The amp hums before anyone speaks.
It's a familiar sound. Low. Steady. Predictable.
Elliot likes predictable.
He rolls his shoulders once and adjusts the strap on his guitar, fingers brushing the faint crack near the edge of the body. He tells himself it gives it character. Texture. History.
The rehearsal room smells like dust and metal strings and the cheap coffee Adrian insists is "fine." The lights buzz faintly overhead.
Dante taps a drumstick against the rim of the snare. Once. Twice. Testing tempo.
"From the second verse," Dante says evenly.
Of course.
Elliot doesn't look at him. Just nods like it was his idea.
They start.
The chord progression is muscle memory. His fingers know it better than his own pulse. The sound fills the room, warm and electric. For a second it feels right.
Then he notices it.
Roxanne's harmony comes in half a beat late.
Barely noticeable.
No one else would hear it.
He does.
His right hand presses harder against the strings. Just slightly. The sound sharpens. Brightens. Pushes.
He tells himself he's just adding texture.
She's just tired.
That's all.
He glances toward her without turning his head fully. She's focused on the keys, eyes lowered, mouth neutral. Not unhappy. Not angry.
Just… contained.
She used to look up more.
He misses that, suddenly. The way she'd glance at him mid-song like it was just the two of them in the room. Like they were sharing something secret.
Now she plays clean. Precise. Professional.
He bends into a small riff that isn't technically there. A little flare. A reminder that he can.
Dante's eyes flick up.
"Keep it tight," Dante says over the sound. Not sharp. Just steady.
Elliot grins like it's a joke. "I am keeping it tight."
He plays louder.
Adrian's bass shifts to compensate, grounding the tempo before it drifts. Mia's violin weaves in carefully, adjusting without drawing attention.
Roxanne doesn't look up.
The song ends.
Silence.
Not awkward.
Just… empty.
"Again," Dante says.
Elliot laughs lightly. "What, that wasn't perfect enough for you?"
Dante's expression doesn't change. "It slipped."
"It didn't slip."
"It did."
Elliot shrugs, rolls his wrist. "Maybe someone was off."
He doesn't say her name.
He doesn't need to.
Roxanne finally looks up.
"I was half a beat late," she says calmly. "My fault."
It hits him wrong.
He didn't actually want her to take it.
He wanted—
He doesn't know what he wanted.
"Doesn't matter," he says quickly. Too quickly. "It wasn't noticeable."
She nods once.
Professional.
Detached.
That word again.
Detached.
They start again.
He plays tighter this time. Cleaner. No extra flare.
He tells himself it's discipline.
It feels like restraint.
Halfway through the second run, he feels it again — that small distance. Not in the music.
In her.
It's subtle.
Like she's slightly farther away than she used to be.
He hates that he notices.
He hates that it bothers him.
She's just tired.
He focuses on the strings.
Focus on the sound.
Focus on something controllable.
When they break for water, he sets the guitar down carefully, fingers lingering on the wood.
The crack near the edge catches the light.
It wasn't there in the beginning.
Neither were most of the good songs.
He remembers—
Sixteen.
Garage rehearsal.
Sweat and cheap speakers and Roxanne sitting cross-legged on the floor because there weren't enough chairs.
He messed up the same chord three times in a row.
Adrian had laughed.
He'd wanted to throw the guitar.
Roxanne had just smiled.
"You're good," she'd said. "You just don't know it yet."
And then later that night, outside under the flickering porch light, she'd kissed him first.
He hadn't moved for a full second after.
Because why would she—
He shakes the memory off.
That was a long time ago.
She chose him.
She still chose him.
Seven years doesn't disappear because of a bad rehearsal.
He looks over at her now.
She's talking quietly to Mia about something. Her posture is relaxed. Calm.
He studies her face like he's looking for proof.
Proof that nothing is changing.
Proof that she isn't pulling away.
Proof that he didn't imagine that half-beat hesitation.
She glances up and catches him staring.
For half a second, something flickers.
Not cold.
Just unreadable.
"You okay?" she asks.
Too neutral.
"Yeah," he says immediately. "Why wouldn't I be?"
She holds his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Then: "You were pushing tempo."
He laughs lightly. "No, I wasn't."
"You were."
He shrugs. "I like energy."
"I know," she says.
He doesn't like how that sounds.
He picks up his guitar again before the silence grows teeth.
"Let's run it once more," he says, louder than necessary. "We'll get it right."
Dante nods.
Adrian watches him carefully.
Sienna, leaning against the wall, smiles faintly like she sees something interesting unfolding.
Elliot doesn't look at her.
He focuses on the count-in.
He plays.
He tells himself:
She's just tired.
He tells himself:
Nothing's slipping.
He tells himself:
She chose me.
The chord rings slightly sharper than it should.
He presses harder on the next one.
Just to be sure.