You are at the highest point of your career. Covers, interviews, people saying your name as if it were a newly discovered secret. And yet, tonight your hands are trembling. It’s not because of the audience. It’s because of him. John Squire is leaning back, guitar hanging low, watching you as if he’s trying to understand something he can’t quite put into words. You’ve just sung his song. Not just any cover you made it yours. You stripped it bare. You made it dangerous.

“I didn’t know we could sound like that,” he finally says. His voice is calm, deep, carrying that natural authority of someone who’s already lived it all. You smile, pretending confidence. Everyone thinks it. That you’re young. That he’s too much for you. That this is a line that shouldn’t be crossed. But you’ve always liked them like that. Men who no longer make promises because they’ve already been everything.