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Eddie turns, setting a plate of eggs and more toast in front of me, then pours himself another cup of coffee. His free hand brushes across my lower back as he passes, and I lean into his touch instinctively, like my body already misses him before he’s even gone.

“I was thinking,” he says, hopping up onto the stool beside me.

Please ask me to go on tour with you, my heart begs silently.

“You wanna come out to the barn with me after breakfast? I’ve been working on a couple of new tracks. I want you to hear them.”

My heart jumps, just a little, the disappointment a sharp ache I try to ignore, and instead focus on the fact he wants me to hear his songs first.

Me. He wants me to hear them.

Not a producer. Not his label. Me.

I try not to look too starstruck, but he’s already grinning like he knows exactly what that offer means to me.

“Of course I will,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “You know I’m secretly waiting for you to write a song about me, right?”

He leans in, eyes warm, voice low. “Who says I haven’t?”

Cue internal meltdown.

I bite my lip to hide the way I’m absolutely beaming inside, but he sees it anyway. His hand slips onto my thigh, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing slow circles that make my breath catch. He doesn’t say anything more, just keeps his eyes on me like I’m something to memorize.

And God, I wish I could freeze this. Bottle it. The quiet joy. The casual affection. The way my heart flutters just sitting next to him while we eat eggs and pretend like goodbye isn’t looming in the doorway.

We finish breakfast with that same quiet ease, bumping elbows, sharing bites. When we’re done, he grabs our mugs, rinses them in the sink, and laces his fingers through mine.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “You gotta see the place in daylight.”

We step out into the cool morning air, and I tug his hoodie tighter around me, inhaling the crispness of the sky and the way the scent of pine hangs on the breeze. The barn sits at the edge of his property—rustic and red on the outside, like something from a postcard. But I know what’s inside is nothing like the exterior suggests.

He opens the heavy door and steps aside so I can go first.

The moment I cross the threshold, my breath catches.

It’s magic in here.

Soft Edison bulbs hang in delicate lines across the wooden beams above, casting a warm amber glow over the space. Instruments are propped on stands—acoustic and electric guitars, a piano tucked into one corner, even a vintage-looking drum kit near the far wall. A sleek recording booth is enclosed in glass, with a mixing board that looks like it could launch a spaceship. There’s a soft couch, rugs layered over the old wooden floor, shelves stacked with notebooks, headphones, vinyl, and handwritten lyrics taped everywhere.

“This is…” I whisper, turning in slow awe, “...incredible.”

He smiles, watching me with quiet pride. “It’s my second favorite place in the world.”

I walk deeper into the space, fingers brushing over guitar necks, lyric sheets, the edge of the piano bench. The scent of cedar and dust and something that’s unmistakably him lingers in the air.

“You built this,” I say.

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly shy. “A few years ago. Before the first big tour. I wanted a space that was mine. No label people. No pressure. Just music.”

“It feels sacred,” I say softly, and I mean it.

Eddie steps up behind me, his hands resting on my hips, warm and grounding. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, slow and lingering. “You belong here, you know.”

I close my eyes, leaning back into him, my heart pounding.

Don’t let this end.

“What’s your first?”