“I knew,” she muttered. “Deep down, I knew this was coming. You were never like the others. Never had that bloodthirsty, fame-hungry look in your eye. You were the only artist I’ve ever had topushonto the stage instead of pulling them off it.” She dropped her arms, planted her hands on her hips, and stared at me for a long moment. “Of course, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t utterly devastated. I’ve worked my arse off to get you where you are. We built this together, you and me.”
“I know,” I said, my dry throat clicking as I swallowed. “And I’m grateful for everything you did for me. I mean it. But I can’t keep standing out there like that. It’s not who I am.”
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “No. No, it never was.”
There was a beat of quiet between us—heavy, but not angry.
“I still want you to be my manager,” I added quickly. “For the songwriting. If you’ll have me.”
Astrid raised an eyebrow. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you bloody well write the biggest hit songs of all time.” She jabbed a finger at me. “Youoweme that much.”
I laughed, the weight easing off my chest. “Deal.”
Astrid stepped forward and pulled me into another hug. “I guess you can take the boy out of Mulligan’s Mill, but you can’t take Mulligan’s Mill out of the boy, huh.”
“I guess not.”
As we parted, she wiped her eyes. “Go on, then. Go and be happy.”
I nodded, my heart thumping, soft but steady, the fear replaced by something warmer. Something right.
“Thank you, Astrid,” I said, my voice cracking a little. “For everything.”
She waved me off, already pulling her sunglasses back on like she couldn’t handle another second of emotional vulnerability.
“Off you go, darling. Before I change my mind.”
I grinned, turned on my heel, and walked away.
Free.
HARRY
The house was quiet again.
Not the heavy kind of quiet—the good kind.
The peaceful kind.
The kind that settles into your bones, warm and steady, like the smell of coffee in the morning or the creak of the porch swing on a summer’s night.
Dean was curled up on my couch, barefoot, legs folded under him, wearing one of my old flannel shirts that hung loose on his frame. His hair was still a little damp from the shower, soft and messy, and there was the easiest smile on his face—the kind I hadn’t seen for a long time.
The kind that wasn’t forced.
The kind that wasn’t hiding anything.
I leaned against the doorframe for a second, just watching him, arms crossed, heart full. God, he looked good here.
Like he belonged here.
Like he always had.
“Stop staring at me, old man,” he teased, eyes glinting, that smile tilting into a smirk.
