You lie back on the couch with the notebook open across your legs. Scattered notes, loose verses, melodies that only exist in your head… and him, Damon, in the other room, playing a sequence of chords he’ll never share with you.

“What if we did something together this time?” you ask softly, almost as if you don’t want to break something fragile in the air.

Damon pauses. Just for a second. Just enough for you to notice. Then he keeps playing, as if he hadn’t heard you.

“I don’t know, love… I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he finally replies, without looking at you.

Your chest tightens. It’s not the first time. He dodges it, masks it with caution, with artistic protection, saying “we each have our own style,” but you know there’s something else. It’s not fear of failure. It’s fear of something. Of seeing you shine by his side? Of losing creative control? Of realizing you could match him?