Page 82 of The Sound Between Us

The question lands harder than it should. “People don’t just... help. There’s always a price.”

“What if there isn’t one?”

I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “There’s always a price, Harrison. Maybe you don’t see it immediately, but it’s there. Written in small print on the back of every kindness.”

He’s quiet for a moment, studying me with those amber eyes. “Who hurt you that way?”

“Everyone.” The word slips out raw, unfiltered. “Dad, Kimba. Every industry person who ever showed interest in my ‘talent.’ Everyone who ever made me feel as though I mattered and then presented the bill.”

“I’m not presenting a bill.”

“Not yet.”

He sets down his coffee and steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can smell his soap, see the gold flecks in his irises, feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

“This house has been empty for two years. It’s nice having someone to cook for.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice is soft, intimate in a way that makes my pulse skip. “I know you make terrible coffee but perfect tea. I know you can write songs that make people weep and you’re too scared of your own talent to let anyone hear them. I know you’ve been taking care of yourself for so long you’ve forgotten what it feels to let someone else try.”

The words hit, each one finding its mark with devastating accuracy.

“Stop.”

“I know you’re scared to go back to London because they’ll be waiting. Cameras, questions, your father’s damage control⁠—”

“Stop.” I hold my hand up, but he’s already too close, already saying things that cut too deep.

“So don’t go back. Not yet.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with possibility and danger. He’s close enough that I can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, count his eyelashes, notice the way his lips part slightly when he’s concentrating.

I should step back. Should put distance between us.

Instead, I find myself leaning closer.

“This isn’t real, you know. This domestic thing we’re doing.”

“What if it could be?” His hand lifts toward my face, fingers almost touching my cheek before stopping just short. “What if we stopped pretending this is temporary?”

“It can’t.” I step back, the spell breaking. “You know it can’t.”

The moment shatters. We’re both breathing too hard, standing in his kitchen as though we’re about to either fight or fuck, and I’m not sure which would be more dangerous.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, saving us from whatever stupid thing I was about to do next.

A text from Flick: Don’t come home yet. Situation outside.

“What is it?”

I swipe open the message thread. Flick’s sent a string of photos that make my blood run cold:

The first shows the entrance to Vespa Records swarmed by photographers.

The second is a close-up of my front door. A note shoved through the letterbox, probably from a journalist offering money for my story.

The third makes my legs give out. A Twitter thread with over 30,000 retweets. A grainy video of me at the piano, text overlays: “Daddy Issues: The Musical” and “When nepotism goes wrong.”