Julian
FOUR
Iwake up to the sound of Gabe talking loudly, about to either close a deal or ruin someone’s life.
It could go either way.
I’m flat on my back on the couch in the main lounge, one arm hanging off the side, a guitar pick stuck to my cheek because I passed out mid-existential thought last night. The house smells of coffee and wood and the faint leftover murmur of yesterday’s recording session.
“No, I don’t care what they think the risk is,” Gabe says, pacing somewhere behind me. “We’re not building this to be safe. We’re building it to work.”
I crack one eye open.
He’s in full pursuit mode. Phone pressed to his ear, already dressed, already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. There are at least five empty coffee pod spots in the holder, which means he’s been up for a while.
Xander’s at the island, leaning back against it, arms folded, watching Gabe as if he’s tracking a chess game.
I sit up, drag a hand over my face, and peel the guitar pick off my skin.
“Well,” I say. “Good morning to capitalism.”
Neither of them looks at me.
Gabe turns away, still talking, and Xander finally glances over.
“You alive?” he asks.
“Debatable.” I stretch, bones popping, then swing my legs off the couch. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since five.”
“Disgusting.”
Gabe ends the call with a clipped, “We’ll be in touch,” and drops the phone onto the counter with frustration.
“Morning,” he says.
“You’ve already had five,” I point out, nodding at the pods.
“Six.”
“Even worse.”
I push myself up and wander into the kitchen, grabbing a pan because if I’m going to exist, I might as well do it with eggs.
“You cooking?” Gabe asks.
“I’m providing a service,” I say. “You’re welcome.”
Xander snorts softly.
I crack eggs into the pan, toss in cheese and a handful of spinach that’s maybe one day away from becoming a health hazard, then lean my hip against the counter while everything starts to sizzle.
I glance over at Xander. “I see you got it back?”
Gabe looks up. “What?”
I nod toward Xander. “The jacket.”
Gabe’s gaze shifts, zeroing in. “Already?”
Xander doesn’t look down. Doesn’t adjust it. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that we’re both staring at him, waiting for answers.
“She cleaned it,” he says.
“Fast turnaround,” I mutter, flipping the eggs. “We should add that to the business model. Redemption Records and premium laundry services.”
Gabe ignores me, still watching Xander. “You went back this morning?”
“Yesterday.”
“Well, what we really need to be focused on is new acts,” Gabe bites back. “I’ve been making calls…”
“I heard.” I dart my eyes to Xander. “He’s going to scare off half the industry before we even open the doors.”
“Good,” Xander says. “We don’t want half the industry.”
I grin. “Confidence. I like it.”
“It’s not confidence,” he replies. “We know what works.”
And that’s the truth. We do. We’ve been the artists. We’ve been the ones getting pushed, reshaped, packaged into something easier to sell. We know exactly where the pressure points are, and exactly how to remove them.
“Artists first,” I say, flipping the eggs. “Space to create. No label breathing down their necks. No clock watching.”
“Control stays with us,” Xander adds. “But the process belongs to them.”
“Which is why this works,” I say. “Because nobody else is doing it right.”
Gabe rubs a hand over his jaw. “Nobody else can afford to.”
“Good thing we can,” I say lightly, fiddling with my guitar pick in my pocket.
Gabe’s phone buzzes again. He looks at it with rage dancing in his eyes, then answers anyway. “Stockton.”
I pick up my plate and hop onto the counter, watching him pace again.
Xander takes his food but doesn’t sit. Just stands there, eating for fuel and nothing more.
I study him. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” I say easily. “And I’m offended you think I wouldn’t notice.”
He doesn’t respond.
I grin. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
That gets me a look.
Interesting.
“Careful,” I add lightly. “You keep looking like that and I might have to hang out with her myself.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Oh, I definitely do now.”
Gabe mutters something into the phone about contracts and liability and “non-negotiable terms,” and I tune him out.
Because now I’m curious.
And curiosity has always been my worst habit.
By mid-afternoon, the house finally sounds as it should.
Music bleeds through the walls in unfinished fragments.
A bass line sounds somewhere down the hall while voices drift between control rooms in clipped, focused bursts.
Engineers move between studios carrying coffees and cables, and the whole building smells faintly of dust, expensive equipment, and ambition.
We’re still building the roster. Still figuring out who’s worth betting on.
In Studio B, a local band is halfway through a trial recording session, and the lead singer has been butchering the same chorus for the last ten minutes. Each attempt sounds tighter with the instruments and weaker with his nerves. Through the glass, I can practically feel Julian losing patience.
I lean against the doorframe, arms loose, watching it play out.
“Again,” I call, not even bothering to step inside.
The guitarist groans, dragging a hand through his hair, irritated.
“Yeah, yeah,” I add, grinning now, “I know you think you nailed it, but you’re rushing the second bar. You’re getting excited, and it’s killing the groove. Try it like you actually trust the song.”
He gives me a look. Then resets. Plays it again.
And this time, there it is. The difference is subtle, but it lands. The note hangs just a fraction longer, the timing settles, and suddenly the whole thing breathes.
I nod once. “That’s it. See? You don’t hate me.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue, either, which is basically a win.
That’s something people forget. It’s never really about perfection. It’s about feeling something real enough that other people don’t question it. And you can’t fake that, not for long, anyway.
After a few hours of drifting between rooms, throwing out the occasional note, stealing a guitar here, a melody there, I eventually wander back toward the front of the house.
My fingers flip my guitar pick lazily between my knuckles, an old habit I’ve never managed to break, especially when my brain’s still half in the music.
Outside, the light’s softened. Late afternoon sliding toward evening, the sun stretching everything out into long shadows across the gravel drive. It’s cooler now, carrying that vibe of small-town life that still feels weirdly unfamiliar after years of noise and crowds and never-ending motion.
And then I see her, walking down the road.
Dog at her side, leash loose in her hand, not worried about anything pulling her off course. Her hair’s up again, messy in that way that’s not trying to impress anyone, a few strands slipping free around her face. Jeans, boots, a top soft and worn that fits her so comfortably my pulse pounds.
Willow.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling until it’s already happened.
Well, that answers that.
I push off the porch, already heading toward her before I’ve fully decided to, because I guess this is just what I’m doing now.
“Hey!”
She turns at the sound of my voice, and the second she sees me, her eyes narrow suspiciously.
“You,” she says, as if the universe has personally inconvenienced her.
I press a hand to my chest. “Wow. That’s how you greet people now? I’m hurt.”
“You’re not people,” she says flatly. “What are you doing loitering on the street?”
“Not yet,” I shoot back easily. “Give me time. I’ve got range.”
Her dog looks at me. She’s already made up her mind, and I’m not passing.
“Who’s this?” I ask, crouching a little, offering my hand, basically negotiating a treaty.
“Daisy.”
“Daisy,” I repeat, nodding seriously. “You look like you make excellent life choices.”
Daisy doesn’t, in fact, agree. If anything, she’s considering violence.
“She bites,” Willow says.
“I respect that.”
I straighten and fall into step beside her without asking.
She notices. “You’re just walking with me now?”
“Yeah,” I say, glancing around, taking in the scenery. “Seems like the right move.”
“You weren’t invited.”
I glance at her. “I don’t recall that being a requirement.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a lightness in it. “You and your friend are basically the same people.”
“Oh, we already know,” I say. “You should see us at breakfast. It’s like a dysfunctional boy band, but with worse attitudes.”
We walk in silence for a few steps, and it’s easy. Not awkward, not forced. Just the sound of our boots on the road, Daisy’s nails clicking every now and then, the distant noise of the town settling into evening.
She notices that too. I can tell.
“So,” I say, glancing at her sideways, “give me the tour.”
She lets out a short laugh. “Of what?”
“The town.”
“It’s not that big.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Then we should be done in, what, five minutes? Ten, if you get distracted?”
She stops walking this time, turning to look at me properly. “You’ve been here how long?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you haven’t seen it all?”
“I haven’t had a guided tour,” I correct, tilting my head. “I need your version of it.”
There’s a pause.
She studies me, trying to figure out the catch, where the angle is, what I’m trying to get out of this.
I don’t give her anything.
Eventually, she sighs.
“Fine,” she says. “But if you ask me where the nearest Starbucks is, I’m leaving you in a ditch.”
“Fair,” I say. “I deserve that.”
She starts walking again, and I fall back into step beside her, matching her pace without thinking about it.
“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely around us, “is the road.”
“Incredible. Truly groundbreaking.”
“Don’t interrupt.”
“I would never dream of it.”
She points ahead. “That’s the square. Farmers’ market on Sundays. Overpriced jam, decent bread, and way too many people pretending they understand honey.”
“I love it already.”
“That’s because you haven’t been stuck behind Mrs. Callahan arguing about zucchini for twenty minutes.”
“I enjoy passion,” I say. “Especially about vegetables. It’s a niche interest.”
She huffs a laugh.
I don’t react to it, don’t make a thing out of it, but I clock it anyway. That sound… real, unfiltered, not aimed at anyone.
We keep moving, her pointing things out, me listening, and not just to what she’s saying.
The way she talks with her hands when she gets into it.
The way she doesn’t soften her opinions just because I’m standing next to her.
Daisy suddenly lunges.
“Daisy…!”
The leash jerks violently, and Willow stumbles forward, completely thrown off balance as the dog takes off after something small and fast.
A squirrel.
She goes down, and I’m already moving. I catch her around the waist before she hits the ground, pulling her back into me in one smooth motion.
She collides with my chest, breath leaving her in a rush as I steady her.
And everything else drops out.
She’s right there. Pressed against me, one hand braced instinctively against my chest, the other still tangled in the leash. My hand is firm at her waist, fingers splayed, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric of her shirt. The other steadies her arm.
She goes still.
I don’t.
I feel everything. The way she fits, the way her breath catches, the way her body reacts before her brain catches up.
“Easy,” I murmur, close to her ear. “I’ve got you.”
Her head tilts up.
And there’s a spark. Alive. A little dangerous. Her eyes lock onto mine, and neither of us moves. Then she inhales, snapping herself out of it.
She pulls back. “I was fine.”
“Obviously,” I say, not even trying to hide the grin.
“I had it handled.”
“Completely under control,” I agree.
She glares at me. I enjoy it.
Daisy barks triumphantly at the tree, clearly convinced she’s won something.
“Traitor,” Willow mutters to the dog.
“You almost died,” I tell her.
“I didn’t almost die.”
“You were seconds away from becoming a cautionary tale.”
She shakes her head, trying to reset, brushing her hands down her jeans trying to erase what just happened.
I don’t step back right away. My hand remains at her waist just a second longer than it needs to.
Her breath shifts again. Then, she steps away fully, putting space between us.
Smart.
“Tour’s over,” she says.
“Already?” I glance around. “I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“You’ve seen enough.”
“I strongly disagree.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
I fall back into step beside her anyway.
She doesn’t tell me to leave this time. Which is interesting.
“You make it sound like this place is unbearable,” I say after a minute.
“It’s not,” she replies. “It’s just… small.”
“Nothing wrong with small.”
“There is when people think they know everything about you.”
“Maybe,” I say lightly, “they don’t know everything.”
She looks at me sideways. “You don’t know anything.”
“Not yet,” I say, easy.
She huffs, but there’s less heat in it now.
We reach a bend in the road, and she slows, nodding toward a house up ahead. “This is me.”
I take it in. Simple. Cozy looking. It fits her in a way I can’t quite explain.
“Good tour,” I say.
“It was barely a tour.”
“I had fun,” I remind her. “That counts for something, right?”
She hesitates, deciding whether to argue or let it go.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “It does.”
I grin.
Daisy tugs her toward the door, and she follows, but pauses before going inside, glancing back at me. “You should probably go.”
“Probably,” I agree.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
Then she shakes her head, correcting herself for even pausing, and turns away. “Goodnight, Julian.”
“Night, Willow.”