Page 152 of Seven Lost Summers
My camera bag is on my shoulder, the strap digging deep into a muscle already tender from the weight of the day. The ache is a brand now, proof of the hours that have passed. Proof that I stood there for every second of it.
It’s the third day of recording the album, and I had no fucking clue how much work went into making one until now. Not the kind people see, anyway. Not the sweat and grind that lives behind the music. I’ve watched them push themselves until there was nothing left, and push again because almost perfect wasn’t good enough.
I spent the day on the other side of the glass, because I couldn’t step inside while the red light was on. The shutter of my camera would bleed into the sound and ruin the take. So I stood there silent, my lens pressed to the glass, watching them work together in a rhythm that was its own language.
Ace sat at the soundboard for hours, his hands a blur over buttons and dials, adjusting, layering, chasing some invisible edge only he could hear.
When it was finally his turn to play alongside Nate and Theo, Xander took over his spot at the board, his eyes locked on the three of them as they lost themselves in the music.
By the end of it, the guys looked like they’d run a marathon in a rainstorm. Sweat plastered their shirts to their backs, strands of hair sticking to damp skin, hands flexing as if they still felt the instruments in their grip. They work fucking hard. Harder than anyone out there with a ticket in their hand will ever know. No one sees this part. No one sees what it costs them.
During the breaks, they let me in.
For a few minutes at a time, long enough for me to steal the kind of shots their fans would kill for. Sweat-slick, eyes glassy with focus, their edges softened by exhaustion until they looked almost dreamlike. The kind of shots that would have panties dropping and thighs pressing together in bedrooms all over the world.
The smell hits me first. Not pure sweat, though there’s enough of it to cling to the air. It’s Theo, close enough that a trace of his cologne brushes over me, that same earthy scent he’s always worn. It’s him, stripped down to the core.
The house is quiet. The kind of hush that settles when there’s nothing left to give. Outside, the last rays of sunlight sink into the trees. Inside, shadows take their place.
Nate drags his shirt over his head, the fabric clinging before it finally gives. His back shifts, muscles pulling tight, the sheen of sweat catching what little light is left. The day’s stamped on him. The flush along his neck, the faint slump in his shoulders from hours bent over his drum kit, driving every beat to perfection.
“I’m gonna hit the shower,” Nate says, voice rough, worn down. He walks off without looking back, disappearing into the dark at the end of the hall.
I set my camera bag on the kitchen bench, the strap slipping from my shoulder with a dull thud. My hands feel empty without it. I move to the fridge.
“Do you want a water?” I ask Theo, pulling the door open. The cold air instantly chills my skin.
Theo’s head tilts enough to show he heard me, but he doesn’t turn.
“Nah,” he says, voice flat, before walking toward the hallway.
It’s been three days since I fucked Nate. Since I let my body answer questions, my heart’s still too much of a coward to touch.
And Theo hasn’t been the same since. Not in ways most people would notice. He still throws out those cheeky one-liners in that Theo way. Still laughs with the others when someone fucks up a take. Still hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. But he’s quieter.
The spark that usually lights him up?
Gone.
Like someone reached in and yanked the plug.
Even Ace noticed. Earlier today, from behind the soundboard, he looked at Theo and said, “You’ve got the spark of a guy whose favourite hand just broke up with him.”
It got a few snorts from the guys, but Theo didn’t fire back. No smirk. No comeback. He kept playing. And all I could hear was the truth under it—something’s up with him.
Last night I pulled Nate aside, hoping for answers, but all he gave me was, “He’s going through something. That’s all.”
Which, coming from Nate, means it’s the kind of shit buried too deep for me to touch. The kind that closes doors and keeps me on the wrong side of them.
I stand there for a second, a cold bottle of water sweating in my hand, the fridge door still hanging open. My eyes stay fixed on the empty space where Theo disappeared. My feet don’t move, even though something in my chest is already halfway down that hallway, pulling hard.
I don’t know if this is the right move. If I’m about to step into something I’ve got no business touching.
But I go anyway.
I move down the hallway, passing the room I’ve been staying in.
When I reach the bathroom, the steady splash of water against tile fills the air. Steam drifts from the gap beneath the door. Nate is in there naked under the spray, water running over hard muscle and the kind of body built to fuck for hours. For a second, I picture his hands braced against the wall, head tipped back, water sliding over his cock.
