Chapter Thirteen
Cody
Three months later, Cody stood on the stage of a small venue in Whitefish, Montana—population eight thousand, capacity three hundred. It was the polar opposite of the arena shows he was used to, and it was perfect.
The audience was close enough that Cody could see their faces and make eye contact. To feel the music as a shared experience instead of a performance.
Cody's fingers moved across the guitar strings, playing the opening notes of his new song. One he'd written in Montana, in the studio he’d had built as an extension onto the side of Reid’s house.
He’d always wanted his own studio, but he’d seen little point in buying a house before then and putting a studio in it because he was always on the road so he wouldn’t have gotten to use it.
Now, he spent as much time as he could in there, doing what he loved.
The rest of the time he spent with the man he loved.
"This one's called 'Home,'" he told the crowd. "It's about finding the place where you belong. For me, that turned out not to be a place, but a person."
In the back of the venue, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face, Reid watched.
Through the bond, Cody felt Reid's pride, love, and contentment—a constant presence, warm and grounding. He'd gotten used to it over the past months, the way he could sense Reid's location and mood through the bond. The way Reid could do the same with him.
It made him felt safe.
Cody sang, and the audience listened—really listened. This was what music was supposed to be—close enough to feel, raw enough to mean it.
After the show, Cody signed autographs and took photos, but the crowd was respectful. No grabbing, no pushing. Just genuine appreciation.
Reid materialized at his elbow as the venue started to empty. "You were incredible."
"Yeah?"
"Always." Reid's hand found the small of Cody's back—constant contact that was automatic now. "Ready to go home?"
Home—where Cody's guitars hung on the walls and his notebooks littered the coffee table. Where Reid cooked breakfast and Cody wrote music and they were building a life together, piece by piece.
"Yeah," Cody said, smiling. "Let's go home."
They drove through the Montana night, stars impossibly bright overhead. Cody's hand rested on Reid's thigh, with Reid's hand covering it.
"Diane called earlier," Cody mentioned. "The new album is doing well. People are calling it my best work."
"That's because it is," Reid said. "You're writing from the heart now. Not for charts or expectations."
"I'm writing about you, mostly."
Reid glanced at him, eyes glowing faintly gold in the dashboard lights. "I know. I'm honored."
"Even the song about how you're an overprotective caveman?"
"Especially that one."
Cody threw his head back and laughed. Over the past three months, they'd learned each other's rhythms. Reid's protective instincts had mellowed—or at least, Cody had learned how to work around them.
Reid had learned that Cody needed space to create, needed to feel useful and independent.
They'd fought, made up, negotiated boundaries.
They'd built a relationship, not just relied on a bond.
And it was real. Solid. Right.
The mornings usually started the same way Cody wandering early in the studio, a perfect space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountains.
The light at dawn painted everything gold and amber, and Cody often found himself already at the piano or guitar before he'd had his coffee, working on melodies that had come to him when he woke.
Reid would find him there, as he did most mornings, lost in music.
He never interrupted while Cody was working—that was his sacred time—but when Cody emerged, blinking and slightly disoriented from the creative trance, Reid would be there with more coffee made exactly how he liked it.
He'd drop a kiss on the top of Cody's head, pressing his lips to Cody's hair, and disappear into the office to handle the business of Colter Security.
Reid had hired a small team now. He still ran the company, but he took fewer field assignments these days, delegated the high-risk operations to Garrett and their other operatives.
Cody could feel through the bond how much Reid needed to be close—that pull was constant, steady, and fiercely protective, but it never felt too much.
In fact, Cody felt the need to be close to Reid equally as much.
Lunch was sometimes together, sometimes not. If Reid was in meetings, he'd send a message checking if Cody needed anything from town. If Cody was in the flow of writing, he'd forget to eat until Reid appeared with a sandwich and mild exasperation on his handsome face.
Tyler flew out once a month to collaborate.
He and Cody would record tracks in the studio, their voices blending with the ease of people who'd been working together for years. Sometimes Reid would sit in the control room, ostensibly catching up on emails. Cody could feel Reid’s attention through the bond—warm and steady, never intrusive, just there.
One afternoon, while they were taking a break between tracks, Tyler nudged Cody’s shoulder. “You know he watches you the whole time you’re singing, right?”
Cody glanced toward the control room, where Reid was pretending to read something on his phone. “Yeah. I know.”
“Like you’re the sun,” Tyler said, grinning. “It’s kind of disgusting, actually. In the best way.”
Cody felt his throat tighten. “Isn’t it wonderful?”