Chapter 18 Creed
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Creed
The tires crunch against the gravel as we pull back into the retreat.
Roman is talking. Of course, he’s talking, always talking. Words tumbling faster than the engine can keep up with. Big ideas. Bigger schemes. The kind of energy that makes my chest tighten without any warning.
I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.
I let him run his mouth while I take it all in. The way the mountains catch the light this late afternoon, the way the air smells faintly of pine and wet earth.
Inside, Ezra’s at the table, notebook open, pen tapping. He looks up when we come in, cautious. He’s not sure what we’re bringing this time.
Roman grins, waving his hands, conjuring magic. “Guess what. Big news.”
Ezra blinks. “News?”
“Correct,” Roman says, grinning widely, eyes bright. “Christmas Battle of the Bands. City venue. Some heavy hitters on the roster. We’re in.”
Not a bad idea. Not bad at all.
Ezra’s eyes go wide for a second, then narrow, thoughtful. He taps his pen against the notebook because it’s keeping him anchored to the table. “Seriously?”
“As serious as a sold-out tour,” Roman says. “It’s in three weeks. This is our shot to test the new stuff. Show them what we’ve been working on.”
Ezra lets out a short laugh. “A redemption arc, then? A chance to weave our ghosts into something worth watching?”
“Exactly,” Roman says. “The comeback story they didn’t see coming. You in?”
Ezra hesitates, just a fraction, then nods. “Yeah. I’m in. After the success at the bar, I think this could only be good for us.”
“‘Could be,’” Roman repeats, his grin twitching. “You sound thrilled.”
Ezra shrugs. “I’m cautiously optimistic. Which, for me, is basically ecstatic.”
Roman rolls his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”
“Right back at you,” Ezra mutters, scribbling something in his notebook.
Roman tosses his leather jacket over the back of the couch and collapses beside it. “We’ll need to tighten the setlist, maybe add a new track. Something fresh to close with. Big finish, you know? Explosive.”
“Explosive,” I echo, deadpan.
He points at me. “That’s the spirit, Hunter. Try not to break anything before then.”
“Can’t promise that.”
Ezra looks up from his notes. “We don’t even have the full lineup ready. Half the new songs aren’t finished. And we’re supposed to… what? Magically pull it together in three weeks?”
Roman shrugs. “Pressure makes diamonds, brother.”
Ezra’s jaw ticks. “Pressure also makes people implode.”
Roman smirks. “Spoken like someone who’s imploding.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never shut up long enough to write a song,” Ezra shoots back.
I sigh. “Are we doing this again?”
They both turn toward me. Roman grins. “We’re not fighting, man. We’re brainstorming.”
Ezra snorts. “That’s one word for it.”
Roman claps his hands once, decisive. “Alright, let’s take it downstairs. Ezra, bring the notebook. Creed, give me ten before you start on the kit. I want to run through ‘Ashes’ first.”
He’s already moving before anyone answers, the kind of energy that drags everything in its orbit. Ezra follows, muttering something under his breath, pen still tapping against his palm, keeping rhythm with his thoughts.
When the door closes behind them, the house exhales.
I head to the kitchen, the quiet hum in my chest the same as feedback after a show.
Sloane is in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair tied messily at the back of her neck. There’s a faint line of flour across her wrist. She looks up when she notices me.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” she says.
“Didn’t make much noise,” I reply.
“Surprising.”
I nod toward the counter. “They’re gearing up for rehearsal. Figured I’d stay out of the line of fire for a minute.”
“Smart,” she says, turning back to the chopping board. “You guys seem… fired up.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She smirks faintly. “Sounds like you’re making progress.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. The sound settles somewhere in my chest, right between the tightness and the ache.
For a moment, I just watch her move. Efficient, calm, the opposite of everything that’s been swirling around the band lately. Then I clear my throat.
“Hey,” I say, and she glances up again. “I wanted to say thanks.”
Her brow creases. “For what?”
“For… this.” I gesture to the counter, to the careful containers labeled with my name. The protein bread, the greens she actually washed, and the fact that there’s no garlic in the sauce tonight. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She blinks, surprised. “It’s not a big deal, Creed. You have dietary restrictions. I’m just—”
“It is a big deal. I know I wasn’t great when I first spoke about it, and—”
“It’s fine. It’s my job.” Her gaze flickers to mine, quick and sharp, then away again. “You should eat before you rehearse. Blood sugar and all that.”
“I will.”
She wipes her hands on a towel, but I can see the faint tremor in her fingers. It’s subtle, maybe just the light catching them, but it hits me anyway. That quiet, controlled energy she carries, always holding something back.
“Smells good,” I say, just to fill the silence.
She hums. “Let’s hope it tastes better.”
“It always does.”
That earns me a quick, skeptical, slightly wary look. “Since when do you hand out compliments?”
“Since someone started earning them.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s a spark there, the kind that makes the air between us hum. “Careful, Creed. People might think you actually like me.”
I smirk. “Would that be so bad?”
She freezes, knife halfway through a carrot, and glances up at me, searching for the punchline. When she doesn’t find it, she scoffs softly. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“Whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely between us. “You are being… I don’t know, charming. Or trying to be.”
“I wasn’t trying,” I say, maybe too fast.
Her lips press together, that slight defensive tilt in her chin reappearing. “Right.”
I exhale through my nose, feeling the familiar tug of frustration. Not at her, exactly. At myself. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” she asks, sharp now. “Because every time you talk to me, it’s like you’re halfway between a compliment and a critique. I can’t tell which one you actually mean.”
The words hit harder than I expected, probably because she’s not wrong.
“I meant…” I stop, searching for the correct phrasing. It’s a minefield. “I meant that I appreciate you. I just… You make it hard sometimes.”
Her brows lift. “I make it hard?”
“Yeah,” I say, tired, running a hand through my hair. “You walk around here like you’ve got it all under control, like nothing touches you, but then one wrong word and you act like I’ve—”
“Like you’ve what?” she cuts in. “Judged me? Because that’s what it feels like half the time, Creed. Like you’re waiting for me to screw up so you can say you saw it coming.”
“That’s not…” I stop again, jaw clenching. “I don’t think that.”
“Really? Because that’s how it sounds.” She drops the knife onto the board with a dull thud. “You barely talk to me unless it’s about food, and when you do, it’s like you’re doing me a favor.”
I step closer before I can think better of it. “That’s not fair.”
“No?” she challenges, eyes bright now, angry and something else, something that makes it hard to breathe. “Then tell me what is fair, Creed. Because from where I’m standing, you don’t seem to know what you want from me.”
The heat in her voice ignites something under my skin. I can feel my pulse in my throat, heavy and insistent.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches. I see it. The flicker of surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means…” My hand twitches at my side. I want to touch her, and that thought alone pisses me off. “It means you get under my skin, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
She stares at me for a long moment, the air between us stretching thin. Then her expression hardens. “So now it’s my fault you can’t control yourself?”
I blink, stunned. “That’s not… Damn, that’s not what I said.”
“Pretty sure that’s what you meant.” She’s already stepping back, putting the island between us as a shield. “You know what, Creed? Don’t bother thanking me next time. I’ll stick to the damn meal plan and keep out of your way.”
“Sloane—”
But she’s already grabbing the towel off the counter, tossing it aside with a flick of her wrist. “Go play your music, Creed. That’s what you’re good at.”
The words land sharp, clean, right where they’re meant to hurt.
Before I can say anything else, she’s gone. Footsteps retreating down the hall, the kitchen door swinging shut behind her.
I stand there in the empty space, the faint smell of garlic-free sauce clinging around us, and realize my hands are shaking.
I’ve been hit harder before.
Just not like this.