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“Only when I’m trying to work on my follow-up.” I felt guilty for some reason. “I still have lingering guilt that I should be able to write my own songs, but it’s easier to focus on what someone else has already written.”

Ember squeezed my hand. “Stop trying to write the follow-up toFrom Ashes. You could even use a different stage name. No one knows who you are anyway. You could just start fresh if you still want to make music.”

The idea was thrilling and terrifying all at once. “That feels like giving up.”

“Is it giving up? Or starting over?” She cocked her head. “Your follow-up album can’t hold all of your hopes, dreams, desires. That’s too much pressure. No wonder you’re crumbling.”

“I know,” I huffed. “I can’t make myself write songs for fun. Every time I tell myself not to think about my next album, the thoughts creep in anyway.”

Ember brightened up. “What if we sang songs for the fun of it? Not even, like, pop songs. What if we sang nursery songs?”

I frowned. “For practice? I practice a lot in the studio.”

“For the joy of it.” Ember grinned. “You need to remember what it was like to love music for its own sake. For the way it lets you feel things that are too big. Or small. Or feels wrong. We could sing kids’ songs. To remember the part of music that gives us joy.”

Something like hope kindled in my chest. That sounded nice, making music without any residual guilt and shame. Just doing it for the hell of it.

To make my omega smile.

“You’ll sing with me?” I asked. “We could go downstairs, and I could play?”

“Yes.” Ember beamed, more of that infectious joy engulfing me. “It will be so much fun! We could sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and ‘The Green Grass Grew All Around.’”

“Like we’re twelve and at summer camp?” I couldn’t help but smile. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to sit around and sing silly songs with her.

“Exactly.” Ember tugged me, so I stood up and stole a kiss. “And then later we can make out.”

I followed her downstairs, ignoring our food, and pulled my favorite guitar down.

“You pick the first song.” I sat on the couch with her and warmed up with some strumming.

Ember shifted so she could look at me. “Let’s do ‘On Top of Old Smokey.’”

Ember started singing, her voice bright and clear. She had a wonderful singing voice, and she stayed well within her own range since she wasn’t trying to match someone else’s voice.

I joined her, singing the bits of the song I remembered, going through the verses about how the meatball rolled under a bush. Ember looked so pleased with herself, I couldn’t help but feel the same happiness.

She was right. Singing for the hell of it was enjoyable, and I missed this sort of fun. I didn’t feel pressure to write the next heartbreaking ballad while singing “The Wheels on the Bus.”

In the middle of “Down by the Bay,” Ben and West came home. Ben joined us on the piano. He didn’t even ask what he was doing and acted like it was completely reasonable to find his two omegas singing kids’ songs.

When the song stopped, Ember grabbed my forearm. “I don’t know why, but I want some of those shaky instruments. And West needs something.”

“West is fine,” the omega said from the couch.

Ember shook her head. “A tambourine or something. But don’t judge me. I have no rhythm.”

I stood up, getting a pair of carved wooden maracas. “I wouldn’t judge you.”

“You told me I went out of range,” she said, a hint of hurt in her voice. “When you caught me singing in the shower.”

I handed her a tambourine and West some maracas. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I was just trying to help. I’m too critical, and that bleeds over to people around me.”

“Forgiven,” she said.

Alejandro found us downstairs, singing “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” I found Alejandro some hand drums, and we sang more songs. We laughed when Alejandro kept messing up the beat and when West gave up in disgust, clapping along instead.

It was the perfect night.