40. Something like Peace
SOMETHING LIKE PEACE
T he studio didn’t feel like a room anymore. Between their impromptu love-making sessions and professional discipline, it felt like a machine that was finally awake.
Spring stood just outside the glass, camera resting against her hip, headphones half-on –to pretend she’s listening for levels, not for him .
The red recording light blinks on again. Another take. Another song.
Preston doesn’t need direction today. He’s already there. The zone .
His posture is different than it was weeks ago – less guarded, more rooted.
Like he’s stopped bracing for impact and started trusting the floor beneath his feet.
He leans into the mic with a confidence that isn’t loud or forced – it’s earned.
The band watches him the way musicians watch something rare: alert, respectful, locked-in.
Spring lifted the camera to record his performance.
This is the version of him she’s been trying to capture.
Not the comeback story. Not the grief. Not the mythology. Superman . The way the room bends around him when he sings.
The album was becoming mythical. Each time he sang, he sounded better than she’d ever remembered him.
There was no question this one would be special.
She was proud because it made documenting it easy.
She had the adversity, now she was getting the reclamation.
And Preston was delivering with every note, every song.
The drummer caught her eye through the glass between takes, shaking his head with a quiet laugh, like he still couldn’t believe it.
“I’ve played with everybody,” he said later, when she pulled him aside for an interview.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, still buzzing.
“I mean everybody . This?” He gestured back toward the booth where Preston was laughing with the guitarist. “This is different.”
“Different how?” Spring asked, steady, professional.
The bassist jumped in to respond. “It’s like… when Usher first hit, and you knew it wasn’t just a phase. Or when D’Angelo locked in and the air changed. You feel like you’re standing too close to something historic.”
Spring didn’t react, just nodded. But inside, she felt it – it was hard not to. Every song made her heart flutter. He’d been very deliberate about letting her know she was the inspiration for his resurgence.
Later, another musician – one of the session singers – leaned toward the camera and lowered her voice like she was confessing a secret. “Y’all better document this right,” she said. “Because people gonna lie later and say they were here. ”
Spring smiled. “That’s the plan.” Stopped herself from saying, I know.
By the time the session wrapped, it was late. Too late for keeping up professionalism.
The studio emptied slowly, laughter echoing down the hall, people slapping Preston on the back, calling him “legend” like it was already settled law.
Mack poked his head in at one point, grinning like a man watching a long bet finally pay off.
Preston’s mother stood near the door, arms folded, eyes bright, pride radiating off her so loud it almost hummed.
Spring kept filming.
She knew better than to miss moments like this.
When it was finally quiet, she lowered the camera and exhaled.
Preston was still in the booth, headphones around his neck, flipping through lyric pages, humming to himself like he was afraid the feeling might disappear if he stopped moving.
She watched him through the glass.
This was the part they don’t warn you about – how dangerous it was to document something you’re also living inside. The part where business is pleasure but also responsibility.
He caught her staring and grinned. “You good, director?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m working.”
“That so?” He stepped out of the booth, closing the distance easily. “Because you’ve been looking at me like you forgot you were holding a camera.”
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed her with a smile. “Your ego is going to be unbearable.”
“It already is,” he said lightly. Then, softer, “You okay?”
That question landed differently now.
She was okay. She was also standing in the middle of everything she’d ever wanted and everything she was terrified of losing.
“I’m fine,” she said. Professional. True enough.
He studied her for a moment – like he could hear the part she didn’t say – but let it go for now.
They sat on opposite sides of the console while she backed up footage. Their knees brushed, but neither of them moved away. It was quiet in the way only shared exhaustion can be.
“You got what you needed today?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, actually, more than I planned for. You were killing it.”
“Good,” he nodded. Then, after a pause, “Because I don’t think this wave is slowing down.”
She met his eyes. Neither of them voiced what they were both thinking: that success is intoxicating.
That love feels louder when the world is watching.
That timing has never been their strong suit.
Spring closed her laptop, finally allowing herself one unguarded moment. “I’m proud of you,” she admitted.
He didn’t joke this time, didn’t deflect. Instead, he looked at her. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Something settled between them – warm, dangerous, real, beyond their physical attraction.
Not today, girl, focus.
She reached for her camera again, muscle memory kicking in, but he gently pressed it down. “Hey, are we okay?” he asked.
She was about to respond when Mack opened the door.
He appeared in the doorway, phone already in hand, jacket half-off one shoulder, that familiar grin stretched tight with adrenaline. “Alright,” he said, clapping once. “Everybody breathe.”
Spring looked up. Preston straightened instinctively, like a reflex he hasn’t fully unlearned. His mother walked in and began to do a light shimmy, eyes bright, already sensing what’s coming.
Mack held up his phone. “Three million views.”
Preston looked at Spring, then back at Mack. “What?”
“The clip,” Mack said, scrolling. “From your last studio session. Not even twenty-four hours. Three million views. Engagement’s stupid. Comments are feral. People arguing over which era you sound like, which means we’re doing something right.”
Spring felt it before she processed it – the shift in the room. The kind that happened when a thing stops being possible and starts being real .
Preston exhaled slowly. “That fast?”
“That fast,” Mack confirmed. “And that’s just organic. No spend. No push. Just people missing you.”
His mother pressed a hand to her chest, already emotional. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I told you.”
Mack dropped a thin folder onto the table. “Contracts are ready,” he said. “Album rollout’s moving whether we blink or not.”
Spring sat up straighter. “Already?”
Mack looked at her like she was being adorable. “Already late. Universal wanted this signed a week ago.”
Preston ran a hand over his face, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Okay, okay, slow down. We were talking about starting small. Ease back in. House of Blues, maybe?—”
Mack cut him off with a shake of his head. “Man, we’re way past that, Superstar.”
Spring frowned. “Hold on,” she says carefully. “House of Blues isn’t small.”
Mack grinned. “Exactly. Which is why we’re not doing it. The way I see it we came this far, I say we go big or go home.”
The room went still.
“We’re doing the Toyota Center,” he said, like he was announcing dinner plans.
Spring let out a sharp laugh before she could stop herself. “That’s not— Mack, are you serious?”
He took off his glasses and looked her in the eyes, dead serious. “We ran a soft test at the House of Blues in Houston,” he said, tapping his phone. “Didn’t even announce it publicly. Just pushed it through your email list. Sold it out five times over on interest alone.”
Preston’s mouth fell open. “Five times?”
“Five,” Mack confirmed. “And that’s before press, before radio, before the documentary trailer drops.”
Spring felt the implications stacking in real time. “You’re talking about a hometown arena,” she exclaimed. “That’s not a comeback – that’s a statement.”
“That’s the point,” Mack said smoothly. “You come back where you were built. You make it undeniable.” He turned to Preston’s mother.
“And if you open the show?” He smiles. “With the remastered track? With her,” he nodded toward Spring, “documenting the whole thing? The tour alone is expected to bring in fifty million.”
Her eyes filled instantly. “I— Mack, I don’t even?—”
“Baby, you don’t have to,” he said. “Just sing.”
Preston looked overwhelmed now. Not panicked, just full. Like the room might spill over if anything else was added. “This is fast,” he admitted.
Mack softened just a little. “I know. But this isn’t chaos, Superstar. No, those days are over. This is alignment.”
Spring watched Preston absorb it – the tour, the album, the scale of it all – and saw the flicker of fear underneath the excitement. The old fear, the one that said don’t mess this up .
His mother reached for his hand. “Baby,” she said gently. “This is what we prayed for.”
He nodded. “I know, Ma.”
Mack slid the folder closer. “Nobody’s rushing you. The window is open. But as we just learned the hard way, windows like this don’t stay open long.”
Spring finally spoke again, quieter now. “If we do this,” she said, “the documentary can’t just be polished. People are going to watch because they want truth and, honestly, I’m going to need some help.”
Mack met her gaze, then smiled. “Good. Truth sells. Take some of that Universal money and bring our team in.”
Preston looked between them – his past, his present, his future all sitting in one room. Excited. Terrified. Ready. “Okay,” he says finally. “Let’s do it.”