Chapter 38
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The compound is quieter now.
Not peaceful—nothing about this place will ever feel peaceful again—but quieter in the way a battlefield goes quiet after the noise finally burns itself out.
The emergency lights still glow faintly along the walls, and somewhere down the corridor a maintenance crew is arguing over structural integrity reports, but the sharp edge of panic has dulled into something more manageable.
Something survivable.
I sit on the floor of the temporary housing unit with my back against the wall, one knee pulled up, a cheap acoustic guitar balanced across my lap like it’s something fragile and unfamiliar.
Which, in a way, it is.
I haven’t played like this in a long time.
Not really.
Not without a crowd.
Not without the expectation of applause.
Not without turning it into a performance.
Jesse sits a few feet away from me, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an impressive array of objects he has apparently decided are critical to his current project.
There’s a dismantled toy transport, three pieces of something that used to be a chair, and his fossil rock, which he keeps setting down and picking back up like he’s making sure it hasn’t abandoned him.
He glances up at me.
“Play.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Bossy.”
He nods.
“Play,” he repeats, like that settles it.
“Alright,” I say, adjusting the guitar against my thigh. “But if it’s terrible, that’s on you.”
He doesn’t respond.
Just watches.
Serious.
Always serious in that way kids get when they’re trying to understand something bigger than they are.
I strum once.
The sound is rough.
Unpolished.
The strings buzz slightly because the instrument’s cheap and the room’s acoustics aren’t doing me any favors.
Still—
It’s music.
And something in my chest shifts.
I haven’t felt this in a while.
Not like this.
No stage.
No lights.
No expectation.
Just—
Sound.
I play a few more chords, testing the shape of it, letting my fingers remember what they’re supposed to do.
Jesse tilts his head.
“Again.”
“You are a very demanding audience.”
He doesn’t smile.
“Again,” he insists.
I shake my head, but I play.
A little smoother this time.
A little more deliberate.
The notes settle into something resembling a pattern, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m building on it.
Adding.
Layering.
Letting it grow.
Jesse watches me like I’m performing some kind of magic trick.
Which, I guess, in his world, I am.
“You used to be good at this,” I mutter.
“Good,” Jesse echoes.
“Yeah.”
I play a few more chords, then stop.
The silence that follows feels… different.
Not empty.
Not lacking.
Just—
Quiet.
Jesse frowns.
“More.”
“Later.”
“Now.”
I snort.
“You’ve got your mother’s negotiating style.”
He considers that.
“Okay.”
I stare at him.
“Okay?”
He nods.
“Later.”
I laugh.
“That’s not how this usually works.”
He shrugs, which is deeply unfair because he’s two and already better at compromise than most adults I know.
The door slides open behind me.
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Tilda.
I feel her before I see her.
The shift in the room.
The way the air changes just slightly.
“You’re making noise,” she says.
“Technically music.”
She walks in, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely as she watches us.
Her hair’s pulled back again, but not as tight as before. There are still faint shadows under her eyes from everything we just went through, but there’s something else there too.
Something lighter.
Something steady.
Jesse points at her.
“Dada play.”
“I heard,” she says, her gaze flicking to me.
“And?”
“And it’s not terrible.”
I gasp.
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
She pushes off the wall and steps further into the room, her eyes lingering on the guitar for a moment before meeting mine again.
“You haven’t played in a while,” she says.
“No.”
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“Got busy.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I’m giving.”
She studies me.
“Bron.”
I sigh.
Here we go.
“I used to be good,” I say slowly. “Then I got… popular.”
“That’s how that usually works.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t handle it well.”
“That’s also how that usually works.”
I glance down at the guitar.
“My head got big,” I admit. “My priorities got… messy.”
“Messy is a generous word.”
“I’m being kind to my past self.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Fair.”
Jesse crawls over and climbs into my lap without warning, settling there like he’s always belonged.
Which—
Gods.
That still hits me every time.
I adjust the guitar awkwardly to keep from smacking him with it.
“Careful,” I mutter. “This thing is not child-proof.”
“Strong,” he says, flexing his tiny arms.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
Tilda watches us, something soft flickering in her expression.
“You’re good with him,” she says.
The words catch me off guard.
“I’m trying,” I reply.
“It shows.”
I swallow.
Because that matters more than anything.
More than the music.
More than the fame.
More than—
Everything.
Jesse taps the guitar.
“Play.”
“Bossy,” I repeat.
“Play.”
I look at Tilda.
She lifts one brow.
“Don’t look at me. You created this situation.”
I sigh dramatically.
“Fine.”
I adjust my grip and start playing again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Not trying to impress.
Not trying to perform.
Just—
Playing.
The notes come easier now.
Smoother.
Less forced.
Jesse leans back against my chest, listening, his small body warm and solid.
“What’s that?” Tilda asks quietly.
I hesitate.
“Nothing yet.”
“It sounds like something.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It might be.”
She steps closer, watching my hands as they move over the strings.
“You’re writing,” she says.
I shrug.
“Maybe.”
“You are.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It already is.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know if I want to go back to that.”
“To music?”
“To… all of it.”
“The attention. The expectations. The way it changes people.”
“You mean the way it changed you.”
I wince slightly.
“Yeah.”
She nods.
“That’s fair.”
I glance up at her.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“I’m not going to push you into something you’re not ready for.”
“That’s new.”
“I’m evolving.”
I smirk.
“Careful. That’s my line.”
She smiles faintly, then grows serious again.
“But I am going to say this,” she continues.
I brace myself.
“You don’t have to be who you were.”
I blink.
“What?”
“You’re not that version of yourself anymore,” she says. “You don’t have to repeat those mistakes.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”
She steps closer, her voice softer now.
“But it’s also not impossible.”
I look down at Jesse.
At the way he’s leaning into me, completely unbothered by the weight of the world.
At the way he trusts me.
Completely.
“You think I can do it differently?” I ask quietly.
“I know you can,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because you already are.”
I glance back at her.
“What does that mean?”
She nods toward the guitar.
“That.”
Then toward Jesse.
“And that.”
I swallow.
“That’s not fame,” I say.
“No,” she agrees. “It’s better.”
The words settle deep.
Because she’s right.
This—
This moment.
This quiet room.
This kid in my lap and this woman standing in front of me looking at me like I might actually be worth something—
It matters more than any stage I’ve ever stood on.
More than any crowd I’ve ever played for.
More than any applause.
I strum the guitar again, softer this time.
The notes come out different.
Less sharp.
More grounded.
Like they belong here.
With them.
Jesse hums along, completely off-key.
I grin.
“See? We’ve got a band already.”
“Band,” he repeats proudly.
Tilda laughs softly.
“God help us.”
I look at her.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“If I try this again…”
She waits.
“Not the old way,” I say. “Not the reckless, burn-everything-down way.”
“Good,” she says.
“But the… responsible version.”
She tilts her head.
“Responsible musician,” she repeats. “That’s a bold rebrand.”
“I know.”
“I support it.”
I smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She steps closer, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says.
I nod.
Because that’s what we do now.
We figure it out.
Together.
I look down at Jesse.
At the guitar.
At the life that’s starting to take shape in front of me.
And for the first time—
The idea of building something instead of burning it down doesn’t scare the hell out of me.
It feels—
Right.