Page 42 of Before You Fell

“No, you loom quietly and make people confess to things.”

His mouth shifts into something that’s not quite a smile. “Only works when they have something to confess.”

I take a sip of coffee even though it’s too hot. It burns my tongue, which is almost helpful. Pain is easier to handle than the kind that moves through you and refuses to be named.

Jett observes me from the doorway, his quietness compressing the space.

“What?” I snap.

Being seen by him is worse than being judged by Damon. Damon wants verses, hooks, a clean little wound with radio potential. Jett notices what it costs before I have figured out how to hide the receipt.

His gaze shifts down the hallway before it comes back to me. “Phoenix is an idiot.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. “Groundbreaking. Should we call a press conference?”

“I think you need some distance from him.”

The words land quietly.

I glance down at my coffee. “From Phoenix.”

“Yes.”

“We’re in the same band.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to let him crawl under your skin every time he gets bored.”

The anger flares under my skin. “He doesn’t crawl anywhere I don’t let him.”

Jett’s face barely changes but something shifts in his eyes.

“He’s not good for you, Wills.” Jett’s gaze remains steady on mine. “You need to take care of yourself.”

My throat hurts because the stupid, awful truth is that I don’t know how to put distance between me and Phoenix without cutting out half of who I am.

So I do what I always do when someone gets too close to the truth. I turn mean.

“I am looking after myself,” I say. “I have been doing it for years, actually. Long before you decided to appoint yourself my tragic little guardian angel.”

The second I say it, guilt cuts through me.

“I know, Wills, I’m just saying—”

“No,” I say, stepping around him before my face gives me away. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Jett lets me pass. He has never been the kind of man who grabs for what is already pulling away.

“I’m here if you need to talk, Wills,” he says quietly.

I don’t turn around. I can’t afford to.

The day crawls forward with its hands around my throat.

Damon wants revisions. The engineer wants cleaner levels. Jax wants to know whether the bridge is meant to hit harder or whether Phoenix is being a dramatic drama queen for sport. Cruz wants to finish the track before his fingers file a formal complaint.

I sit in the corner of the live room, my notebook balanced on my thigh, pen moving across the page as the band runs the track again.

Damon’s voice comes through the talkback. “Again, from the second verse. Willow, have you got those two lines fixed yet?”