Page 151 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

and I hear Dad all over again⁠—

cigarette ash, gravelly Chicagoan voice,

pointing the Newport cherry at me:

Sonny, pay attention. These kids got it.

They’re 2004 heartbreak

set on fire with 2024 gasoline.

Screaming-from-the-gut kind of shit.

Writing pain with a pulse.

Music that doesn’t care if it sells.

Music that just wants to bleed.

My chest pounds,

the crowd screams below,

and the band tears through it all, and⁠—

I get it, Dad.

For the first time,

I fucking get it.

I wipe my palms against my thighs,

but it doesn’t steady me.

It doesn’t stop the way my throat tightens. Because standing there, watching them, I know exactly who I want to rebuild Soundwave with.

Sunset Decay.

As the song fades,

the last chord drifts in the smoke.

The crowd’s screaming after the first song dies on the floor.

Noah doesn’t move right away.

He lets the moment simmer⁠—

black hair dripping sweat,

shoulders rising and falling,

clutching the mic stand to keep himself standing.

Then slowly, he looks up, hair falling into a face—high cheekbones, wrung-out eyes cutting straight through the haze—until they catch my gaze.

The whole room’s still cheering, losing it, but there’s a pause between us.