Page 94 of Forever To Me

And for now, that’s enough. Walker has his secrets. But tonight, he let me in. Just a little bit. I’m not going to push.

Walker writes songs.

I stare at him, the words circling in my head, refusing to settle.

Walker. Writing. Music.

It doesn’t compute.

Not because I don’t believe he’s capable of it. I do.

Hell, I knew there was something about him. The way he listens to music. The way his fingers twitch on the bar counter whenever a song plays in the background like he’s unconsciously counting beats, feeling rhythms.

But he never would tell me. He wouldn’t let me in. Until now.

And that?

It feels huge. Even if it’s just a little movement.

I glance down at my guitar, running my fingers over the strings, trying to process.

Music is… everything to me. It’s woven into my DNA, the only constant I’ve ever had. And for a long time, I thought losing myplace in the industry meant losing music altogether. I thought I was alone in that feeling.

But Walker? Walker gets it. He knows what it’s like to hold on to music like a lifeline. And yet, he’s been keeping it to himself. That’s what hits me the hardest. This isn’t some hobby for him. This is something he protects. Something he keeps locked up, far away from the world.

Away from me.

And now I’m sitting here, wondering why. I look at him; really look at him. He’s got that closed-off expression again, the one I recognize now. The one that says he’s waiting for me to push too hard. For me to ask questions he doesn’t want to answer. And maybe a few weeks ago, I would have.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I let the knowledge settle inside me, warming me from the inside out. Because I get it now. Walker isn’t just a small-town bar owner. He’s a songwriter. A real one. A damn good one, I bet.

And suddenly, it’s not just my music that feels exciting again.

The night folds around us, the music filling the silence between breaths. His arm rests along the back of the swing, his warmth just close enough to make me aware of every nerve under my skin. And as I hum the chorus again, I feel it—the unspoken truth between us.

This music isn’t just mine anymore.

It’s ours.

I should have known better than to go along with Mack, Cami, and Poppy's plan. The truth is, I've been so happy to havefriends and do fun things with them that I think I left my judgement behind somewhere.

“What the hell is this?” I screech, holding out my arm.

It’s not bronze. It’s not golden. It’s… Cheeto orange.

Poppy stifles a laugh from her spot on the ground where she’s sprawled out like a starfish, arms and legs airplane-wide, because Cami swore we had to “air-dry for optimal results.”

“You look like a traffic cone,” Poppy says, gasping for air.

I glare at her. “Don’t laugh, Oompa Loompa. You’re literally the color of a carrot.”

She sits up and looks down at herself, then shrieks. Her legs are streaked like a damn tiger. Dark orange lines running down her calves like someone finger-painted them.

Cami, standing in front of the mirror, groans. “I said light, even layers!”

"Idideven layers!" Mack protests. "Y'all look ridiculous. I'm glad I didn't do it."

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