Page 93 of Forever To Me

I smirk. “I see you, you know. When we get home from the bar late at night. You head out there sometimes. And sometimes I hear music across the lake.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Not when they’re interesting.”

He gives me a long look, like he’s debating whether or not to tell me.

Then, finally?—

“I write,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

I blink. “Like… stories?”

“No.” He exhales, looking away. “Songs.”

The words echo like a sudden clap of thunder. Walker writes songs. My mind scrambles to catch up, memories flashing like snapshots—the way his fingers always drum the bar when a good song plays. The way he hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. All this time, he’s been holding on to music just like me. And I never knew.

Silence.

Then—pure, unfiltered shock bursts out of methat I can't hold back any longer. He's given me a piece of him right now, but I'm also completely shocked that I didn't figure it out until now.

“Walker. No way.”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. I can tell this is a weird conversation for him to have and he says with a groan, “Red.”

“You write songs?” I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier? Like, I don’t know, maybe when I was sitting here writing songs?”

He grumbles something under his breath that I don’t catch. His jaw ticks. Just once. But I seethe way his shield going up, the careful distance settling back into place. He’s sitting beside me, but I can feel him pulling away like he’s bracing for me to push too hard, too fast. Like the music is something fragile he’s terrified to share.

But I see the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts slightly like this is a conversation he’d rather avoid.

And that’s when I realize—he’s serious about keeping this private.

It’s not just something he does. It’s something he protects. I press my lips together, softening. “You don’t play them?” I ask, quieter this time.

He shakes his head.

I let that sink in. And even though a million questions burn in my throat, I don’t push. Because I know what it feels like to lose music for a while. To love something and still walk away from it.

I know that instinct—the need to protect the pieces of yourself that matter most. So I don’t press. I don’t ask for lyrics or melodies or explanations. Instead, I strum another chord, soft and familiar, inviting him to stay without saying a word.

The night settles around us, the sound of crickets filling the silence.

Rip stretches out at our feet, snoring lightly.

Walker leans back on the swing, his arms resting along the top, his fingers almost brushing my shoulder.

I strum another soft chord, picking up the melody from before.

His head tilts slightly, listening.

And when I start to hum again, picking up where I left off?—

He stays.

Listens.

Doesn’t run.

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