Page 85 of The Sound Between Us

20

don’t call me muse

Harrison

Studio A feels like a mausoleum today.

It’s fair to say, I didn’t want to come. Didn’t want to leave Seren behind, scrolling bad headlines and second-guessing this week we’ve given ourselves.

I’m in the same chair I’ve occupied for three months, staring at blank notebook pages while Jamie scrolls through his phone. Dex is tormenting the Persian rug, dragging his foot through the pile like a bored five-year-old.

The silence should be creative. Instead, it’s suffocating.

“You’re thinking too hard again, mate.” Dex doesn’t look up from his rug archaeology.

I tap my pen against the empty page. The sound is sharp, trying to carve through the stillness. “I’m not thinking at all. That’s the problem.”

“Maybe we should try a different approach.” Jamie finally lifts his eyes from whatever digital rabbit hole he’s been exploring. “Sample something, build on it. There’s this track from the eighties⁠—”

“We’re not becoming a covers band.”

It comes out sharper than I mean it to, and Jamie raises his hands in surrender. Through the control room glass, Henry paces with his phone pressed to his ear, probably explaining to the label why another day’s gone up in smoke. His gestures are getting increasingly frantic.

I refocus on the guitar in my hands, trying to pull something new from familiar strings. But everything sounds hollow. Echoes of songs we’ve already written. Nothing real. Nothing alive.

She’s probably reading right now. I check my phone for the fifteenth time today, the screen lighting up to mock me with zero notifications. Or making terrible coffee in my kitchen and cursing my machine for being too bloody complicated.

The thought makes something loosen in my chest. Last night, watching her curled on my sofa, barefoot and asking how my day was—it felt more honest than anything I’ve done in months.

I put the guitar down mid-chord. It’s pointless.

“Right.” I stand abruptly. The leather chair squeaks in protest, probably the most musical sound we’ve produced all day. “That’s enough.”

Henry appears before I can reach the door, looking like a man watching his retirement fund catch fire.

“Harrison, we’ve got deadlines⁠—”

“We’ve got nothing.” I cut through his panic. “And staring at the wall isn’t going to change that.”

“Actually, speaking of nothing...” Henry blocks my path to the door, arms crossed. “Want to explain the photos?”

“What photos?”

“Don’t play dumb. You and Seren Rogers leaving the awards together. The internet’s having a field day.”

“Good for the internet.”

“Harrison.” His voice drops to that dangerous manager tone. “This could actually be useful. A collaboration with Damon Rogers’ daughter? The publicity writes itself.”

Something cold and sharp unfurls in my chest. “She’s not a commodity.”

“But a collab with Damon Rogers...”

“You said no more collabs.” My voice is flat, warning.

“I meant shit ones with no currency.” Henry’s eyes light up with greed. “This has actual narrative. Star-crossed musical royalty, forbidden romance⁠—”

“Fuck off, Henry.”