Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
MYA
One Month Later
N ashville feels like music. Like heartbeats and heat and the kind of hope that hums just beneath your ribs.
I hold Kody against my chest, his tiny body tucked beneath a soft blanket, while Kingston squirms in Reese’s arms, his little fists windmilling like he’s trying to catch the beat outside. We’re hidden in the wings, the noise of the crowd spilling through the backstage curtain in waves—booming, blistering, beautiful. My heart’s galloping, and it’s not just because of the bassline vibrating through the floor.
It’s because this moment feels sacred.
Reese and I flew in with the boys earlier today. A surprise, thanks to Maggie’s scheming and Fletch’s inability to stop checking in on us every hour like some grumpy, gorgeous dad-in-training. And now we’re here. Watching from the shadows, letting them do what they were born to do.
Reese is stronger now. Still grieving. But steadier, like a tree that learned to bend in the wind without snapping. She hasn’t said much tonight—she doesn’t need to. There’s this unspoken thing between us now. Like war survivors who don’t have to talk about the bombs because they both still flinch at thunder.
The lights dim. The crowd roars. Fletch appears, strumming the opening chords of Home Again , and the way my throat tightens is almost embarrassing.
But then Thorin sees her.
His gaze slides past the mic stand and stage lights and lands on Reese—on all the bruised-but-breathing proof that she’s still here—and his voice warbles on the second verse. Just a slight hitch. But I catch it. So does Reese. Her breath stutters.
Fletch moves like a current, stepping in to sing the next line before Thorin even fully falters. Seamless. Steady. A band so in sync they don’t need words to hold each other up.
The crowd eats it up. They cheer louder, sensing the emotion without fully knowing the story. “You’ve got this, Thorin!” someone shouts. “We love you!”
I glance at Reese, and her eyes are glassy—but she’s smiling.
When the final chord echoes into silence, the boys stand still for a beat too long, like they’re trying to memorize the moment. Then they vanish backstage in a blur of sweat and adrenaline.
The door swings open.
And Reese moves.
No hesitation. No pause. She walks straight into Thorin’s arms and wraps herself around him like she’s afraid he’ll fall apart without her. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she. They just stand there. Breathing. Shaking. Healing.
Fletch’s eyes find mine over their shoulders. He looks wrecked. Radiant. Alive.
“Come here,” he says, voice hoarse, tugging me forward with one hand while the other cups the back of my neck like he’s afraid I’ll disappear too.
“We did it,” he whispers into my hair. “Last one.”
“What do you mean?” I pull back enough to see his face.
Thorin’s the one who answers, stepping forward with his arm still around Reese. “We’ve been talking. All of us.”
Benji and Carson nod behind him, their expressions soft, open.
“This was our last show,” Thorin says simply.
My stomach lurches. “What?”
Fletch laces our fingers together. “Not forever. But for now? Yeah. Life on the road… it’s too hard in this season of our lives.”
Reese’s lips part in surprise. “What about the rest of the tour?”
“We canceled it.” Thorin says it like it’s obvious. “I want to be at home. With Reese.”
Benji rubs the back of his neck. “We’ve been chasing music so hard we forgot to chase life.”
Carson nods. “We all agreed. It’s time.”
“And I’d like to get started on our house,” Flech adds, giving me a wink. With everything else going on, we have yet to start rebuilding the place that will be our new home.
I’m blinking too fast to stop the tears. “So… what now?”
Fletch’s grip tightens around mine. “We’re starting our own label. We’ll make music on our terms. Help other artists get a foot in the door. Give them what we never had.”
It’s too much. It’s everything.
Reese lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re serious.”
Thorin presses a kiss to her temple. “Dead serious.”
Fletch lifts my hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against my knuckles.
“It’s not the end, baby. It’s the beginning. Just… one we actually get to write ourselves.”
The words hang between us, sweet and steady, like the last note of a song you never want to stop playing.
Carson’s already pulled two chairs into the corner of the greenroom, feet kicked up on a coffee table, water bottle balanced on his knee. Benji’s sprawled on the couch with his head tipped back and a hand over his eyes like the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet. Thorin and Reese are curled up on the floor together against the wall, his arm tucked around her shoulder, her fingers tangled in his shirt like she’s still reminding herself he’s real.
Fletch guides me down beside him on the oversized leather ottoman and leans forward, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes bright under the shadow of his cap.
“All right,” he says. “So let’s talk about it. Not the dream version. The real thing. What does this label actually look like?”
Carson lifts a brow. “You mean besides the fact that we’re all in sweatpants trying not to fall asleep midlife crisis-style?”
Thorin doesn’t even look up. “Speak for yourself. Some of us are married.”
Reese smirks, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Damn right we are.”
Fletch slides a glance my way, his thumb brushing lazily over my hand. “Guess I’m the only one catching up.”
My heart skips. “Catching up?”
His voice dips, quiet and rough. “Just saying… don’t be surprised if there’s a ring involved soon.”
Carson groans dramatically. “Okay, and on that note, I’d like to formally announce I’m the fun single friend with commitment issues and a Spotify playlist titled Songs To Cry To In The Shower.”
Benji raises his water bottle. “Cheers to emotionally unavailable anthems.”
We all laugh, but the warmth lingers—real and rooted and just beginning to bloom.
Benji cracks one open, then blinks at us. “Okay, so I’ve got an idea.”
“Here we go,” Carson groans.
“No, listen,” Benji says, sitting up straighter. “We’ve spent years under someone else’s label. Someone else’s brand. Their deadlines. Their pressure. If we’re doing this—our label, our rules—it has to be about more than just signing people we like. It has to mean something.”
Fletch nods. “Like what?”
“Like people who’ve been overlooked. People with talent but no team. Artists with edge. With stories. With bite.”
“Underdogs,” I murmur.
All eyes swing to me.
I swallow and sit up a little straighter. “That’s what you guys were, right? Before the label? Before the sold-out stadiums and magazine spreads? You were just a bunch of guys writing songs in a garage in Horseshoe Bay.”
Carson nods slowly. “And we couldn’t get anyone to listen.”
“Exactly,” I say. “So build something that makes room for the people no one listens to. Make it about raw talent. Honesty. Storytelling. People who don’t fit the mold.”
Benji’s already nodding. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it.”
Fletch glances over at me, eyes dark and soft. “God, I love you.”
Thorin clears his throat. “Okay, so… name ideas?”
“I vote for Dust & Fire,” Carson offers, grinning. “Symbolism, baby. We built everything from ashes. Might as well own it.”
“That’s… actually not terrible,” Fletch says, like it physically pains him to admit it.
Reese nudges Thorin. “What about something in memory of Melissa and Ryan?”
A hush falls.
Benji shifts forward. “They gave us our first shot. Put a roof over our heads. Fed us when we had twenty bucks between us.”
Thorin’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Let’s name the studio after them. The first building we open. The heart of the label.”
Mya’s chest pinches as the moment settles over the room.
Carson raises his water bottle. “To Dust & Fire. And to Melissa and Ryan. The reason we had a chance.”
We echo him. Quiet, but firm.
To Dust & Fire. To Melissa and Ryan. To something new.
The moment hangs in the air like smoke after a firework—bright, tender, and echoing. We’re still riding the aftershock when the door to the greenroom flies open hard enough to smack the wall with a dramatic thud.
Alex storms in like a man halfway through a rage spiral. His tie is crooked, his hair’s a mess, and his phone is clutched in one hand like it personally betrayed him.
“Okay, which one of you motherfuckers decided to drop life-altering career news and not loop me in?” he snaps, eyes blazing as he glares around the room like he’s ready to fight someone.
Everyone freezes.
Fletch blinks. “Uh?—”
But before any of us can respond, Alex yanks at his tie, rips it loose, and throws it on the floor like it personally offended him.
“Fuck the label,” he growls, running a hand down his face. “I’ve been waiting for you assholes to say that for two years.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Thorin straightens up from where he’s sitting on the floor with Reese and raises a brow. “You want in?”
“You’re starting your own label?” Alex demands, eyes narrowing.
Thorin nods. “Yeah. Dust & Fire. We’re building something new. From the ground up. Want to help us do it?”
Alex opens his mouth, ready for some signature dramatic pause.
But instead, he cuts Thorin off before he can finish the question.
“Yes.”
Everyone bursts out laughing. Even Benji, who hasn’t moved from the couch in half an hour, lets out a wheeze.
Fletch grins. “Dude, you didn’t even hear the pitch.”
“You said new,” Alex says, shrugging out of his blazer like he’s shedding the weight of every tour schedule and corporate clause he’s ever endured. “That’s the pitch. And honestly, I’m not even asking about salary yet, which tells you how much I need this.”
Carson leans back, arms behind his head. “You good, man?”
Alex exhales like a deflated balloon. “I’m great.”
He tosses his blazer on top of his discarded tie, then plants both hands on his hips like he’s just solved world hunger. “I’m in. All in. With one condition.”
Fletch raises a brow. “What’s that?”
Alex grins, eyes bright with exhausted rebellion. “I’m going on vacation first. An entire month off the grid. No calls. No emails. No texts unless someone dies or Beyoncé personally asks me to manage her comeback tour.”
Reese laughs, hand over her mouth. “That’s fair.”
“You’ve earned it,” Thorin agrees. “We all have.”
Alex nods, a little breathless now. “You guys are building something real. I want in on that. But right now? I want cocktails with umbrellas and someone else managing my damn calendar.”
We all laugh—really laugh this time. The kind that rattles your ribs and rings through your chest like a victory bell.
Carson’s already on his feet, ducking behind the bar tucked in the corner of the greenroom. “We’ve got three bottles of bourbon, someone’s half-drunk soda, and at least two warm beers,” he calls over his shoulder. “No umbrellas, but I’m pretty sure there’s a paper straw shaped like a flamingo.”
Benji groans from the couch. “Why do you say things like that with so much hope?”
“Because I am hope,” Carson deadpans, popping a bottle and pouring into mismatched cups like he’s been bartending since birth.
Thorin gets up too, helping him pass drinks around—some in solo cups, others in chipped ceramic mugs that say things like Backstage Dad and Live. Laugh. Lanyard. Reese gets sparkling water in a wine glass. I get ginger ale in a chipped enamel mug with Venue Gremlin sharpied across the side.
Fletch tucks in behind me, arms circling my waist, his chin dropping onto my shoulder.
Alex raises his glass, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled halfway up his forearms now, hair completely wild, but a light in his eyes I haven’t seen in years. Maybe ever.
“To Dust & Fire,” he says. “To the music that saved us. And the lives we get to live now because of it.”
Thorin lifts his glass, eyes locked on Reese. “To coming home.”
Benji leans into Carson’s side with a lazy grin. “To not living out of a suitcase anymore.”
Carson raises his glass high. “To making our own damn rules.”
Fletch tightens his arms around me, voice low and certain. “To building a life we don’t have to recover from.”
And me?
I raise my glass, the fizzy ginger bubbles catching the light.
“To doing it all,” I say softly. “Together.”