Page 85 of Archer

The chorus returned, but different now. Changed by what came before.

No, you can’t hide from shadows

Can’t outrun what’s in your head

But you can face the monster

You can choose to fight instead

I played it through from the beginning. Verse, chorus, bridge, final chorus. The tune wove through Gram’s bedroom, filling the empty spaces. And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel hollow.

I felt full. And powerful. As if I’d finally reclaimed something that had been stolen.

I grabbed my notebook from the nightstand and started writing. The lyrics that had come, and variations. Different word choices. Optional melodies for the bridge.

The creative floodgates had opened, and I basked in the flow.

Time disappeared while I wrote and rewrote.

When I finally came up from the hazy elation of the work, the first hints of dawn were on the horizon.

I’d found my voice again.

Chapter 26

Harper

Archer appeared in the doorway as I came out of the bedroom. His hair was mussed, eyes shadowed. He’d apparently fallen asleep on the couch at some point, still fully dressed.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“I haven’t slept.”

His gaze sharpened. “I thought that might be the case. How are you feeling?”

“I wrote a song.” The words tumbled out. “A complete song. And I think it’s good.”

The concern in his expression shifted into what looked like a mix of joy and pride. “I’m really glad to hear that.” He hooked his hands above him on the doorframe, tightening the material of his shirt across his chest and exposing a line of skin above the waistband of his pants. “What’s it about?”

“This weird-ass situation I’m in, mostly. The fear and the fight. Finding good in the bad.” I stopped, not sure how to finish. And it’s about you. “It’s probably the most honest thing I’ve written in years.”

His slow, easy smile sent a shiver down my spine. I didn’t see the expression on him often, not when he didn’t bother hiding it or shutting it down. “Play it for me?” he asked.

I offered him my hand, then led him to the bed. We sat on Gram’s quilt, and I picked up the guitar.

My fingers trembled slightly as I started the intro. Then muscle memory took over, and the song poured out.

When I finished, Archer was quiet for a long moment.

“Harper.” His voice was thick. “That’s—” He shook his head. “I don’t have the right words.”

I set the guitar aside. “Thank you for giving me space to work through things last night. I needed that.”

His hand found mine, and he laced together our fingers. “You’re incredible. The way you can see something good in this terrible situation and make something as beautiful as that from the pain, it’s—” He grimaced, looking away, searching for the words.

This strong, kind man, who told me he struggled to put his thoughts into words, wasn’t shying away from the effort. He was doing that for me.

I set my palm over our joined hands, and his eyes swept back to mine.