Page 9 of Unfinished Noise

Running errands for the trip. Be back soon. Love you.

He slipped out before he could overthink it.

Spencer hit a few stores and grabbed matching couple shirts—soft cotton, bright colors, the kind Jamie would hold up against his chest with that shy little grin. Spencer tossed them into the cart without hesitation. If something made Jamie smile, it went in. Simple as that.

A display of graduation cards sat near the checkout, and his eyes snagged on one with a tiny cap and tassel. Jamie in a cap like that flashed through his mind—standing in a crowd, searching for Spencer, face lighting up when he found him. Another image followed: Jamie curled up on a tour bus seat, tablet in his lap, sunlight sliding through the window as desert highways blurred past. Two different futures, both with Jamie in them. Both steady. Both theirs.

He grabbed another shirt—this one stupidly cute—and tossed it on the pile.

A foundation didn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it was a cart full of clothes Jamie would love and the quiet certainty that Spencer wanted to build a life where the kid never had to wonder if he was wanted.

And that was a win.

They spent the afternoon packing, but it didn’t feel like a chore. Jamie kept drifting between piles, trying to fold Spencer’s shirts the “proper” way, only for Spencer to mess them up again to watch him huff. Sometimes they were laughing, sometimes mock‑arguing about which snacks were “essential,” and sometimes they moved around each other in that quiet, comfortable way they’d fallen into without noticing.

Spencer tossed a charger into the suitcase, then stole a kiss when Jamie walked past. Jamie bumped him with his hip a second later, pretending to be annoyed. The whole thing had a rhythm—easy, warm, a little chaotic—and Spencer let himself sink into it. Moments like this were rare, and he wanted to hold onto the feeling for as long as he could.

Practice was at his place. The music room sat at the back of the house—soundproofed walls, posters from old tours, a rug that had seen too many spilled drinks, and a row of guitars hanging like artwork. The air always smelled faintly of wood polish and amp heat. It was his space. His sanctuary.

Jamie and Alfie took over the kitchen, putting together snacks. Spencer could hear them laughing, clattering bowls, Jamie humming under his breath. It steadied him.

Then Billy and Farlan arrived.

Billy hovered close to Farlan, shoulders angled toward him like they moved as if they were one unit. Farlan’s hand brushed Billy’s arm—quick, familiar, nothing accidental about it. A couple. And no one had said a damn thing. Heat tightened low in Spencer’s stomach, but he shoved it down. Today wasn’t the day to reopen old wounds.

Spencer stepped forward before anyone could start tuning again, guitar hanging loose at his side. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat. “Before we start, I need to say something.”

Billy looked up, blond hair falling over one eye. Farlan straightened, dark eyes steady and unreadable.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Every past fight pressed against Spencer’s ribs—every insult, every slammed door, every time Jamie had cried because of this band. All of it sat right there with him.

“I wasn’t exactly racing to jump back into Black Shadows,” Spencer said. “I was locked in on the new band. But if we’re plugging in together again, I want a clean mix. No cheap shots. No noise aimed at Jamie. I’m not standing on a stage built on that kind of static.”

His voice didn’t shake. He didn’t blink. And for once, the room stayed quiet long enough for the truth to land exactly where it needed to.

Billy shifted, but Farlan spoke first. “Aye. I’m sorry for the past. Truly.” His voice was steady, softer than Spencer had expected. “I want this clean. No hate. No mess.” He hesitated, then added, “And… Billy and I are living together now. Figured it was best to be open.”

That was exactly when Jamie and Alfie walked in with a tray of snacks. Jamie froze for half a second—long enough for Spencer to see the flicker of worry—then kept walking, chin up. They sat along the wall.

Spencer crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed Jamie. Quick, soft.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

Jamie’s shoulders loosened, and that alone made Spencer breathe easier.

He stepped back, grabbed his guitar, and nodded at Nathan. “Let’s get started.”

Nathan twirled a drumstick between his fingers. “Finally. Thought we were gonna have a group therapy session first.”

“Shut up,” Spencer said, but he grinned.

The room shifted the second they got ready with the amps heating up, pedals snapping on, and a low buzz threading through the floorboards. Farlan ran a few keys, soft and steady, like someone tapping a glass to test its strength. Billy tuned his guitar with quick, practiced twists, his blue eyes cutting over to Spencer the way a musician checks a monitor—making sure the signal’s clean before the first note hits. Spencer ignored it and counted them in.

Nathan hit the drums hard, the beat punching through the room. Farlan layered in a rolling synth line on his keyboard synthesizer, dark and smooth. Billy came in on backup guitar, matching Spencer’s chords with that annoyingly perfect precision he’d always had.

The second the song kicked in, Spencer let himself sink into it. His fingers moved with instinct, sliding over the strings like they’d been waiting all day for this. His voice dropped into the melody, warm and steady, threading through the room until the walls seemed to hum with it.

The music room vibrated around him—amps buzzing, floorboards carrying the beat, every note settling into his chest as if it belonged there. For a moment, it was him, the guitar, and the sound filling every inch of the space.