Page 54 of New Year's Faye

Let me be your shade

You don't have to weather

Every storm alone..."

I remembered the date he wrote that. It was the day Alex had stolen my campaign and destroyed my career. I'd been trying so hard to hold it together, to prove I was professional despite the betrayal. Sam had simply appeared with coffee and sat with me in silence until I could breathe again.

I'd never known he'd gone home and written about it.

More pages. More songs. More pieces of me seen through his eyes.

"Just a brown-eyed boy in love with a brown-eyed girl"- written the night of our first major awards show.

"The girl with the lists"- after I'd organized their first international press tour.

"Control Freak"- which wasn't mocking like I'd always assumed, but tender, understanding.

Years of love, hidden in plain sight.

Years of him seeing me, supporting me, loving me... and never asking for anything in return.

A drop of water hit the page. I touched my cheek, surprised to find tears.

The door clicked behind me.

"So do you want a bagel or—shit. Faye?”

And suddenly it was too much. Too real. Too...

I stood,

I stood, clutching his notebook like a lifeline. Our gazes met, his startled, vulnerable, raw.

“When?”

He didn’t have to ask what I meant.

“Forever.”

I closed my eyes, absorbing his confession. Fuck. This wasn’t a fleeting crush for him, wasn’t some impulsive spark he’d only recently felt. This was something he’d been carrying for years, something he’d woven into the very fabric of our lives.Forever.The word echoed through me, terrifying in its certainty.

Because Sam loving me like this didn’t just change things—it upended everything. All my carefully constructed walls, the years I’d spent building a career, crafting my image, keeping my heart under lock and key. My control was my armor, my way of keeping everything neat, planned, predictable. I’d told myself that if I kept things organized, if I always stayed one step ahead, I’d be safe. I wouldn’t get hurt. No one could touch me.

But Sam… Sam had somehow slipped past those defenses, quietly, without asking. He’d seen through my walls, my systems, my need for control. He’d seenme.

Terror ripped through me, fear cold and brutal. I had no color-coded system for this. No carefully planned strategy. No control.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to contain the sob building in my throat. My carefully constructed walls, all my perfect plans, all my need for control... none of it seemed to matter anymore.

Because Sam had written our story in the margins of this notebook.

And I hadn't even known I was the main character.

My phone buzzed, another incoming call.

“I need to take this.” I turned away.

“Faye, don’t. Let’s?—”

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