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litgwritersroom · 2 years

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Yesterday

S1 | Tim/MC | 5500+ words | @mrsbsmooth

After Love Island, Tim really has it all; the career; the money; any girl in the world he wants ... well, maybe except one. Not that he cares, he definitely doesn't care.

Tim pulled the BMW into the studio parking lot, and threw it in park the tiniest bit too early, drawing a grinding, crunching noise from the engine.

“Whoops,” he muttered, as he grabbed his cap, scrambling out of the car. He left it parked slightly askew, knowing no one would trouble him about it. Not that he’d be bothered if they did.

His music switched from his car to his headphones, and he pulled them over his ears as he walked down the long, winding pathway and into the oversized glass building. He skipped through the samples he’d been sent, and yet again, nothing caught his interest.

None of the hooks were right. Or the pacing was off. Or the vibe… it just… it wasn’t…

He sighed. He was only about twenty minutes late for the meeting. On time, really, considering how irregularly he even remembered they were on.

But Talia probably wouldn’t mind. Probably.

Talia had taken over as his manager when they left the villa, mostly because she knew the industry and Tim didn’t. And she was a very good manager. A great manager. Didn’t take shit from anyone. Didn’t seem to care if he was late for meetings with the studio execs.

Except she’d been messaging him all morning.

Talia: Where the fuck are you holy shit

Talia: Get here NOW!!!!!!!

Talia: You are so fucked

Tim grimaced as he jogged up to the lift.

Timye: mate im almost there chill out

He watched the three dots appear and disappear multiple times, as he walked towards the conference room he always met the execs in. Pushing open the glass door, head bowed down as his attention went back to his phone, he was already sprouting out an measly excuse to his lateness.

“Sorry, mates, had a bit of car trouble and I–”

He’d looked up and his heart sank into his stomach, catching sight of the jet black hair and poisoned stare that he’d hoped to never encounter again.

Chelle.

“What’s she doing here?” He asked loudly to the room of people whose names he couldn’t be arsed to remember.

Chelle rolled her eyes. “She just got signed to this label.”

Tim turned to the execs, his eyes finding the only one he remembered. “Nicky, you signed her? Seriously? Come on! I’m like, your biggest client!”

Nicky raised his eyebrow, frowning at Tim. “Well, we were going to discuss it at the last meeting… but you weren’t present.”

Tim frowned, taking his seat next to Talia. “I’m not happy about this.”

“Well,” Talia raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be a whole lot less happy once they tell you why you’re both in the same room right now.”

And boy, was she right.

“Nope, not happening.” He shook his head. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Tim, you don’t exactly have a choice in the matter,” Nicky frowned. “You haven’t released any music in six months. You told us you’d have something done by February, and it’s March. We need a summer album release, and Chelle has assured us she can make it happen.”

“I can make it happen without her help.” Tim sneered, but Nicky just shook his head.

“Your reassurances won’t cut it anymore, we want something we can actually work with.”

Every fibre of his body was shaking with rage, yet the only sound that escaped him was a laugh. It was the sort of derisive sneer that could match one of Allegra’s, but he felt he’d outdone her with that one.

“Typical,” he said, the word coming out with the unhinging of his jaw.

“What was that, Big T?” Chelle spat. Her fingernails drummed across the table at her impatience with him. Nothing new then. “If you’ve got something to say, why don’t you say it with your full chest, big man?”

He spun to look at her directly, finally looking her in the eye. The fire behind her brown iris matched the flames behind his own. “Fuck you, Chelle,” he said, barely managing to get it out through gritted teeth. “How’s that for saying it with my chest?

She replied with a short burst of humourless laughter, before cooing at him, “Aww, poor Tim. Is someone making you do work? Boohoo.” She leant forward in her chair towards him. “Let me play you a sad song on the world’s smallest violin.”

“Alright, that’s enough, you two,” Nicky intervened again. He was pointing between the pair of them like he was giving a stern talking to some naughty school kids. “You’re working together. That is final. Now grow up, and get to work. We expect to see some progress by the end of the week.”

Tim’s gaze was hot on Chelle’s and hers right back at him. He left the meeting in stony silence.

Tim was lying on his couch, feet on the coffee table that was strewn with ripped magazines and scrunched up beer cans from the night before, losing to Mason 3-0 in FIFA. The roll up was in the ashtray, smoky tendrils filling the room, mixing with the stale smell of the room.

“My fuckin’ controller’s acting up.”

“That’s the exact sort of bollocks a Toby would say.”

“Gretchen, stop trying to make ‘Toby’ happen,” Tim whined, not taking his eyes from the TV for a second, as he snapped back at Mason.

An intense encounter had them both too distracted to do anything more than purse their lips and mutter out some self encouragement.

He was mid play, eyes pinned to the telly, when the lift dinged. He ignored the noise, ignored the two steps of Talia’s heels entering the open living room, the sharp clang of those pinpoint heels unmistakable on his expensive and cold floor.

Hard to ignore though, was the piercing way his name ripped from her lips. “Tim.”

She sounded like his mum. Now wasn’t the time to take his eyes from the TV, so he kept on playing, replying back in the same tone. “Talia.”

He heard her sighing heavily and made no comment on it. “I came to check on you and ask about the samples Chelle sent you today?”

At the mention of her name, his brows furrowed and his stomach twisted into a knot. “Yeah, I got them.”

He offered nothing more. The silence lingered as Talia waited, only ending up disappointing herself as he stayed quiet.

“And did you listen to them?”

It bothered him that the clear frustration in her tone was so directly and responsibly at him, with him. The knot in his belly only doubled, cinching his own frustrations even tighter.

“Why would I?” He replied, his mind wandering further and further from the game. Mason just scored, assaulting the air with a jovial pump of his fist. Tim just scowled even harder. “Just tell her they’re shit and send them back.”

As the screen cut to black before showing a replay of Mason’s goal, Tim saw a flash of Talia’s own scowl being directed at the back of his head in the reflection of the telly.

It was followed by the storming of her heels on the hard flooring. Crossing the room to the TV, she heartlessly ripped the power cord out of the back of the Playstation, sternly maintaining her silence over Tim and Mason’s loud protests.

Mason was very much forgotten about as Talia rounded on Tim, finger wagging at him as she slowly and surely closed the distance between them. “You’re not a fucking soundcloud rapper any more, Tim. You have a record deal. And you need to put something on that record if you want to keep it.”

Mason waved over at Tim. “He’s a number one selling artist. Lad’s entitled to a break if he wants it -”

“He isn’t meant to be on a break right now, this is meant to be when he’s working on something like he promised!”

Shaking his head, Mason stood, cracking his knuckles. “Pfft, man, if Talia’s about to pitch a fit, I’m out.”

Talia glared at him, as Tim tried his best not to laugh. He reached out, slapping Mason’s hand as a farewell on Mason’s way to the lift. He turned to Talia, and sighed heavily, lamenting the silence he was about to break.

“Ok, go ahead.”

“Don’t.” Talia said it with such heavy exhaustion, her eyes shutting alongside her weariness. She groaned in frustration, her eyes suddenly snapping open again as she continued, “Don’t fucking do that!”

“Do what?”

She threw her hands up around her head. “Every time I try to talk to you about it, you just make me feel like I’m lecturing you!”

“...But you are lecturing me.”

“You’re almost twenty-five, I shouldn’t fucking have to!” She pointed at him, the warning evident in her tone and bony finger. “I’m trying to fucking help you, Tim. You can’t just sit here and smoke your way to another number one!”

Tim looked away, and this time it wasn’t because he was pretending there was something more interesting. The knots in his stomach from earlier reached up to his chest, tightening beneath his ribs, squeezing him until he couldn’t breathe. But he could. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his jaw unclenched.

His eyes were drawn to his phone screen flashing with another new notification on the table. Like always, another came through, and another notification after another notification. Text after text after text after fucking text from those who couldn’t get enough of him now that he was famous.

That’s all anyone ever wanted from him these days. A slice of the high life, a sliver of fame that came with knowing him. Ever since the show, they had gotten only more obvious; as his fame reached peak after peak, it only attracted more of the buzzards.

A cushion connected with his head, spearing him out of his slump. He blinked up at Talia as she demanded, “Pay attention to me!”

“I don’t wanna.” He sulked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, then you should’ve hired someone you hated.”

“I did.” He teased, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, making sure she laughed. She did, tackling him and armed with more cushions. She hit him with them until he felt his bad mood lifting, and started smacking her back. All of a sudden, Talia dropped her weapons and wrapped him in a bear hug.

He settled against Talia, resting his head on her arm. The moment was still, like a single drop of clarity. He sighed heartily, realising that out of everyone and everything in his life right now, the only thing he wouldn’t dream about changing was Talia.

“Thanks for coming round, Tar,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry I’m a shit.”

Poking his chin with a finger, she spun his head so he had no choice but to look at her. “Talk to me, dude. This can’t just be about Chelle. This has been going on since before you saw her the other day. I hate to say it, but someone’s got to. You’ve been off your game for way longer than this.”

“Oi, I’m not off my game?” He frowned at her, a little offended. A part of him knew she had a point, but she didn’t have to say it out loud.

She quirked a brow up at him. “Oh yeah? Is that why you’re pretending her samples are going to be shit?”

He scowled. Her tone was much gentler as she prodded him with her next words. “Or is it ‘cause you know they’re probably amazing, and that means you have to acknowledge the problem is you?”

Tim sat up, his limbs stiff and his movements awkward. He stared ahead at the black TV screen, his reflection a mush of something only vaguely reflective of being a person. Of being him. His expression hardened and he looked away. “I don’t have a fucking problem. She’s the problem. Not me.”

Exasperatedly, Talia asked, “Have you written anything in the last six months? A single word?”

Tim got to his feet. He stalked away from Talia, his back to her, holding his body rigidly.

“Fuck off.” It wasn’t rude necessarily, just the sort of dismissive banter Talia had probably come to expect from him. It was meant to say ‘stop’, it was meant to mean ‘you’re pushing too much’. But it meant more than that to her.

“No, you fuck off. I knew you were having trouble. I knew it. Just tell me what’s wrong!? I can probably help!”

“Just fucking leave it, Talia!” he yelled. “Just go. Go away.”

“No! Tim, you can’t just tell people to leave whenever the conversation gets hard!”

He whipped his head up to Talia. She did not just fucking say that. He raised his voice even louder. “Seriously, just get off my fucking case!”

He pulled his shoes on, and threw on a baseball cap, pulling it low over his face. All the while Talia was at his back, a single decibel shy of losing her shit completely.

Tim just grabbed his keys, and walked out the door. Talia was the only person he had left who would tell him the truth.

But right now, the truth fucking hurt.

He got out on the second floor, making his way to the fire stairs at the end of the hallway, and pushed the door open. The staff always left the alarm off for him, so he wouldn’t have to face the paparazzi who constantly waited for him at the front of his building; eager to see which model or socialite or soprano was the most recent to grace the expensive linen sheets on his bed.

It was colder than he expected, though he supposed it was March. He pulled his hood up over his cap, covering as much of his face as he could, as he made his way around the back streets.

He missed home. He missed feeling like somewhere was home. Everyone knew him in Truro, so he couldn’t blend in there. Even here, in London, he couldn’t find peace. He couldn’t find a single place where he could just… exist. Just be. Be him.

Even now, as he walked down a side street of a city with 8 million people, he was getting sideways glances from waiters smoking cigarettes. Whispering to each other in a language he didn’t understand, but even so, he knew what they were saying. Because he heard the words every time.

Something, something, something, “Big T.”

So he’d just pull his cap down lower, find a different side street to pace up and down, trying desperately just to get out of his own fucking way.

The deadline was looming over him like a noose around his neck.

He didn’t want to do it again.

He didn’t want to be number one any more.

He didn’t want to be bringing home models, spending every weekend at whatever party the record label deemed ‘insta-worthy’ enough for him to have to attend. Have his entire life curated for him.

He didn’t even write his own fucking raps. He’d submit his lyrics, and they’d come back with ‘suggestions’ that shredded his words and replaced them with the marketable version. Sometimes, he’d get to pick a title.

God, he was just so fucking tired of it.

His feet were the only thing he could focus on, as he nodded his head to the pounding rhythm of them hitting the pavement. He put his headphones on, and tried scrolling through the relentless list of new music he was supposed to be keeping up to date with. But he couldn’t even get through a single song. It was too much for him.

It was all just so fucking fake. Like a pulse on a corpse, it was lifeless.

So he switched to the Beatles; the familiar melodies making him feel like he was back in Truro, on the bus, listening to the entire discography through a shared pair of earphones with…

Fuck.

He leaned against the wall in the empty alleyway, lifting his face toward the little sunlight that managed to broker through the dull, grey clouds. Looking at those rays of sunshine, he swallowed hard, wishing he could bask in the glory of the sun’s efforts, but the clouds were too many, the grey had blackened the sky too much.

Talia was right. She always was. He hadn’t written anything in months.

He wasn’t sure he even knew how any more. The record label didn’t care about what he had to say anyway. They only cared about whether or not it would sell.

Tim looked back down at his phone, his eyes hovering over his email app, the four-figure notification counter making him want to throw it across the alleyway and smash it to pieces.

But something made him tap the icon instead.

The very first name he saw sent his heart into his chest again.

Michelle Masika

Subject: Sample.

His finger hovered over the attachment, but before he had a chance to press it, his phone rang.

Chelle’s name and picture blared onto his screen, consuming everything, halting the never ending notifications and the incessant feeling of not doing enough in his stomach.

He wondered how she got his number. Was it someone at the record company, Talia, or had she been like him, and still had it saved all these years later?

He declined the call, and opened the contact record to look at the picture more closely.

He must’ve forgotten to delete it when they broke up. It was them, in the early days. Wrapped in Christmas scarves and matching goofy woollen hats. He’d taken the picture right as they’d burst out laughing.

It’d been a long time since someone had properly made him laugh. He used to. This photo showing up was almost spiteful, after everything they’d gone through. All the daggers she’d throw his way nowadays would never erase the look of love she held in the photographs.

His phone buzzed again in his hand, and her name flashed up once more. She knew he’d declined it.

Tim rolled his eyes as he hit the green button.

“What?” His voice was flat, empty, direct.

She scoffed. “God, you’re fucking rude.”

“What do you want, Chelle?”

“Come to the studio.”

“Why?”

“Just come, Tim,” she asked, exasperated, like she was pleading with a petulant child. She was softer as she said, “It’s worth it. Trust me.”

Earlier than he’d expected to, Tim pulled the BMW into the studio lot. He parked more slowly this time around, the amount of care in getting the spot perfect having absolutely nothing to do with the fact he was a little nervous to be in a room alone with her.

He walked down the dark corridor, doing his best not to engage with any of the staff. They busied on, making it clear that he really wasn’t all that special. Something he’d long since felt inside himself anyway.

He pushed open the studio door to the booth he knew Chelle would be working in, and sat down at the table inside, content to mind his own business and hopeful that it would interrupt her work to fetch him.

Chelle bustled around at the panels. She held up a finger when he entered, telling him to wait. Tim rolled his eyes. After a few minutes, she pulled her headphones off and made her way over, sitting down at the table across from him.

But she said nothing.

She just looked at him, and he looked blankly back at her. Eventually Chelle raised an eyebrow.

“So if I know you, you haven’t listened to it out of spite.”

Tim just shrugged his shoulders. He glanced up, and found Chelle’s dark eyes studying him the same way they always had.

But she said nothing.

Chelle always had a way about her. A quietness. It’d always been one of the things he loved most about her when they were together. The way she’d just exist with him, while he closed his eyes and worked through whatever it was he was trying to figure out in his head. She’d slip her hand into his, and squeeze it tight, silently telling him she’d wait forever, until he was ready to talk.

He’d never felt as safe as he had when he was with her.

But the silence between them now just hurt. So he broke it.

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

“What happened?” She asked, her voice soft, almost as if it was painful to see him like this. “I thought this was what you wanted?”

There was a long pause that was weighed down with gloom. He pictured the sky outside encasing that last drop of sun. “It’s not that simple.”

“Enlighten me then, Tim.”

“Forget it,” he shrugged. “It’s fuckin’ dumb.”

Chelle folded her arms on the table in front of her. “I’m not going anywhere. Tell me. If you can’t tell Talia, you can’t tell your mates, tell me. Of everyone in the world, you know I’m the last person who’d speak to the media.”

Tim glared at her. “Whatever I thought I knew about you, I was wrong.”

He watched the faltering in her face as Chelle’s eyes dropped to the table, and a wave of guilt washed over him.

And the silence returned.

They sat like that for a while, neither of them wanting to start, but silently begging the other not to let it go.

Tim heard her breath catch a few times, and he almost spoke, too.

“You know why I did it,” she whispered. Her voice was quiet. Shaky, but determined. Again, he marvelled at the self-assurance that never wavered within her, the perfect mirror to the crumbled sense of his own self-worth.

Shaking his head, his lips were pursed in a thin line. “No. I still don’t,” he spat. “We fought, I woke up, and you were fucking gone. Just gone.”

Her breathing hitched, catching in her chest.

She stared him down. “You know why.”

Every word was punctuated with its own seething menace.

“Because you got cold feet,” he said, throwing the harsh words in a soft tone, letting them brew in derision.

“Tim, we were twenty-two.” Her brows knitted together, her mouth pulled into a grimace of some desperation. “Twenty-two is too young to get married.”

The air conditioning must have switched on, because the room suddenly felt icy. He pressed his nails into the palms of his hands, the mild pain of it a welcome distraction from the pain that he could taste at the back of his throat.

“It wasn’t too young for me,” he whispered.

It was just as raw as when she’d turned him down. The look of panic on her face. The fear.

It still hurt. It hurt so much.

“We could’ve talked about it,” she said. “But you were so angry when I said it was too soon, and you just…”

“... Talked about it?” One half of his face screwed up as he met her gaze again. “You didn’t exactly make it easy for me to talk to you about it?”

She looked like she was about to cry. “I wasn’t the one screaming.”

“Chelle, you left.”

“You told me to.”

“You were supposed to stay.”

“You were supposed to come after me.”

The silence that fell was the loudest he’d ever heard. He was hanging on by a mere thought.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

His voice rattled like the front door had that morning; the very first thing he heard before his life slowly began falling apart.

He could see it as if it was right in front of him. The door of their old place, with its cracked window pane and slightly-loose handle. But try as he might, he’d never be able to reach it; he’d never turn the handle and follow her out into the freezing morning.

Because he never did. Never even thought to do it until now.

And it all felt so obvious.

“I was so scared, Tim. You were just starting out, and the parties were starting to get more and more frequent, and I just… I was so scared. That you were just going to get sick of being tied down, and would want to go off and be–”

“--Be what? Be a fuckin’ celebrity?”

The sudden volume of his voice surprised him almost as much as it surprised her.

“I dunno, you went on fucking Love Island. People don’t generally go on that to keep a low profile, Big T.”

He clenched his fist, and gritted his teeth.

“I didn’t go on the show to become a fucking celebrity. I wanted to be able to make music full time. The celebrity part of it is the part I fucking hate. The parties I go to, the people I hang out with, the music, the lyrics, none of it’s me. It’s all fake.”

“And I suppose the millions of dollars and endless stream of women is fake, too?” She spat.

The silence resumed, much more tense than before.

“Chelle, after you left, I lost every bit of motivation I had. I just did whatever they told me to do. I haven’t written anything worth releasing in years, Chelle. The stuff I release is completely made for me. This… the shit I’ve been doing? It’s not music. It’s a fuckin’ lie.”

He looked up at her, and saw something in her dark eyes that he hadn’t seen from anyone in a long, long time.

Care.

And not just for sales. Not for what they could get from him.

For him.

“I know.”

She took a deep breath, glancing down at her own hands.

“I know you used to rap about cars and bitches for fun in the shower. But I also know that that wasn’t what you wrote when it actually came down to the wire. I remember being on the receiving end of your frantic phone calls before your phone died. The ones after your walks?”

Tim smiled a little. “Yeah, ‘cause I knew I wouldn’t be able to write it down fast enough before I forgot it.”

Chelle chuckled slightly. “And you made me put it on speaker, and we used the voice to text on my laptop to try and dictate it all?”

He couldn’t help but smile a little wider at that. “And it always ended up recording the words wrong, and we’d be up until 2am pissing ourselves laughing and trying to remember what it was supposed to say?”

Chelle’s eyes were big, sparkling with the passion that used to light up his entire universe. “Tim… that shit you used to write… it was fucking poetry. It was beautiful.”

Tim blew a raspberry, scoffing slightly. “Whatever.”

“Tim,” Chelle reached across the table for his hand, but he didn’t move to meet hers. She placed her hand on his forearm instead, squeezing it gently. “It’s why I’m here.”

He furrowed his brow at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re everywhere, now. Every time I turn on the radio they’re playing your songs. Every time I turn on the TV it’s an interview with Big T, talking about your creative process and your inspirations. Every billboard, every conversation, every kid with their headphones on too loud… It’s your music. But not one fucking bar of it is you.”

His shoulders tensed defensively,

“So, what, you’re just here to help me? The giant paycheck doesn’t appeal to you whatsoever?”

She raised her eyebrows. “They didn’t tell you?”

He furrowed his in return. “Tell me what?”

Chelle laughed. “I get paid a percentage. Nothing upfront. Me getting paid depends on how well your album does.”

Tim furrowed his brow in confusion. He couldn’t wrap his head around why the fuck she would do that. She hated him. She’d screamed it at him with her gaze the second he’d walked into the conference room. “So… wait. You want me to do all my own raps? And try and make it a number one?”

Chelle let her head drop to the table with a dramatic groan. “Tim, you are seriously not getting this. I don’t care if it’s a number one. I just want to watch an interview where you actually believe a single word of what you’re saying.”

And like that, the silence returned. The air conditioning sending a chill through his skin. It must’ve done for her, too, because she shivered. He sighed, and pulled his jacket off, handing it to her like he’d done a million times before. Chelle looked a little surprised, but she took it, slipping her arms into the sleeves and pulling it around her.

He tried to stare at literally anything else in the room except the sight of her in his jacket, knowing what it would do to his heart if he let himself look.

He blew another raspberry. “Alright. Fine. I’ll listen to your fuckin’ track.”

Chelle nervously stood, walking over to the sound board. She passed him a pair of headphones, and gently slipped her own on, but said absolutely nothing. The imaginary noose around his neck tightened as he slipped the headphones on. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if even her music wasn’t enough?

What if he really was completely fucking broken?

As if sensing his anxiety, Chelle reached for his hand.

And this time, he gave it to her.

As his fingers brushed against hers, he was worried she’d be able to feel his heart racing through his palms. But the familiar weight of her hand in his flooded him with a reassuring wash of calm that lifted the world from his shoulders.

How did she still have this effect on him?

A deep, low drum beat started. A slow, low-fi synth curled through his body, and every inch of his skin blazed with goosebumps. His lips parted slightly, as the deep melody started. There was something so familiar about it. He started humming along to the melody, trying to place it, and the words started forming in his head.

Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be,

There's a shadow hanging over me,

Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

Why she had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say.

I said something wrong now I long for Yesterday.

Tim turned to Chelle to comment on it, but stopped.

She was biting the inside of her lip, nervously shuddering despite his thick jacket wrapped around her. And God, did she look beautiful in it.

Her dark eyes were looking up into his, a little glassy, almost as if the song meant as much to her as it did to him. The beautiful synth beat was filling him with something he hadn’t felt in years.

Words.

But in that particular moment, there wasn’t a single one of them he wanted to use.

With the smallest movement, he turned his body to hers, and dropped her hand, curling it inside the warm fabric of his jacket, and around her waist. Chelle’s eyes fluttered closed as she tilted her head back.

And he kissed her.

He kissed her for what felt like decades. Lifetimes. Whatever was longest. And it was freeing, like everything was falling back into place. Every muscle in his body relaxed as he melted into her, her body falling into his hands as he pulled her closer. The world was righting itself, jolted back onto its course. The feel of her waist under his hands. The warm flick of her tongue as she stroked her fingers through his hair. The way her lips felt on his, music pulsing through their ears, just like they did on the bus, back when everything was easy. Back when everything made sense.

It had never occurred to him before that it wasn’t Truro that made him feel like this.

It was her.

As they broke apart, he pushed her headphones down to hang around her shoulders. She pulled his off as well, and he pressed another kiss to her lips. He rested his forehead on hers briefly, completely incapable of stopping the smile that was wrestling the corners of his cheeks. He took a step back, letting the smile win, as she threw her arms around his neck.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never should’ve left. I–”

“--Shh,” he laughed, as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his lips into her braids.

He pulled back from her, kissing her once again, then turned and walked toward the recording booth.

She shot him a confused, playful look, and he winked at her.

“I reckon I’ve got something for this.”

Chelle broke out in a wide smile, dropping her eyes, as he stepped in to the booth.

He had something alright. He had everything. The amount of words he had in that moment were almost overwhelming him.

But he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to forget these ones.

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