.”
The room goes still.
Their words hang there, heavy and reverent, wrapping around me tighter than any melody ever could.
I glance from face to face—Tris with his proud grin, Dare’s steady gaze, Nash’s fierce intensity, Keaton’s quiet awe, Blake’s raw honesty—and for the first time since everything fell apart, I don’t feel like the broken one they’ve been protecting.
I feel like part of the music again.
The realization hits hard. My chest aches, my eyes burn, but I don’t look away.
Because for the first time, I believe them.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. The air hums with leftover sound, like the room’s still holding its breath for me. Then, Tris lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Fuck yeah!” In three long strides, he’s across the room, scooping me off my feet before I can even react.
“Tris!” I yelp, but I’m laughing too hard to sound mad.
He spins me once, then twice, the world blurring into lights and motion.
My hair whips around, and the air fills with the sound of the guys cheering.
Blake’s low laugh mixes with Dare’s whoop, Keaton pounding on the console like a drum, Nash shouting something about finally having their frontwoman back.
When Tris sets me down, we’re both breathless and grinning. His hands stay at my waist, warm and steady, grounding me. For months, I’ve been nursing my hurt, too closed off to really let him in, but now? Now it feels right. It feels like home.
“You did it, Lexi,” he says softly, his forehead nearly touching mine. “You’re back.”
Something inside me breaks open—the fear, the doubt, the months of him groveling—and before I even realize what I’m doing, I lean up and kiss him.
Before the weight of it can even settle, I turn right into Keaton. His arms come around me, his drumsticks pressing into my spine while his other hand cups the back of my head. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into my hair before pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
He lets me go only for me to get pulled straight into a Nash-and-Blake sandwich—one of my favorite places to be. Of course, Nash is the one who starts jumping up and down, forcing us to bounce with him. The warmth of my guys surrounds me as they cheer, their laughter ringing in my ears like music.
The sound swells around me—laughter, shouts, the thud of Keaton’s drumsticks against the console—and for the first time in months, it doesn’t hurt to listen. Every noise feels like part of a song I almost forgot how to sing.
When Nash finally releases me, I stumble a step, but Dare’s hand is already there, warm and steady around my elbow. I sink into his hug as his arms fold around me. “Told you the new you was more than enough,” he whispers against my ear.
The reminder of the day we confessed our love makes my cheeks heat. I’m surprised he even remembers what we talked about.
But who am I kidding? It’s Darius. Of course he does.
I tip my head back and look up into his eyes, but before I can respond, Nash interrupts. “We need to celebrate. Let’s call Izzy and Gill and share the good news.”
“Later,” Keaton grumbles, already fiddling with his sticks. “We still have work to do.”
“Party pooper,” Nash whines, earning a snort from Blake. Then he turns to Dare. “Hey, D, tell me you got that on camera. I need to rewatch how beautiful she was singing.”
I groan. “Please tell me you didn’t record that.”
Dare just smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Which of course, means he absolutely did.