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The thoughtfulness of the gesture touches me deeply. In my world, where everything is content, the gift of privacy is precious beyond measure.

Inside, the cabin is cozy and lived-in—comfortable furniture, bookshelves packed with well-worn paperbacks, a stone fireplace dominating one wall. It smells of pine and woodsmoke, earthy and real.

"I came up earlier to drop off supplies," Max explains, setting down his bag. "Hope you don't mind a home-cooked meal. I'm no gourmet chef, but I make a decent pasta."

"You cook?" I raise an eyebrow, amused by this revelation.

"Don't sound so surprised." He moves to the small kitchen area, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. "Some of us didn't grow up with personal chefs, Carter."

"I didn't have a personal chef," I protest, leaning against the counter to watch him work. "Just a mother who believed cooking was beneath her intellectual capabilities and a father who burned water."

"And now?"

"Now I can follow a recipe if absolutely necessary, but takeout is my love language." I steal a piece of bell pepper he's dicing. "Need help?"

"You can open the wine," he suggests, nodding toward a bottle on the counter. "Glasses in the cabinet above."

We fall into a comfortable rhythm—him cooking, me setting the table, both of us sharing stories from our days before we met. I tell him about my first disastrous sponsored post (a teeth whitening kit that temporarily turned my gums blue), and he counters with tales from early bar gigs. There's an ease between us here, away from the watchful eyes of followers and brand partners and competition.

Over dinner—a pasta dish that's surprisingly delicious—we talk about things we never discuss in public. My insecurities about my career longevity. His complicated relationship with his father, who never supported his music. Dreams and fears that don't fit neatly into Instagram captions or carefully crafted public narratives.

"Sometimes I wonder what I'd be doing if social media didn't exist," I admit as we clear the dishes together. "If I hadn't built this whole identity around being watched and liked."

"What did little Lena want to be?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"A marine biologist, if you can believe it." I laugh at his surprised expression. "I was obsessed with dolphins. Had my whole future planned out—I'd live on a boat, study migration patterns, wear practical khaki shorts."

"What happened to that dream?"

I shrug, the question more poignant than he realizes. "Reality? I discovered I get horribly seasick. And then Instagram happened, and it was easier. More immediate validation."

"You could still study dolphins," he says, completely serious. "Maybe not from a boat. But it's never too late to explore different paths."

"Says the man who walked away from his music career." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I immediately regret them. "I'm sorry. That was unfair."

To my surprise, he doesn't shut down. Instead, he takes my hand, leading me to the couch in front of the fireplace. "It's a fair point. I haven't exactly practiced what I'm preaching."

As he builds a fire, the warm glow illuminating his profile, I'm struck by how comfortable this feels—this unguarded conversation, this quiet evening in a place no one will photograph or comment on or double-tap. Just Max and me, being completely ourselves.

"I miss it," he says suddenly, sitting beside me as the fire catches. "Music. Playing. Creating. I miss it every day."

"Then why stop?"

He's quiet for a long moment, watching the flames. "Fear, mostly. We were on the verge of real success—that tour with Lunar Drive, interest from labels. And I panicked. Convinced myself I wasn't good enough, that I'd be exposed as a fraud the moment we stepped onto bigger stages."

"That doesn't sound like you." I curl into his side, his arm automatically wrapping around me.

"Doesn't it?" His laugh is soft, self-deprecating. "I'm pretty good at pretending confidence, Lena. You of all people should understand that."

The observation lands with gentle precision. Yes, I understand the gap between public persona and private doubts better than most.

"Sophie wanted me to push through, to take the chances being offered," he continues. "She couldn't understand why I'd walk away when we were so close. But the closer we got to 'making it,' the more paralyzed I felt. So I left the band, left her, left everything I'd been working toward. Took the bartending job as a temporary measure that somehow became permanent."

The vulnerability in his confession moves me deeply. Max, who always seems so secure in himself, sharing his deepest insecurities. It's a gift, this honesty—more meaningful than any public declaration or staged moment.

"Do you regret it?" I ask softly.

"Walking away from music? Sometimes. Walking away from Sophie?" He looks down at me, his gaze warm and certain. "Never. She was only with me because of what I was. Not who I was. Plus, if I hadn't left her, I wouldn't be here now. With you."