13. Declan

THIRTEEN

DECLAN

The studio's got Jasper written all over it. It's like walking into a garage sale of everything a stoner-musician might collect over a decade. Posters from old tours—some from bands I barely recognize—cover the walls, their edges curled from the humidity or whatever it is Jasper burns in here. The place smells like incense, cheap coffee, and something else I can't put my finger on. Probably the remnants of Jazz's last "creative session."

In the middle of all the chaos, there's a half-circle of mismatched furniture—a beat-up couch with stuffing peeking out of one arm, a couple of folding chairs that look like they've seen better days, and a bass guitar propped up against an amp, its neck covered in stickers and scratches. Jazz insists the duct tape holding the strap together gives it character. Guitars, amps, and cables are scattered around like they've been dropped and forgotten mid-strum. It's a miracle we can find anything when we need it.

I pick up my guitar, feeling the familiar weight settle against me. Lennon's already fiddling with his mic, adjusting the height with a practiced ease, while Lars taps a rhythm on the rim of his snare drum with his drumsticks, warming up with soft, quick beats.

"Alright, let's run it," Lennon says, his voice sharp, cutting through the lazy atmosphere. No one questions him when he takes charge like this. He's got that natural frontman authority, the kind that makes you listen even if you don't want to.

I strum the opening chords of the new song, the notes coming out clean, but there's a stiffness in my fingers. Lennon starts singing, his voice rough and powerful, pulling the lyrics to life.

When the lights fade low and the crowd's all gone,

I'm left with a shadow of what we've done.

We were stars, burning bright, now just embers in the night,

And I'm wondering if we'll ever make it home.

His voice wraps around the words, giving them weight, making them more than just lines on a page. I can feel the rhythm pulsing through the room, Lars keeping time with steady hits on the snare, Jasper's bassline weaving underneath, grounding the whole thing. But something's off. I know it. They know it.

My fingers stumble on the strings, the chords coming out wrong. I wince, trying to shake it off, but the mistakes are like a pebble in my shoe—small but impossible to ignore. Lennon's eyes flick to me, his voice faltering for just a second before he powers through.

I force myself to focus, to get back in the groove, but it's like trying to catch smoke. My mind keeps drifting back to Savion, to that moment in the elevator. The panic in his eyes, the way his breath came in short, sharp gasps. I promised him I'd check in. I'm a man who keeps his word, so why the hell haven't I done it yet?

Lars is the first to crack. He stops drumming mid-beat, the abrupt silence jarring. "Yo, Dec, you forget how to play or what?" He grins, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes.

"Must be that new song," Jazz chimes in, leaning back against his amp. "Too many chords for him to handle."

"Fuck off," I mutter, but it's weak. I can't even muster a decent comeback.

Lennon lowers the mic, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "You alright, man? You've been off since we started. What's going on?"

I shake my head, forcing a shrug. "Just need to get into it, that's all."

Lennon isn't buying it. He sings the chorus again, softer this time, like he's trying to coax me back into the right headspace.

But we keep on running, chasing dreams we've sown,

On this endless highway, we're never alone.

The road is long, the nights are cold,

But we keep on fighting, a story yet untold.

The words hit harder than they should. I should be here, in the moment, with my band, but I'm not. My mind's somewhere else, with someone else. And it's not the last girl I broke up with, no matter how much I wish it was that simple.

Lars tosses his sticks on the snare, crossing his arms over his chest. "You gonna tell us what's going on, or are we just supposed to guess?"

I grit my teeth, strumming a few random chords, trying to shake off the tension. "I said I'll get it right. Let's just keep going."

But the distraction doesn't fade. It's a constant undercurrent, tugging at my thoughts, pulling me away from the music. I know the guys can see it. They're waiting for me to crack, to spill whatever's eating at me. But I can't. Not yet.

Not until I figure out why it feels like he's in every chord I play… why I can't get him out of my head… why I want him so desperately.

Our break couldn't come fast enough. My hands are trembling, fingers fumbling with the guitar pick as I set it down. I lean back against the wall, reaching for my phone like it's some kind of lifeline. The screen lights up, and there it is—Savion's number, staring back at me.

I promised I'd check in. I owe him that much, at least.

The phone feels heavy in my hand, like it's made of lead instead of plastic and glass. My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to type out something simple. Maybe just, Hey, how you holding up? Or maybe, Need to talk?

But nothing sounds right.

The tension knots in my shoulders, spreading down my spine as I try to find the words. My chest feels tight, like I'm bracing for a punch that's not coming. All I can hear is the steady thrum of blood in my ears, the muffled voices of the guys in the background barely registering.

Lars snatches an empty soda can off the amp and crushes it with one hand. "Dec, who you texting? Erin? You guys get back together? Or you got some new secret fling we don't know about?" His grin is all mischief, eyes twinkling.

Jazz joins in, his bass propped against his leg. "Yeah, man, you've been glued to that phone all week. Spill the beans, we won't judge."

I force a smirk, pocketing the phone before I do something stupid. "Maybe I like keeping you guys in suspense."

Lars snorts. "Bullshit. You're probably swiping through Tinder, hoping to find someone who isn't sick of your brooding ass."

I chuckle, though it feels hollow, the sound bouncing off the walls and fading into the cluttered corners of the room. "Keep dreaming."

Their laughter fills the space, light and easy, but it only sharpens the edge of my own thoughts. They have no idea. They're talking like this is just another round of ribbing over some girl that's no longer in my life, but it's not. It's not even close.

I pull the phone back out, staring at the blank text box. It should be easy. Just a few words, hit send, and that's it. But I can't. The words dry up before I can even type them out. Then I try again, starting with two words, "Hey Savion." I stare at the screen, trying to come up with something light and conversational to say. Nothing. My finger hovers over the delete button, and with a sigh, I erase everything—two words.

My phone slips back into my pocket, and I lean my head against the wall, eyes shut tight. Maybe it's better this way. But that thought doesn't bring any comfort. It just leaves me with more doubts that I can't shake.

Several minutes pass. The guys are still laughing, their voices mingling with the familiar hum of the amps and the low buzz of the neon sign in the window. I push off the wall, trying to shake the tension out of my shoulders, but it clings to me like a second skin.

Why the hell am I so messed up over Savion? It's not like I've never dealt with attraction before. Hell, I've been around the block more times than I can count. Had my fair share of flings and fleeting connections. But this? This is different.

I keep replaying that moment in the library—the way his breath hitched when I closed the distance between us, the way my own heart pounded like a teenager's, the rush of adrenaline as if I'd never been touched before. Even now, a week later, I can't shake the feeling from my mind.

It shouldn't be this way. I'm in my forties, for Christ's sake. I should have my act together by now, not be getting tangled up over a guy who's clearly too young for me. A guy who hides his scars from me, who panicked when I kissed him, who couldn't wait to get away from me when we were stuck in that elevator.

Yet, here I am—losing sleep, messing up practice—all because the first man I've ever wanted might not be interested in me.

I drag a hand over my face, the stubble scraping against my palm, grounding me back to the present. There's more to it, though. It's not only about Savion. It's about me. About the man I've spent my whole life trying not to become.

My father.

I've spent years running from his shadow, trying to prove I'm nothing like him. He was abusive. A drunk. But he was more. He was a hard man, cruel even, with a narrow mind and a tighter grip. I saw the way he looked at people who were different, the way he sneered and spat out slurs like they were nothing. He was all about control, about fitting into the mold he'd set for himself and everyone around him. And worst of all, he was a murderer.

The thought that I might share even a shred of his DNA twists my stomach. What if that darkness is in me too? What if that same narrow-mindedness, that same intolerance, is just waiting to surface? I've tried so hard to be better, to be open-minded, to accept people for who they are. But what if I can't? What if this… thing with Savion is the start of me becoming exactly what I've feared all these years?

The thought terrifies me more than I'd ever admit.

I stare at the floor, the worn carpet blurring under my gaze. My hands curl into fists, the knuckles whitening. I'm not him. I refuse to be him. But the fear is there, gnawing at the edges of my mind, making me second-guess everything I thought I knew about myself.

And maybe that's why I can't bring myself to text Savion. Because reaching out, acknowledging what I'm feeling—it's a step toward something I'm not sure I'm ready to face. A step that might lead me down a path I can't come back from.

At long last practice wraps up, but the tension in the room lingers like stale smoke. I'm packing up my gear, trying to keep my head down, when Lennon's voice cuts through the silence.

"Declan, we need to talk."

I freeze, my hand halfway to the guitar case. I don't even have to look up to know this isn't going to be a casual chat. The air around us thickens as the other guys fall silent, their usual banter replaced by something heavier, more serious.

I straighten up, turning to face Lennon, who's standing there with his arms crossed, eyes locked on mine. He's not letting this slide. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes narrow like he's about to call me out on every bit of bullshit I've been feeding them.

"What's going on with you, man?" Lennon's voice is firm, no room for dodging. "You've been off. This isn't just about the music, is it?"

Jasper steps forward, leaning against the wall with his bass still slung across his back. "Yeah, you've been acting weird, like there's something eating you up inside. We're family, Dec. You don't have to keep this shit bottled up."

Lars, ever the joker, tries to lighten the mood with a grin, but even he looks concerned. "Come on, dude. Spill the beans before we start thinking you've gone all emo on us."

I glance around the room, at the faces of the guys who've been with me through thick and thin. They're not just my bandmates—they're my brothers. And right now, they're all staring at me like they're waiting for some big confession.

My throat tightens, but I force the words out before I can second-guess myself. "It's… it's Savion."

Lennon's eyebrows shoot up, and the room goes so quiet I can hear the hum of the amp still buzzing in the background. "Savion?"

I nod, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah. You know we've been hanging out. He's… different. You know? And I… we—" The words catch in my throat. Saying it out loud makes it too real, but there's no turning back now. "I kissed him."

A beat of silence follows, the kind that stretches out and makes you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"And that's what's been messing with you?" Lars asks.

I nod, feeling like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I've never felt this way about a guy before. And it's… confusing."

Lennon uncrosses his arms and steps closer, his expression softening. "People change, feelings change. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you."

Jazz chimes in, his voice calm and steady. "Sexuality isn't black and white, man. It's a spectrum. What you're feeling is valid. Don't beat yourself up over it."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, but the knot in my chest doesn't loosen. "It's not just that. Savion had a panic attack when we were together. Stuck in an elevator. I promised I'll check in on him and I haven't done it yet."

Lars, ever the blunt one, shakes his head. "Dude, if you're this worried about him, maybe you should talk to him instead of driving yourself crazy."

Lennon nods, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Exactly. You care about him, that's clear. And maybe that's why you're so messed up about this. But you're not your old man, Dec. You're nothing like him."

His words hit me harder than I expect, striking right at the heart of the fear that's been gnawing at me. I look into Lennon's eyes and see the truth there, the conviction that maybe, I'm not destined to repeat the mistakes of the past.

Jazz grins, a playful glint in his eyes. "So, what are you waiting for? Text the guy."

The tension in the room eases, my brothers' encouragement wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I'm still scared, still unsure, but with them behind me, the weight on my shoulders doesn't feel quite as heavy.

The guys begin to gather their stuff, but I stay rooted in place. My phone is in my hand, the screen glowing faintly.I stare at the blank text message, my thumb hovering over the keypad. Words won't come. I know what I want to say, but there's a wall between my brain and my fingers, an invisible barrier I can't seem to break through.

The sound of my brothers' footsteps fades as they head to Jazz's living room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the echo of their words in my head.

I begin to type.

Me: Hey, Savion. Just wanted to check in…

No, that's too formal.

Delete

Me: How are you doing?

Too vague.

Delete.

Me: I can't stop thinking about you.

Too intense.

Delete.

I grit my teeth, my mind racing through all the possible things I could say, and none of them feel right. But the guys are right—I can't keep running from this. I can't let fear control me.

So, I start typing again. Slowly, carefully, trying to find the balance between what I want to say and what I'm ready to admit.

Me: Savvy, just checking in. Hope you're doing okay. If you want to talk, I'm here.

My finger hovers over the send button. It feels like a mountain of pressure on one tiny decision. But the words are there, and they're real. It's not perfect, but it's honest.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and hit send.

The message whooshes away, and I let out a shaky exhale. The relief is immediate, but so is the anxiety. My heart pounds in my chest, every second dragging out as I wait for a response. I grip the phone tight, feeling the cold sweat on my palms.

The seconds tick by, each one longer than the last, until finally, the phone buzzes in my hand. My heart jumps into my throat, and for a moment, I can't breathe. This is it. The answer I've been dreading and hoping for all at once.

I unlock the phone, the screen lighting up with Savion's name, and my chest tightens.