Julian
FORTY
The internet has officially lost its damn mind.
I know this because Gabe made the mistake of leaving the analytics dashboard open on the kitchen screen this morning and I accidentally saw the words “global engagement spike” and “viral conversion metrics,” which sounds less “music promotion” and more a hostile government operation.
Meanwhile, fans online have decided Willow is either:
A) the downfall of modern civilization
or
B) the next coming of rock-and-roll romance.
No middle ground.
Personally, I think both are flattering.
I’m standing in the kitchen scrolling through edits people have made of us when Willow walks in, hair still damp from the shower.
Bad for my health.
She eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you smiling like that?”
I tilt my phone toward her.
Onscreen is a dramatic slowed-down edit of the four of us set to emotional music while comments scream crazy things:
THE TENSION???
and
I would die for this woman.
Willow groans. “Oh no, make it stop.”
“It has two million views.”
“I hate everyone.”
“Counterpoint,” I say, pointing at the screen, “the internet thinks you’re hot.”
“That has literally never improved a situation.”
She moves toward the coffee machine while Daisy trots after her hopefully.
The compound’s calmer today.
Music filters through the walls from Studio C. Someone’s laughing upstairs. A producer is arguing about drum compression somewhere down the hall.
Life goes on.
Even after public catastrophes.
Gabe walks into the kitchen mid phone call, already dressed smartly.
“Minneapolis still confirmed?” he asks me, covering the phone briefly.
“Yep.”
Willow pauses halfway through pouring coffee. “Minneapolis?”
I grin. “Funny you should mention that.”
Her eyes narrow. “I hate that face.”
“You wound me.”
“You look like a man about to create problems recreationally.”
“Not problems.” I point at her. “Adventure.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking yet.”
“I know enough.”
I lean against the counter dramatically.
“Willow Jameson,” I say solemnly, “how would you feel about accompanying me on an extremely important professional business trip?”
“Absolutely not.”
Gabe sighs softly into his coffee. “Just ask her normally.”
“I am asking normally.”
“You sound like a Disney villain.”
Willow snorts into her coffee cup.
I push off the counter and move closer to her. “Come to Minneapolis with me.”
She blinks once. “Why?”
“Because I’m charming.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“Because Cicada’s playing a showcase tonight, and we want them for the label.”
That gets her attention. “A new band?”
“They’re one of the best underground bands in the Midwest right now.”
“That sentence means nothing to me.”
I stare at her in exaggerated horror. “Willow Jameson. Have you just… never listened to music?”
“Obviously, I’ve listened to music,” she says defensively. “I’m not a pilgrim.”
“Name five bands.”
“That feels like a trap.”
“Suspiciously evasive answer.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for her coffee again. “I know bands.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I do.”
“Willow.”
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. Arctic Monkeys.”
“Safe.”
“Florence + The Machine.”
“Very British answer, but acceptable.”
She laughs despite herself before continuing, “The Lonely Ones.”
I grin. “Well, obviously. We’re irresistible.”
“I only started listening to you recently.”
“Oh, even better.” I lean closer. “Go on.”
She looks weirdly embarrassed now, which becomes my favorite thing in the world.
“I don’t know,” she mutters. “I just never got super into music. I know specific bands. Random ones. Nina was always the music person between us.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what are these mysterious Willow-approved bands?”
She squints upward thoughtfully. “Wolf Alice.”
“Excellent choice. Deeply yearning. Tracks.”
She points at me again. “You’re making this weird.”
I laugh. “So, road trip?”
“Fine,” she mutters. “But if you make me listen to weird indie banjo music for eight hours straight, I’m jumping out of the car.”
I gasp dramatically. “First of all, rude. Second, I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
Three hours later, our flight has landed and we’re headed to the venue.
This might be the most relaxed I’ve felt in months.
No cameras, or interviews, no publicists panicking in the background. The drive stretches long through soft gray skies while music cycles through the speakers.
By the time we hit downtown Minneapolis, the sun’s already setting gold across the skyline.
The showcase venue is packed. Dark lights, sticky floors, too many people pretending they discovered alternative music first.
My natural habitat.
Willow sticks close beside me as we move through the crowd, eyes taking everything in carefully.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She glances around. “It just feels strange being around industry people.”
I bump my shoulder lightly against hers. “You’re industry people now.”
She looks horrified. “Take it back.”
I grin. “No.”
The showcase itself is dramatic in the best way.
Cicada absolutely destroys the room. They have the kind of chemistry you can’t manufacture, no matter how much money labels throw at people.
Willow notices it, too.
Halfway through the set, she leans toward me and says, “They’re good!”
I glance sideways at her. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
After the show, we head backstage.
The band’s sweaty and overstimulated and trying very hard to act cooler than they are while Gabe joins us via video call to handle the actual business side.
Meanwhile, I mostly charm people professionally.
A valuable skill.
Willow ends up talking to the lead singer about branding ideas while I watch from across the room.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise and laughter and movement, it hits me. Hard. This isn’t temporary for me anymore.
I don’t want a fun few months with her. I don’t want a scandal. I don’t want a fling.
I want this.
Her laughing beside us backstage. Her wandering through studios stealing our hoodies. Road trips and stupid arguments and coffee in the mornings.
Future stuff.
Real stuff.
The realization lands so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of me.
That’s… serious.
Later that night, after contracts are signed and Cicada officially joins Redemption Records, Willow falls asleep in the hotel room. One arm under her pillow, hair everywhere, cute enough to genuinely ruin my stability.
I stare at her for a long moment from the doorway before stepping back into the hall and pulling out my phone.
Xander answers first ring. “You alive?”
“Debatable.”
“That bad?”
I lean back against the hallway wall. “Worse.”
A pause. Then, “You finally figured it out.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
I sigh dramatically. “Why did it take me so long?”
Another voice joins.
Gabe. “You’re pacing, aren’t you?”
“I’m literally standing still.”
“Pacing.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “This isn’t casual anymore.”
“No. It isn’t,” Xander agrees.
“Cool,” I mutter. “We’re all collectively screwed, then.”
“You’re late to that realization,” Gabe says dryly.
I laugh softly under my breath. Then the truth slips out before I can stop it. “I think I want a life with her.”
Xander exhales. “Yeah. Me too.”
My chest tightens harder.
Gabe speaks last. “I’ve been trying not to say it first.”
Well. There it is.
Three emotionally damaged idiots sharing one catastrophic realization.
I slide down against the wall, staring at the ugly hotel carpet while my heart pounds harder than it should. “So, what now?”
“For starters,” Gabe says, “we stop pretending this is temporary.”
“And after that?” I ask.
“We talk to her,” Xander says.
Yeah.
That sounds terrifying, actually.