Chapter 34

Jules

Whip's house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around you, thick and heavy, filling every corner until it feels like you'll suffocate if you don't say something, anything. But for now, I let the silence linger.

He's in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. The duffel bag sits on the floor at his feet, gaping open like it's daring me to say what I've been holding back.

But instead, I start with what's easier. "You didn't have to do that for me, you know," I say softly, my hands fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "Taking Vaughn down like that."

He snorts, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Didn't do it just for you." He meets my eyes, and the warmth there steals my breath. "Did it for me, too. For Kill John. For everyone she's screwed over. But mostly... mostly, Jules, I did it because you deserved better."

His words hit me like a sucker punch, but the good kind. The kind that knocks the air out of your lungs because you weren't expecting someone to see you like that—to really see you.

"Whip..." I take a hesitant step toward him, my arms crossed like a shield. "You didn't owe me anything."

He shakes his head, a low chuckle escaping his throat. "Don't you get it, Jules? I didn't do it because I owed you. I did it because I wanted to. Because you mean... hell, you mean everything to me."

The confession hangs in the air, and for a moment, I think I might collapse under the weight of it. He looks almost surprised at himself, like he hadn't planned to say that out loud, but now that it's out, he doesn't want to take it back.

My chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I'm crossing the room. His arms open instinctively, pulling me in like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Thank you," I whisper against his chest, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. "For everything."

His hand cups the back of my head, his touch so tender it makes my throat ache. "I'd do it all again. A hundred times over, Jules."

I tip my head back to look up at him, and the way he's looking at me... it's like he's memorizing every detail, like he knows this moment won't last.

And just like that, the dam inside me breaks. I rise onto my toes and kiss him.

It's slow at first, tender, like we're trying to memorize every detail of this moment. But then his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens, all the tension and longing spilling out at once.

When we finally pull apart, we're both breathless, his forehead resting against mine. I can feel the warmth of his skin, the unspoken words humming in the air between us like a live wire.

"I could stay like this forever," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, soft and raw in a way that makes my chest ache.

I force a smile, even though the weight of reality is already pressing back in, crushing the moment under its relentless weight. "Then why don't you?"

His arms tighten around me for just a second, like he's anchoring himself, before he steps back. The space between us feels unbearable, but his expression is what cuts me the deepest—conflicted, pained, and yet resolved, like he's already decided something he knows I won't like.

"You know why, Jules," he says quietly.

I swallow hard, the knot in my throat making it difficult to speak. The words I want to say stick to the roof of my mouth, sharp and bitter. "Because you think I have a life here. Because you think staying would hold me back."

His jaw clenches. "You do have a life here."

There it is again—that same damn line. The one he's been feeding me since the beginning, the one that sounds noble but feels like a cop-out. Like an excuse.

I take a step back, wrapping my arms around myself as if that will somehow keep me from falling apart. "So that's it, then? You're just... leaving?"

His gaze drops, avoiding mine, and it's that avoidance that twists the knife in deeper. My throat tightens, my voice coming out sharp, unsteady. "Why? Because you think it's the noble thing to do?"

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking like he's holding something back. I can see the frustration swirling in his eyes, the way it darkens his expression, but he doesn't answer.

"God, Whip," I whisper, my voice trembling as I press on, even though I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of something I can't take back. "You keep saying you don't want to get in the way of my dreams, but have you ever stopped to think that maybe you're part of them? That maybe I don't want to do any of this without you?"

He flinches, the words hitting him like a physical blow. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his whole body tense like he's fighting the urge to do something—say something—that he knows he shouldn't. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, calm, but there's an edge to it.

"Jules," he says, stepping closer, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. "Are you willing to be with me—despite it all?"

I blink, startled. "What?"

"You know what I mean," he continues, his tone calm but weighted, like every word costs him. "If I stay—if we do this—my life doesn't fit into neat little boxes. It's chaotic, messy. It's invasive headlines and cameras in your face when you least expect it. It's not just late-night calls and stolen moments. It's—" He pauses, jaw tightening, his voice hardening as he forces the words out. "It's me dragging my chaos into your life. And I don't want to destroy everything you've worked for."

I can't breathe. His words hang in the air like a warning, heavy with meaning, and all I can do is stare at him, caught between disbelief and something much deeper.

"You've got your career, Jules. A chance to go anywhere, to build something incredible. If I stay—if I'm in your life—it's going to complicate everything. Hell, it could ruin it. That's what I'm asking." His gaze softens slightly, but the weight behind it is relentless. "Are you willing to deal with all of that, with me?"

The air feels like it's been sucked out of the room. I feel his words pressing into me, suffocating me. Because I know he's right. His world is bigger, louder, more intrusive than anything I've ever known. It could swallow me whole if I let it.

But the way he's looking at me—like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered—it's enough to make my heart ache. He doesn't want to force me into something I'll regret, but I can feel the unspoken plea beneath his words: Don't walk away.

My lips part, but nothing comes out at first. I hesitate, the weight of his question crashing into me like a wave. My silence stretches too long, and I see the shift in his expression—the way his shoulders stiffen, his jaw locking like he's bracing himself for the answer he thinks I'm about to give.

"It's okay," he says finally, his voice quieter now, the rawness bleeding through despite his attempt to keep it together. "I just needed to know."

And just like that, the moment is over.

He picks up his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and the finality of it feels like a punch to the gut. I want to stop him, to say something—anything—that will fix this, but my feet are rooted to the spot, my voice trapped in my throat.

I let him go, watching as he heads upstairs to finish packing. The house feels too quiet, the weight of his absence already pressing in on me.

But as I stand there, the truth settles over me, heavy and undeniable. This isn't about choosing him over my career or my dreams. It's about choosing what feels right.

And letting him walk away doesn't feel right. Not even close.

The next morning, I'm back at my place and I wake up with a clarity I didn't expect.

Golden sunlight filters through the blinds, painting faint, uneven stripes across my bed. The apartment is quiet, too quiet, but my mind feels sharper than it has in months. Maybe years. My body aches with exhaustion, but the restless energy in my chest is louder. Insistent. Like something inside me has finally clicked into place.

For so long, I've let other people dictate the terms of my life. Vaughn's manipulations. The relentless grind of this job that I was gifted. Even Whip's misguided attempt to step aside so I could go after my dreams. It's all been shaping me, pressing me into a mold I never asked for. And I let it happen—again and again—until I barely recognized the person I saw in the mirror.

Not anymore.

I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the chill in the air. My favorite hoodie is draped over the back of a chair, and I pull it on as I grab a pair of jeans from the floor. My suitcase is still half-packed from staying with Whip; I don't bother unpacking. Instead, I shove in whatever's lying around—sneakers, a brush, clothes I don't even check—and zip it up before I can second-guess myself.

The drive to Whip's house feels surreal, like I'm running on autopilot. My pulse races the entire way, my grip on the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. What if he's already gone? What if I'm too late?

But then I see it—his car in the driveway, parked like it's waiting for me—and relief slams into me so hard I have to take a moment just to breathe. My heart feels like it's about to beat out of my chest as I park and practically sprint to his front door. I ring the doorbell and knock harder than I mean to, my hand still raised when the door swings open.

And there he is.

Whip stands in the doorway, rumpled and bleary-eyed, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips and his T-shirt wrinkled beyond repair. His hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts like he's been dragging his hands through it all night. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed, shadowed with exhaustion.

Yet despite it all—despite looking like he barely got a wink of sleep—he's still so damn handsome it's unfair. The kind of effortless, careless charm that makes her stomach flip, that makes her fingers twitch with the urge to smooth down his hair or trace the sharp lines of his jaw.

"Jules?" His voice is rough and gravelly. "What are you doing here?"

I step inside before he can stop me, brushing past him as I drop my suitcase onto the hardwood floor with a dull thud. My pulse is still hammering, adrenaline surging as I turn to face him.

"I'm leaving," I say simply. The words feel like an anchor, grounding me.

He follows me into the living room, his bare feet silent against the floor. His brows knit together, worry etched across his face. "What do you mean, you're leaving?"

"I'm gonna get a new gig," I say, planting my hands on my hips like I'm daring him to challenge me. "Remember that boy group from the last Kill John tour red carpet event? I did some digging and found out they're trying to break into a bigger market, but they're doing it all on their own. No label backing, no industry favors—just their own money and a small tour in Europe they're funding themselves."

His frown deepens. "So you're just—what? Jumping in?"

I huff a laugh. "Someone has to. They're talented, Whip. You heard it firsthand. They just need the right push, the right people paying attention. I can help them get there."

His confusion deepens, his gaze sharp. "And this is all set?"

"Not yet," I admit.

His brow lifts. "Jules—"

"Don't worry," I cut in, voice firm. "I know what I'm doing. I've already started working on laying the groundwork late last night—venues, promo, getting them in front of the right audiences. If this works, they'll have a real shot."

He watches me for a long moment, then exhales, shaking his head. His voice turns quieter, steadier. "And London?"

I shrug, forcing casual. "Seems like a good base. Plus, there's this drummer I know. Thought I'd see what all the fuss is about."

His eyes widen, the hope now shining through the exhaustion like sunlight breaking through clouds. For a moment, he just stares at me, like he's trying to figure out if this is real or if he's still dreaming.

"You're serious?" he asks finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Dead serious." I take a step closer, crossing my arms as I level him with a look. "Unless, of course, you think I'll be getting in the way of your dreams."

A laugh bursts out of him, raw and disbelieving, and it's like watching the tension drain from his body in real time. He drags a hand through his hair again, making it stand up even more. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"And yet," I shoot back, grinning despite the weight in my chest, "here you are, not throwing me out the door."

His grin softens, his gaze tracing over me like he's trying to memorize every detail. Then, in an instant, he's in front of me, pulling me into his arms. His hold is so tight it knocks the air out of my lungs, but I don't care. I cling to him like he's the only solid thing in the world.

"You're sure about this?" he murmurs into my hair, his voice breaking. "Because once you're in my world, Jules, there's no getting out. Not this time."

I lean back, cupping his face in my hands so he has no choice but to look at me. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, his expression so open and vulnerable it nearly breaks me. "Whip, I've been in your world for so long. I've been in love with your world. The only thing left is for you to let me stay."

His breath catches, his hands tightening on my waist like he's afraid I'll slip away. For a moment, he just stares at me, his jaw working as he tries to find the words.

"Jules," he says finally, his voice hoarse. "You don't even know."

"Don't know what?" I whisper, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shatter.

"How long I've been in love with you," he admits, the words tumbling out in a rush like he can't hold them back any longer. "From the moment you told me I wasn't just some drummer in the background. When you sat with me, listened to me, believed in me when I couldn't even believe in myself. I thought... I thought if I stepped aside, you'd be better off. But God, Jules, I've never wanted anything more than to keep you in my life."

The confession hits me like a thunderclap, the weight of it settling into my chest. For a second, I can't breathe, the air between us charged with everything I've been too scared to admit.

He's been in love with me.

The realization floods me with warmth, with relief, with an ache so deep it threatens to swallow me whole. All the walls I've built, all the fears I've clung to—they crumble under the force of his words.

"I've been in love with you, too. I love you now," I manage, my voice shaking but clear enough to hold the truth.

His eyes search mine, disbelief warring with something brighter. Hope. Relief. And then, before either of us can say another word, I kiss him—pouring everything I've been too scared to say into it.It's all heat and hunger, the weight of everything I've been holding back crashing into this one moment. My lips trembling, pressing harder against his, like I'm trying to put everything I've been too scared to say into it.

My fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart that matches mine. His hands, rough and steady, find their way to my back, pulling me against him so tightly I can feel every inch of him. And he kisses me harder, deeper—like he's been holding back too, like he needs me just as much as I need him.

I feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten, the way his lips bruise mine in the best way, and it's like every inch of me is waking up. I don't need words anymore. This kiss says everything. It says how much I've wanted this, how much I've needed him, how scared I've been to even admit it to myself.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathless, our foreheads leaning against each other, our chests rising and falling in time. I can barely hold onto the thought of anything else because, in this moment, with him, I don't need anything but him.

William

Six Months Later

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

Jules's scream shatters the chill atmosphere of the room, yanking every pair of eyes in the room toward us. My hands are flying across the keyboard, but I barely look up—I'm too deep in the chaos unfolding on my screen.

"Grab the shovel! Grab the fucking shovel!" I yell, completely ignoring the fact that we just scared the shit out of my own band.

Behind me, Killian, Jax, Rye, and Scottie are scattered around my once-secret studio in London, going through my equipment and the knickknacks I've collected from Japan and Korea over the years. I'm usually the one holed up here, lost in some deep production spiral, but not today.

Today, Jules and I are locked in a desperate battle for survival against what should be an adorable farm animal but is instead a goddamn nightmare.

I don't even have to turn to know Rye and Brenna are heading our way—Jules's shriek of horror is like a goddamn ambulance.

"Uh, what the hell are you two doing?" Rye asks, coming up behind us.

"Running for our fucking lives," I mutter, slamming my keys.

Brenna leans in to inspect the screen. "What... what is this?"

"Game of the year," Jules says, out of breath. "It's Farm Havoc—you raise cute little animals, and then some of them try to kill you."

Rye stares at the screen as Jules's pastel-colored piglet bolts across the screen, a horrifyingly massive sheep with glowing red eyes barreling after her. "You know what? This actually looks fun."

"Oh, fuck, the demon sheep is coming after me!" Jules yells.

"Run faster!" I bark, my fingers hammering the keys.

Jules's character swerves, and instead of escaping, she slams straight into mine. On screen, our characters collapse in a tangled mess—her tiny pig creature seemingly devouring my poor, helpless chicken avatar.

"Hey! Stop eating my ass!" I exclaim, trying to maneuver us out of the mess.

"I can't!" Jules shrieks, her character flailing, making it look even more like she's chowing down on my virtual ass.

Brenna dissolves into laughter. "Oh my God. This is the most on-brand thing I've ever seen."

"Move left," I command.

"I am!"

"Other left!"

"You're the one moving us in circles, you dumbass!"

"I cannot breathe," I wheeze, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Jules has tears in her eyes from laughing too as she's smashing the keyboard like it personally wronged her.

Rye leans in, shaking his head. "Whip, I always knew you were a little freak, but this? This is some next-level shit."

Jules gasps. "Oh my God, I got out!"

I exhale, relieved, just as the demon sheep fucking clotheslines me out of nowhere.

"OH COME ON!" I slap my desk, scandalized.

"That's what you get for making me eat your ass!" Jules cries.

The entire studio erupts in laughter. I lean back in my chair, grinning as Jules wipes tears from her face, still gasping between fits of giggles.

Killian, who had been focused on one of my synthesizers, finally turns around, his arms crossed in fake annoyance. "Yo, I thought we were here to work."

I wave a lazy hand, my heart still hammering from laughter. "Work hard, play harder, man."

Jax, now parked on the couch with Stella, flipping through my record collection, smirks. "I gotta admit, I did not expect to spend the night watching our drummer lose his shit over a possessed farm animal."

Scottie sniffs. "At least it explains why he hasn't been answering emails."

I flash him a grin. "That, and because I like to make you suffer."

Jules nudges me with her knee under the desk, still breathless from laughter but watching me with that look—the one that makes my chest tighten, the one that tells me she sees me, really sees me.

"You're an idiot," she murmurs, but she's smiling.

I glance around, taking in the easy camaraderie, the way everyone's at home here, in my space. It's a strange thing, letting them into this part of my world, but damn, if it doesn't feel right.

Sophie, who's been sitting in the office chair next to Scottie, grins at us. "You two are disgustingly cute. It's honestly offensive."

Jules rolls her eyes. "I take offense to your offense."

"Okay, enough free shows." I stretch, popping my back before gesturing to the computer. "Anyone wanna give this game a go?"

Libby cracks her knuckles. "Hell yeah. I wanna see if I can be the demon sheep."

As chaos breaks out behind us—Rye cackling at the absolute shitshow about to unfold—I glance over at Jules. She's still watching me, a soft smile playing on her lips, her fingers lightly tapping against her knee, like she's waiting.

I don't hesitate.

Leaning in, I brush my lips against her cheek, lingering just long enough to hear the slight hitch in her breath. I take her hand into mine.

"Hey," I murmur, just for her. "I love you."

She tilts her head, lips curving. "Hey, I love you too."

The room buzzes around us, our friends loud and rowdy, but for a moment, it's just us.

My world used to be all rhythm and chaos, always in motion, always chasing the next thing. Then came the quiet—the kind that lingers in the shadows of hiding, of being alone. But now? Now I've got Jules beside me, laughing until she cries, standing in my corner without hesitation.

Her fingers tighten around mine, just slightly. Just enough.

"You wanna get out of here?" I ask, voice low, just for her.

She tilts her head, her smile slow, knowing. "And you mean...?"

I smirk, tugging her a little closer. "You know what I mean."

Jules huffs a soft laugh, glancing at the others—Brenna deep in conversation with Scottie, Rye and Libby still glued to the computer screen while Killian watches over their shoulders, Jax messing with one of my synths as Sophie scolds him, Stella laughing at their ruckus. None of them paying us any mind.

"Yeah," she says finally, eyes flicking back to mine, warm and sure. "Let's go."

I don't hesitate. I tug at her hand, leading her toward the door while the chaos of our friends carries on behind us.

"Yo, where are you two sneaking off to?" Rye calls, not even looking away from the game.

"To play our own dirty games," I toss back without stopping.

Jules laughs, bumping into my side as we slip into the hall, her fingers laced tightly with mine. "You just love embarrassing me."

"And yet," I murmur, leaning in just enough so my lips brush against her ear, "you love me."

Her breath hitches. Then she grins, tugging me in. "I do. Now come on, rockstar. Let's see if you can keep up."