Page 38 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Back before Bianca turned my world upside down. Before I learned how fast the ground can vanish beneath you when you get too close to something that is real.

We hit the front steps of Ace’s place.

Theo reaches the door first, shoves it open, and tips his head toward Quinn.

She steps inside, eyes already scanning the space, cataloguing the light, the angles, the shadows curling in the corners. Her hand rests on her camera strap, fingers twitching against it, ready.

I move to follow, but Theo cuts me a look. He caught the way I was eye fucking her.

A smirk pulls at his mouth as he leans closer, amusement lacing his voice.

“You keep staring at her like that, she’ll catch fire.”

I don’t say shit, shouldering past him. Then I come to a stop when I see her. Standing near the far wall, lip caught between her teeth in focus. Shirt slipping off one shoulder. Those goddamn cutoffs showing off skin that drags my thoughts straight to hell.

And I know I’m totally fucked.

Theo nudges my shoulder, grinning. “You planning to make a move, Loverboy, or stand there and drool?”

I exhale hard, drag a hand through my hair, trying to shake the heat crawling up the back of my neck. He’s loving this shit, drinking it in as if it’s the best part of his morning.

“Come on,” I mutter, voice rougher than I intend. “Studio’s this way.”

She startles, barely, as though she forgot we were even here. After that she turns.

And fuck.

Her green eyes hit mine and everything stops. The breath I was pulling in never makes it past my throat. It dies there, trapped behind the sudden punch of her gaze, wide and bright and locked on me.

The impact runs through me everywhere.

I force my legs to move, stepping past her, ignoring the way Theo snickers behind us.

Prick’s enjoying this way too much.

The hallway’s dim, shadows clinging to the walls, the only light bleeding through the half-drawn curtains Ace never bothers with.

If Scarlet were here, it’d be a different story. Windows open. Sunlight pouring in. That sharp, clean smell of fresh air cutting through the thick, stale heat. But she’s off with her band, filming some music video I haven’t bothered to ask about.

Even with me leading, I sense Quinn right behind me.

Too fucking close.

Her footsteps are light, almost soundless, but I swear I catch the warmth of her body at my back, the hum of her breath filling the space between us.

I reach the studio and shove the door open.

The familiar hit of stale beer, sweat, and too many years spent chasing sound smacks me in the face. It’s the same as always, cluttered with cables and amps, the kind of place that carries more memory than a room. Every surface has a story.

Xander’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed and unreadable.

Ace is slouched in one of the chairs, boots kicked out, expression caught somewhere between half-asleep and seconds from tearing someone a new one.

The second we step in, both of them look up.

I step aside, clearing the path as Quinn and Theo move in behind me.

“This is Quinn,” I say, keeping my voice steady, pretending this is another day. Another fucking introduction.

But when I glance at her, I see it.

The way her feet shift, uncertain. The twitch of her fingers against the camera strap, gripping it as if it’s the only steady thing in the room. Her eyes flicker, never landing, scanning the space as though she’s mapping every corner, every possible exit.

She’s nervous as fuck, and now that I’ve noticed, I can’t look away.

Xander pushes off the wall, his expression unreadable as he moves forward with that calm, controlled energy he always carries, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s sizing someone up or already three steps ahead.

Ace lets out a long breath as though we’ve ruined the sacred ritual of him doing absolutely fuck all.

His eyes drag over Quinn before he finally stands.

He stretches like he’s been asked to do something outrageously difficult, arms over his head, shirt riding up enough to flash the ink on his stomach.

“Hey, Quinn,” Xander says, stepping forward, smooth as ever. “Kit showed me some of your photos. Gotta say, I’m impressed.”

Quinn blinks, caught off guard for a second before her mouth curves. “Oh. Thanks,” she says, a little surprised, but there’s something proud tucked into her voice.

Theo claps a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, eyes gleaming, then throws an exaggerated gesture toward Ace as if he’s unveiling a statue in a museum.

“And this ray of fucking sunshine right here… That’s Ace,” he announces, voice full of mock reverence.

“Big deal, apparently. Rockstar. Legend. God among men and all that bullshit. Also grumpier than a guy who discovered his favorite porn got scrubbed off the internet. Has the charm of a wet sock rotting in a gym bag. But hey, we still love him.”

Ace lets out a long, pained sigh, the kind that makes it sound as if Theo’s voice causes him physical discomfort.

“You done,” he mutters, “or should I grab a fucking mic so the whole neighborhood can hear your stand-up routine?” He lifts one brow.

Quinn presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile.

Theo grins, completely unfazed. “Nah, man. You’re my muse. Trying to channel the raw magic of your sparkling fucking personality.”

Ace exhales, already over it. After that his gaze shifts to Quinn.

“Hey,” he says. “Welcome to the shitshow.”

“Thanks,” Quinn replies, stepping forward to shake his hand. “I hear you’re engaged to Scar.”

That’s the moment it happens.

Ace’s whole face shifts.

Not in a big way. He’s still Ace. Still got that permanent fuck-off look etched into every line of his face.

But something in him softens. The hard edge dulls. His jaw loosens. That sharp, coiled tension he wears as armor slips for half a second, enough to let something real show through.

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but fucking close. Closer than most ever get. For a moment, he looks younger. Calmer. Fucking happy. He always changes when someone mentions Scarlet.

I was wrong about him.

About them.

Back when I found out they were hooking up, I thought he was another selfish bastard.

Thought he was using her. Thought it would crash and burn, leave her gutted.

But now I see it. Every time her name comes up, he softens in ways I didn’t think he could.

Turns out, she doesn’t merely matter to him. She’s the only thing that does.

“Yeah,” he says, and the pride in his voice is impossible to miss. “Scar said you two used to hang out when you were younger.”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods, shifting her camera strap higher on her shoulder.

Theo’s already grabbing his bass, sliding into place without hesitation. I move toward my drumkit, drop onto the stool, and grip the sticks.

Everything’s still for a second. Quiet. After that, Ace starts playing, the kind of guitar work that hits more as a warning than a melody.

It’s different. Jagged, fucked up in the best way. More chaos than control. The kind of sound that punches you in the ribs and leaves a bruise you can’t stop pressing on.

Ace nods toward me, gives me the rough shape of the beat. No drawn-out explanation. No slowing down to make it easier. Only the bare bones and a glare that says, keep the fuck up.

I fuck it up the first time. Miss the cue. My timing’s off. Doesn’t matter. I don’t stop. I grit my teeth and hit again. Harder. My whole body locked in, chasing the rhythm down as if it owes me something.

The second run comes out stronger.

On the third, I hit it right. It slides into place, not perfect, but close enough to catch the rush of it.

The crash, the pulse, the weight of every sound.

I don’t even notice when I stop thinking.

The rhythm takes over. My hands move on instinct, every beat crawling through my veins and setting shit on fire.

Theo drops into sync with me.

Xander starts humming under his breath, pacing, eyes closed, already hearing the finished version in his head before the rest of us even get close. It’s loud, dirty, and raw. And everything about it lands so fucking good.

The room shifts.

Not in a big way.

Just this slow tightening beneath the surface, the kind that creeps into your chest before your head even catches up. The energy pulls taut, every sound snapping into place.

Under it all, I sense her. Quinn. Moving through the space. Camera in hand, eyes sharp, silent. She circles the room, locking this chaos into something still. Something permanent.

I catch her out of the corner of my eye more than once.

The soft click of the shutter somehow louder than it should be.

She crouches near Theo, gets a shot of his fingers flying over the strings, then moves around behind me.

I register her presence more than I see her.

The air shifts when she’s close. My skin prickles.

My focus wavers, then resets, harder than before.

We spend the next few hours tearing through the track, pulling it apart and building it back up. Again and again until it stops sounding messy and starts sounding alive.

Ace stands next to me, guitar slung low, mouth tight with concentration. He runs through the rhythm section, calling things out in that clipped way of his, not wasting a single word.

I keep pace. Every beat I land digs deeper into me, crawling up my arms, into my spine, rooting itself there. This isn’t sound anymore. It’s muscle memory. It’s blood.

Ace leans over at one point, barely audible over the noise, muttering a quick adjustment. I shift the pattern, hit again.

This time it lands. His head lifts in that sharp nod that means I got it right.

He turns to Theo, tapping out the rhythm against the body of his guitar while Theo listens, brows drawn, adjusting the bassline until it grooves the way it’s meant to.

The sound thickens, grows heavier, layered.

It builds into something that could tear you apart if you weren’t ready.

We don’t stop. Not for drinks. Not for air.

It’s work, and it’s fucking brutal—the kind that burns behind your ribs and makes the rest of the world fall away.

And when we finally nail it, when the rhythm locks in and every crash and pulse wires itself into our bodies, Xander steps forward.

He’s been quiet the whole time, pacing near the mic, running through the lines under his breath, watching us. He grips the mic stand, closes his eyes for a long second, then opens his mouth.

And fuck. It hits.

His voice is rough at first, frayed at the edges from hours of silence, but then it opens up. Raw. Magnetic. Every word dripping with that ache he carries so fucking well, that fury buried under the calm.

The room bends around it. Every sound we’ve built locks beneath his voice, lifting it higher, driving it harder. I feel it in my chest. In the weight of my hands. In the space between my breaths.

Quinn’s still moving. Still working. But slower now, sharper.

I catch the way she lifts the camera, framing Xander in the shot, her eyes wide with something close to awe.

Then she lowers the camera, arms falling slack, and her eyes catch mine.

And I’m not in the studio anymore.

I’m back in that beat-up bedroom I used to share with Theo.

Posters curling off the walls, the constant stink of that cheap deodorant he refused to stop using. Bianca pulling her guitar from its case. Quinn on my bed, knees drawn up, camera around her neck, quiet, always watching.

She was always there. Part of those long-gone nights. One of the last true pieces of it—the music, the laughter, the late hours that didn’t carry guilt. Before Bianca’s name turned sharp, cutting into the back of our throats.

And now she’s here again, camera in hand, pulling it all back without even trying.

Every memory I’ve spent years shoving down, locking away, pretending never existed, she carries it with her. In the way she stands. In the way her eyes find mine.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop watching her. Because when she’s near, time seems to fold in on itself. Nothing broken. Nothing missing.

For a moment, everything lines up again. Bianca’s still alive. We’re still laughing. And somehow, we’re all still whole.