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Interviewer: After “Look At Us Now” took off, it sounds like everybody knew the band was going somewhere big. Did you do anything to celebrate?
Billy Dunne: No. Well, yes. Sort of? Camila threw a big party at our new house. It was half housewarming and half celebration. Made sense, the song made it possible for us to get the house in the first place. Everybody came–I think Eddie was there, even. She really went all out, it was something.
Interviewer: Everybody? Did you invite Daisy, too?
Billy: Camila invited her, yes. I think she stopped by for a little while. I remember seeing her at some point, but everything got kind of hectic. There was that power outage, and probably close to a hundred people. I’m not even exaggerating– Camila took parties very, very seriously in those days. She was always so good at making people feel welcome, even Daisy. Even then. But no, I don’t remember spending much time with Daisy at the party. Or anyone else for that matter. It was a busy night.
Since he’s been sober, Billy can scarcely believe that, once upon a dream, he would’ve happily chewed down on a pinecone before he willingly missed a good party. But sobriety has illuminated a vast network of information previously tamped down at the back of his mind by near-constant, gross inebriation: his authentic likes and dislikes, his horrendous sleep patterns, the finer points of his personality when it’s unvarnished by whiskey. Most importantly, it turns out he’s not actually much of a people person.
The startling realization that his tolerance for company had been far less about seeking connection and far more about camouflaging his appetite for excess in a noisy, anonymous crowd hit him like a long-overdue punchline. A truth so undeniable that it was much easier to pretend he’d been a misanthrope all along—that his grouchiness was an immutable flaw, not some reactionary backswing of his life’s pendulum.
After all the introspective bullshit, he’s floored when Camila –over breakfast no less, an otherwise sacred, undisturbed family ritual—casually mentions they’ll be hosting a housewarming party the following weekend. The revelation stirs something deep and uneasy in him, tainting his scrambled eggs to the point where he loses his appetite for them entirely. The news lingers like a sour taste, turning mornings bitter for days.
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Karen Sirko: Of course I remember that party– that’s when…actually, I don’t know how much he’d want me to say. Have you spoken with Graham about this yet?
The ridiculous news is that Daisy stubs her toe in a frantic scramble to answer her phone before it stops ringing. Stubs it badly. Bites back a curse as she feels a sharp sting and the warmth of blood pooling under her toenail.
The unnerving news is that she absolutely should have interpreted this accident as some kind of crude omen, but was simply too foolish to do so.
The good news is that the sound of Camila Dunne's voice on the line is shocking enough to momentarily distract her from the painful throbbing in her foot.
And the strange news, the most bizarre news possible, is that the purpose of Camila’s call is to invite her to an upcoming party at the Dunne residence, a gesture so unexpected that Daisy’s still not sure she heard it right. Parties aren’t uncommon, of course—and she knows that Camila’s warmth has a way of drawing people in, making them feel at home in any space she occupies, at least that’s what everyone says—but this? This feels different. Calculated. An olive branch or a trap, she can’t quite tell, but either way, her curiosity is winning out over caution.
Overall, it’s a bewildering afternoon. To recapture equilibrium, she pops another pill, pours a fat glass of champagne, and deludes herself into thinking that the excitement she feels is just a growing buzz. Lets the fizz tickle her nose and wonders if Billy knows she’s been invited. If he’d care, either way.
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Warren Rojas: It was a fun fucking party, man. Camila knew how to throw a rager, even with a tiny baby at home. Honestly, when the power went out, I thought she did it as a bit! I was also [coughs] tripping absolute balls, so you can see where I might’ve gotten confused.
Karen: It was all rather atmospheric, with the candles and everything. Romantic, even. I mean, I thought Camila was bold, handing out literal live flames to everyone. We were all three sheets to the wind or worse. Well, with one notable exception. But I’m pretty sure at least one person caught their own hair on fire. Might’ve been Warren, actually.
Warren: I don’t remember lighting my hair on fire, no way. But again – I cannot emphasize this enough– I took enough acid to kill a small horse that night. Guess anything’s possible.
The party hums with the kind of energy that makes your bones rattle. Peeling laughter weaves with the thrum of music spilling out from the open windows, inviting the whole world in. Camila’s outdone herself—she always does. Billy can only catch glimpses of her as she floats and flits from one cluster of people to another, her smile warm and genuine, pulling people into her orbit like some planetary giant. He knows he should be beside her, playing gracious host and perfect husband, but tonight the weight in his chest is too much, and the drink in his hand too light.
Instead, he drifts through the crowd, exchanges words with half-listening ears. Nods at jokes he doesn’t hear. Wanders aimlessly, like this isn’t his house. Like he’s some nameless, faceless guest. Even that’s almost more than he can bear. Occasionally, Billy’s able to find peaceful refuge and relief under the bright lights of his bathroom vanity.
Notices one bulb’s on the fritz, and makes a mental note to replace it tomorrow morning. Notices, too, that his undereyes have gotten darker, more hollow. Practically cavernous. The upsides of sobriety are too numerous to count; the downsides march in multiples, too, but his forfeiture of a blessed ability to sleep well no matter the objective circumstances is perhaps the most crippling in the long run. Sleep may be an exaggeration, actually, it used to be sort of more like a spontaneous abandonment of consciousness than real sleep. The point stands, nonetheless.
He finds himself inventing reasons to sneak upstairs to the nursery, offering flimsy excuses for his absence to nobody in particular. The dim room wraps around him like a cocoon as he settles into the quiet. He listens intently to the whispery cadence of Julia’s breath, each gentle exhale cutting through the darkness.
Everything outside of the room feels like it’s happening on a different plane of existence, leaving just the two of them in this suspended moment of peace, where the steady rhythm of her sleep feels like Billy’s only real tether to the world. His confidence and self-assurance are always renewed in his baby’s presence, even when she’s not awake. Instinctively, he knows how to be a good father; by extension, he assumes that he also knows how to be a good person.
Eventually, Camila chases him back downstairs, points out (correctly, he’ll begrudgingly admit) that popping in-and-out is more likely to wake Julia than anything, and does he really want to disturb their daughter’s rest? Dejected, he slinks around, mills with the crowd and tries to avoid thinking of the whole night as a shitty exercise in forced frivolity.
For lack of anything better to do, he navigates his way to the kitchen to refresh his water glass. After, he resolves to find Graham to talk a little business before his brother gets too fucked up to drive his train of thought to appropriate places. Might as well try to make the most of the night, if he can, even if it all goes nowhere in the end.
Before he can get away from the crowded kitchen, Camila finds him again, a gentle anchor in the storm of people. She reaches out with a touch that’s both tender and more clumsy than usual, fingers grazing his arms before she brushes an errant curl back from his cheek. It should be a sweet, familiar gesture, but his chest tightens with a surge of irrational irritation. His eyes catch on the beer bottle in her hand, sweating condensation. She sips it casually, like it’s nothing, like it’s just another drink at just another party.
But for Billy, it’s not nothing—it’s a quiet kind of torture. For Billy, the whole room feels too loud, too close, every bottle and glass a spectral reminder that activates something dark and vicious lying dormant at the back of his brain. Regretfully, he resigns himself to the long, long hours ahead. A cold lump of tension starts to build, wadded up in his stomach. No peace is promised until the night finally lets him go.
“Are you having any fun?” Camila asks over the din, a bit louder than necessary. A bit glassy behind the eyes.
It’s not his intention to make her feel guilty for the simple act of throwing a party, but she did ask the question, so he responds honestly: “Not really, but it’s fine.” Of all people, she should know him well enough to read the plain discomfort on his face. He wonders, absently, if this is some kind of test.
Her arms are wound tightly around his neck, but she’s smiling at the scene over his shoulder. “That’s great, Billy,” she says, more than a little distracted. “Hey, can you believe this turnout?”
It's pretty damn insulting for her to ask the question and then breeze past the answer as if it were nothing, he thinks. Bites back a stinging retort. Sometimes, Camila feels like a steel rod in his spine keeping him upright, the force that makes him want to be better, to do better. Other times, like now, her ignorance is staggering, leaves him reeling.
“Okay, you don’t care. You don’t care,” he laughs, masks the sting with a joke, because what else is there to do? He feels more hollow than he wants to admit, and the last thing he needs is to be stuck at this party and in the middle of a fight with his wife. There’s a certain nobility in keeping quiet, he tells himself. Maybe, by withholding words, he can salvage fragments of his own dignity.
Camila’s attention veers sharply, her face jerking to the side like a compass needle pulled by an unseen force. “Daisy! Oh my god,” she yells above the buzz of the party.
Billy’s head swivels, tracking the source of the disturbance, and there she is: Daisy fucking Jones, bathed in the dim light that flickers through the room, red hair striking and incongruous against the domestic backdrop of faded wallpaper and wood paneling.
Daisy, here in his house and inexplicably holding a pineapple. An interesting choice, to put it nicely. He didn’t take her for the type to bring semi-exotic fruit to a party, but then again he doesn’t know her very well. Even if somehow, in the way she moves, he feels like he knows her completely–like her presence here is some type of predestination, as if she’s always been part of the story, waiting to step into the scene. It’s an unsettling kind of recognition, a melody from a distant dream, haunting and impossible to place, but achingly familiar.
She isn’t casually walking through the party, she’s demanding attention. Not on purpose, he doesn’t think, it’s just an innate part of her person. He can’t help but give her his, at least for a moment. The bassline begins to rival the pulse in his throat, quick and restless, as he watches her weave her way across the room. When their eyes meet, which was inevitable, he feels a phantom live wire snaking beneath his skin, sparking against every bone in his body. The conspicuous absence of something stronger than water in his hand starts to burn.
“Hi,” Daisy nods a bright greeting, aimed more at Camila than at Billy. She’s not exactly subtle about it, which is fine by him.
Camila carries all the warmth of an old friend, her smile wide and welcoming: “Hi! I didn’t think you’d actually come.” The words land on his shoulders with quiet shock, that she proactively invited Daisy in the first place. Behind his back. Fucking fantastic. What he wants to know, but will never ask, is how the hell she reached Daisy in the first place– he himself doesn’t have her address, her phone number, the names of bars she frequents. None of it. Their relationship is strictly professional, and even that might be a stretch.
He avoids looking back at Daisy with deliberate precision, as pointed a gesture as he can make it. Her presence here, in his home, cozying up to his wife, feels like an intrusion. The potential of her becoming a bigger fixture, not just in his band but in his whole fucking life, has him feeling cornered.
“I brought a pineapple,” Daisy shrugs. “Uh, apparently it's a traditional housewarming gift, or so says Hawaiian Airlines inflight magazine.” Billy’s deeply taken aback at the way she stands there, completely unbothered.
He hears Camila say, “It's wonderful,” even though he’s reasonably certain she doesn’t actually enjoy pineapple. Says it gives her canker sores. Rather, she said it one time, and he doesn’t think he’s ever bothered to ask about it again.
“I brought a bottle of wine, but I dropped it on the floor,” Daisy explains. An excuse so ridiculous that Billy wouldn’t be inclined to believe it from anybody else, though it’s largely unsurprising coming from her mouth. It’s not that she’s careless, it’s that she’s sloppy.
Beside him, Camila chuckles, evidently nonplussed by the thought of broken glass somewhere in the vicinity. “That's okay, we've got wine and beer. What do you want? What do you... Do you need anything?”
As much as he resents having company, Camila relishes any opportunity to play host. Genuinely wants to make everyone who walks through their door feel welcomed as family, including people she’s never met. Daisy’s no exception, even with her wide eyes and blown out pupils. Even with her lips parted and her hip jutting out just so. Even if Camila notices his eyes lingering on Daisy’s body a bit longer than is strictly polite.
“I’d love some wine, actually. Thank you.”
Camila nods wildly, like they’re the best of pals. Like together, they’re endorsing wine for president through sheer enthusiasm. Whatever she’s doing, it gives him pause. He watches her pull back, tries in vain to catch her eye before she walks away. Ultimately fails: “Wine, yes! You got it. Be right back, you two chat.”
The whole thing, from Daisy’s shockingly polite request to Camila’s acquiescence, takes fewer than thirty seconds at absolute maximum. Suddenly it’s all tremendously obvious and he feels very, very foolish.
His jaw tightens as he hears Daisy’s voice cut through the noise of the party again. “Hi, Billy,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they’re friends or something. He barely turns his head, just enough to acknowledge her presence without really meeting her eyes. It’s better this way, he tells himself, to keep things distant, professional. But then she’s speaking again, something snide in the underbelly of her tone.
“What was that?” he asks, though he’s pretty sure he heard her just fine. It’s a throwdown more than anything—a way to make her presence less comfortable, to remind her she’s not supposed to be here. Not in his home, not in his life.
Performatively, Daisy clears her throat. “I said,” she repeats, eyes narrowing as she intercepts his look, “I don’t know why I’m even here.” There’s a boldness in her stance that needles at him, a challenge wrapped in a disarming smile.
His jaw clenches, and he feels a familiar surge of irritation. She’s infuriatingly calm, her tone laced with something like disdain, but there’s an undercurrent there too, something he can’t quite place—bitterness, maybe, or a hint of hurt. It gnaws at him more than he’d care to admit.
“Well, that makes two of us.”
Daisy glares at him, and he wishes he could take the words back. “With all due respect, Billy, which is basically none,” she pauses, savoring the words like she’s biting into something bitter and loving it, “your wife invited me. Not you. I’m here to see her. And Warren, and Graham, and Karen. Not you.”
The words are meant to sting, and they do. There’s something else there, too, in the subtext—a question. A provocation he can’t ignore. He searches her face for a moment longer than he should, looking for something, anything that he can interpret in a logical way. But he can’t, and the more he tries to figure it out, the more it grates on him.
Almost reflexively, he throws out “Eddie?” in search of a foothold in this strange exchange. His skin prickles all over– so many people going in and out of the house, there’s gotta be a draft.
“Who?” Daisy cocks her head, feigning ignorance, but he catches a glimmer in her eyes. Can’t tell, just now, if she’s laughing with him or laughing at him.
Maybe, for them, common ground looks like making a common target out of Eddie. Great things have been done on the back of weaker sources of camaraderie, Billy’s sure of it. He leans back against the kitchen counter, waits for her to speak again first. He’s not really looking to drive this conversation.
She gives in, eventually. “You know,” she says, tilting her head in that curious way of hers, “I’ve been thinking about something Teddy said. About joining the band, I mean.”
Billy stiffens, the reminder of why she’s here piercing through their momentary reprieve. Narrows his eyes, searching her face for any hint of derision, but all he sees is that same maddening confidence she carries with her like a shiny badge.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Trying to make himself believe the words as they leave his mouth. “We’ve already got a pretty good thing going without you. We don’t need to mess it up.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down or cave in. Instead, she steps closer, eyes never leaving his. “I’m not looking to mess anything up, Billy. I want to see what happens if we put our heads together. Just for one album.”
He hates how reasonable she sounds, how the suggestion isn’t laced with the arrogance he’s been expecting. And worse, he hates how much he’s tempted by the idea. How easily he can imagine spending extended time in close, personal quarters with Daisy. He suspects he could tolerate it for long enough to finish one album. One. Any more might be tempting fate.
“Just one album,” he repeats, more to himself than to her, trying to gauge his own reaction to the words. “Fine. A trial run. But that’s it.”
Her smile is slow, almost teasing. Sends a sickening shiver down his spine. “Deal.”
He thinks about extending his hand to her so they can shake on it. Wonders if her skin is as soft as it looks. Wonders if her palms are as sweaty as his are right now. Wonders if she’s wondering the same things about him.
By the time his hand starts creeping out for hers, Camila returns with a glass of wine, slips it to Daisy. Pulls her by the crook of her elbow, “C’mon, Karen’s in the back. She’ll be so happy to see you!”
“Bye, Billy,” Daisy calls back over her shoulder as Camila steers her away. “Good talk!”
Billy watches them go, feeling a knot tighten in his chest. Hot guilt and shame stick to the ridges at the back of his throat as he dry-swallows. But there’s elation there, too, somehow. Joy and supernatural relief. He can’t quite tell which side of the tarnished coin feels worse. Tells himself that the next time they have a party – though god forbid there’s a next time– he’ll need to take a closer look at Camila’s guest list.
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Eddie Roundtree: I don’t remember that party, specifically. I went to lots of parties back in those days, you know? Yeah, I was on a VIP list or two.
Graham Dunne: That was a great party. Really great. Can I say this off the record? No? Okay. Not like this is breaking news, I guess, it has been twenty-odd years, but…I kissed Karen at that party. First time for us. Didn’t exactly go how I planned, but there was a kind of spark. Yeah. What a night.
Camila Alvarez Dunne: God, I spent so much time getting ready for that party. The food, drinks, decorations– everything. I remember it mattered so much to me that everything went off without a hitch. I wanted to show Billy that he could still have fun, even if fun looked a little different for him. But, you know, best laid plans and all that. I don’t think he had much fun at all. And the power went out.
Daisy is convinced that the universe has it in for her on a cosmic level, and tonight’s evidence mounts with each passing moment.
First, her cab driver lost their way, weaving through the quiet, suburban maze until she could have sworn she’d circled the same blocks a dozen times. Then, to punctuate her misfortune, the bottle she’d clutched so carefully knocked loose from her grip and shattered against the pavement. The shards and spilled wine mirrored her growing dread as she walked into the Dunne home bearing a single, embarrassingly whole pineapple. Who the fuck brings uncut, lightly barbed fruit to a house party, anyway?
There’s almost zero doubt in her mind that the power outage is somehow her fault, too. Really, the brightest spot in her whole night was responding to Julia’s cries. But even then, the weight of a baby in Daisy’s arms did little but remind her of all the reasons she consistently doesn’t feel responsible enough to care for anyone but herself. Even that’s too much, sometimes. Three months ago, when she mentioned a very nascent, very theoretical idea of getting a cat to Simone, she hadn’t been overly shocked at her friend’s response: “Daisy, you threw up in your purse last week. I love you. But let’s maybe put a pin in the idea of adding another life into the mix, even if it’s a cat, okay?”
And then singing with Billy had made her feel…flustered. There was something unsettlingly intimate about their voices blending together, especially with Camila watching. Particularly within the confines of the small room, crowded with bodies and flickering candles and warm, boozy air. Left her feeling the sort of wobbly that’s not exactly unexpected after ten beers, though she’s only had about four. Oh, and the wine.
Eventually, the lights do come back on, illuminating the room and casting the shadow of her confusion against the wall. She’s too sober, too heavy on her feet, her tongue feels too big in her mouth. Skin feels itchy and wrong. There’s an easy way to remedy her unease, thank god. Daisy scrounges in her pockets, pops the first pill her fingertips encounter right onto her tongue without thinking. Washes it down with a beer, then two fruity cocktails slammed in quick succession–both garnished with pineapple, a detail that sends her scurrying back into the kitchen for a third. Tells herself that it’s all for self-preservation, not cowardice, but she’s a shade too loopy to understand what she means by that.
Relieved of her sobriety, and thank fucking god for that, she flits around the room and socializes without a second thought. She jokes with Warren, smokes a joint with Karen and Graham, and summarily ignores Eddie. Or someone she thinks is Eddie, at least. Flirts with men she doesn’t know or care to know, clinks full glasses with strangers again and again. She wants to spend more time with Billy, hammer out the details of their deal with a bit more finesse, but she feels him purposefully maintaining distance. Frankly, it’s more than a little insulting, especially now that they’ve reached an understanding about the band, however tenuous.
She despises how easily he ruffles her feathers. Wonders what it would feel like for him to ruffle something else. If his hands would feel as sure and steady on her body as they do when wrapped around a microphone or a candle. Everyone and everything starts swimming through her line of vision, wavy and unfocused. She shouldn’t have taken the fucking pill, should’ve stuck to booze only. But she didn’t, and it’s clear that she’s on a collision course with brutish intoxication. Maybe if she’s very, very lucky, she’ll barely remember any of this.
It’s not her best work. Not her worst, either, she thinks, as she plops down on the couch to take a much-needed break from her feet. The party’s buzz fades into a dull hum, like waves lapping at the shore. The warmth of the cushions and the steady beat of the music lull her into a drowsy half-dream, mind drifting as the room blurs around her.
When she wakes up what she assumes is hours later, the house is quiet and dark, all remnants of the party scattered like ghosts in the starlight. The faint scent of cigarettes and something sweeter clings to her clothes as she pushes herself up, the room unfamiliar in the stillness. She makes a split-second decision to push off the sense of cavernous embarrassment that threatens to drown her on dry land. Better to wait until she’s at home and in private to self-flagellate.
Head thick with fog and mouth as dry as desert sand, Daisy pushes herself up from the cushions, every joint protesting. She stumbles toward the kitchen in search of a drink, flicks the light switch, and sighs when the darkness remains untouched. Power must be out again—of course it is.
Her luck’s a real fucking joke; every detail of this wretched night is going to stick with her.
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Billy: Nothing stands out to me about that night. Oh– except I think Graham met that girl. Catherine? Katie? Michelle? Honestly, I can't remember. She was a nice girl. It was good for him to have someone to focus on other than Karen. You know, wanting someone and not being able to have them can be…distracting. To a real fault. I didn’t want him getting too distracted when we had another album to think about.
Daisy Jones: God, that party. Mmhmm. I mean, wow, can’t say I remember much of anything specific, but I do remember having a nice time. It was really kind of Camila to invite me, I thought it was really cool that she went out of her way to include me, even if she didn’t know me.
“Billy,” Camila groans into her pillow, lightly punching his arm. “You’ve gotta stop, please. I’m not going to get any sleep with you flopping around all night.”
It’s been hours since they slid beneath the covers, but Billy hasn’t caught even a thread of sleep. He doesn’t feel tired, not really, more like his body has forgotten what rest even means. All he can focus on is the magnetic pull drawing him down to the couch where Daisy’s passed out. He can hardly believe she’d just fall asleep in the middle of a party—then again, it’s exactly the kind of thing he thinks Daisy would do. Only someone so self-assured in their role as the center of the universe could crash like that in a near-stranger’s house. Whether it’s pure confidence or recklessness, he can’t quite decide. Or maybe it’s just the pills, and the wine, and several pint glasses full of whatever fruity nonsense Camila whipped up. Either way you slice it, any way you slice it, he envies her.
It had been easy, in the abundant presence of friends and assorted company, to cover her with a blanket and retreat. It’s harder now, with a sleeping wife and an empty house, to remember why he belongs upstairs. He tries to pin himself in place, rolls over to wrap the sheet tighter around his torso. Has to stop himself from drumming a rhythm with his fingers out of frustration.
“Billy,” Camila repeats. She kicks at him with cold feet. Pleads, “I’m begging you, stop.”
“Sorry,” he says, keeping his voice low. The last thing either of them wants is to wake Julia and add a startled, cranky baby into the mix. He can tell that the earliest stage of Camila’s hangover is starting to creep in, knows they’ll all have a much worse morning if she can’t get decent sleep.
“I’m going to grab a drink of water, I’m thirsty. Be right back.”
He presses a dry kiss to her shoulder while she mumbles a wordless acknowledgement. Slowly untangles himself from the tightly wadded sheets and slips out of bed. Pads down the hallway and the stairs, taking special care to avoid the creaky riser three treads up from the bottom. Mentally moves fixing it to the top of the running to-do list of things around the house in need of his attention.
In the darkness, he can just make out the rumpled pile of blankets representing Daisy on the couch. Nice that someone’s getting decent sleep tonight, he guesses. He moves through the living room and into the kitchen, almost shits his pants when he notices someone else is in there.
She’s perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, glass in hand, the picture of careless ease. “Power’s out,” Daisy whispers, like it’s reasonable for her to be in his kitchen sipping lukewarm tap water at 4AM.
It’s like every single word he knows is gone, snatched clean out of his thoughts. Except for “Again?” None of what’s happening feels real, or even remotely believable.
“Yep. I mean, unless every switch down here is broken. Doesn’t seem likely, but what do I know?” She shimmies her way down and grabs a fresh glass, fills it at the tap. Wordlessly hands it to him, like this is her house and he’s the stray guest. Hops back on the counter. “Billy, I’m sorry, this is so fucking embarrassing–”
He doesn’t need to see her clearly to know she’s uncomfortably fidgeting in place. The biggest kindness he can give her is to pretend. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Did you see the guy puking by the firepit? I’ve never met the guy in my life, no idea who he is. You just fell asleep on the couch, that’s all.”
She half-snorts derisively, slurps her water. “Glad I missed it, that sounds vile.”
He smiles at her. Concedes, “It was absolutely disgusting, yeah.” Pauses, feels delightfully untethered to reality. Lightheaded, even. Drunk, almost. “I’m going to try and find more candles in case the power doesn’t come back soon. Julia wakes up really early, sometimes before the sun’s up. Do you need anything?”
“I’m good, thanks. I’ll call a cab.” Billy watches the realization crest across her face. “Oh, fuck. Guess I’ll call one as soon as things are back up. Or I can walk home, honestly, it’s not even that far–”
“It’s far enough for that to be a terrible fucking idea, Daisy. I can give you a ride in the morning, if you need one.” The offer hangs in the air, floats down and settles at their feet as he imagines just the two of them, alone in the tight space of his car. His skin tingles at the thought. He can almost taste the dusty tang of her cigarette smoke, hear the sticky drag of her bare thigh against the vinyl seat, feel the rasp of her voice catching a song as it floats from the radio. It's a strange kind of poetry, he thinks—how the abstract fantasy threatens to drown out the concrete reality of Daisy standing here in his kitchen, dimly lit and looking ravenous.
Billy’s gaze clings to her shape. Stays there a second too long, caught between the faint outline of her silhouette and the crushing weight of possibility he’s too self-controlled to chase. The dead air between them starts to twist, hangs heavier with each passing breath, and he worries that she’s mistaking his quiet fantasy for reticence.
"Sure, thanks," she eventually answers, the delay making it ring hollow. "I can help you find those candles, if you want. Can’t sleep anyway, might as well do something useful." She scoots, climbs back down before he can respond. In the dim light, Billy squints, catches the way her body bends and unfolds, the expanse of pale skin revealed as her shirt rides up. Listens to the tap of her feet as they meet the cold linoleum, slapping down one after the other.
His heart hammers in his chest, a thousand perfectly good reasons screaming at him to keep quiet. Two of those reasons are upstairs, presumably asleep. He might regret it come morning, but he says it anyway: “That’d be great, thanks. Heads-up—hope you’re not freaked out by spiders. Basement’s probably crawling with them.”
“Spiders don’t bother me, Billy. Lead the way,” she chirps, but he can sense the nervous energy pouring off her skin. It’s the same feeling that’s giving him gooseflesh up-and-down his arms, that makes him worry at his lip until it splits and bleeds. Churns his stomach and electrifies his fingertips.
Caught in the rocky push-and-pull of her, Billy wonders if this is how it all begins, with a simple offer and a fleeting thought, billowing into something neither of them can quite control.
Without overthinking –without thinking at all, really– he reaches for her. Grips Daisy’s small, hot hand, holds on much tighter than necessary. A spark jolts through him when she squeezes back with just as much force.
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Daisy: You know, I think that was the first and only time I ever saw his house. Or anywhere Billy lived, for that matter. Not like we were the type of coworkers who had each over for dinner, but…I’m glad I got to know, at least once, what he was like on his own turf. I think it’s important to know that side of a person, when you’re doing anything as intimate as writing an album with them. How can you really know someone if you don’t know what the inside of their fridge looks like?
Camila: Now, I understand why it was a terrible idea to try and recreate our social life from before Billy’s sobriety. Of course I do. Back then, I promise you that I really thought I was doing the right thing. It’s not like he slipped up, and he never told me how that party made him feel, but I know it couldn’t have been easy for him. I regret the way I handled his sobriety at the beginning.
Daisy trails Billy down the narrow stairs, each creak beneath their feet a low groan in the dark. She can barely make out the shape of him—just the broad curve of his back, one hand outstretched toward her, the other clutching a worn railing. A sliver of moonlight seeps through the thin basement window, casting elongated, ghostly shadows on concrete walls. The air feels fragile, like something might shatter if either of them dares to breathe too loudly, and she shivers, not entirely from the cold.
Still gripping his hand, she follows closely, close enough to catch the warmth rolling off him in waves. For a moment, she wonders if he can hear her heart beating, loud and dissonant in the silence. The basement smells of dust and aged wood, but there's another scent woven through—Billy’s, a mix of worn leather and faded denim. Spice and something sweet. It leaves her feeling unsteady, makes her want to close the gap, to press herself against him.
Finally, after what feels like a pleasant eternity, they reach the bottom of the stairs. Billy’s voice drops to a smooth murmur, mentions something about the candles being tucked away in boxes behind an old loveseat. Daisy only half-hears him, too caught up in the timbre of his voice, how it wraps around her more snugly than the blanket left behind upstairs, grounding and certain.
He leads her to the far corner, where her shins knock up against something plush. “Sorry,” he mumbles, quick to apologize for once. “Didn’t mean to steer you right into the furniture.” He makes no move to release her hand; she wonders if the electric charge that zips up her arm has left him numb, instead of whatever it’s doing to her.
“It’s fine, I barely noticed.” Her free hand gestures vaguely at a cluster of dark shapes that might be boxes. She’s already decided that she won’t be the one to break the contact. If Billy wants to pretend they haven’t crossed a line, he’s free to pull away. Until then, she’ll let herself indulge in his touch and believe it’s something more than friendly. “You think the candles are somewhere over here?”
In the total darkness, boundaries begin to dissolve. His hand lingers on hers, fingertips brushing her skin, tracing over her knuckles, and she feels him shiver—a tremor that ignites something raw and aching inside her. She’s lit up from the inside out, a fire that threatens to burn through the thin veil of composure she’s barely holding onto.
“Probably,” he mutters with a shrug, letting go of her hand. She has to force herself not to groan at the abrupt absence of his touch– she’s proud when she doesn’t make a sound. Tilts her head to catch a glimpse of him, jutting her chin forward. It’s less a posture of defiance and more a desperate struggle against the gravity of her frustration, which threatens to draw tears she’s too ashamed to shed.
Then, as abruptly as he withdrew, his hands are cradling her face. It’s a jarring shift, bordering on torturous, a sudden shock that overwhelms her senses and leaves her breathless.
“Do you want to look for the candles, Daisy?” Billy’s thumb slips over, tracing her jaw with a feather-light touch. Instinctively, she parts her lips, feels him press slightly into her mouth, gently scraping against her teeth. Any reservations she’s been clinging to—the shadow of his wife, the weight of his child, the promise of a band and a hit album—evaporate into nothingness. She crumbles, a whisper of dust in his presence.
She replies, “No,” raw and honest. Shakes her head, the tip of her nose grazes his. “Not really.” She knows, from personal experience, that a dark cellar and a dingy loveseat can be the perfect canvas for countless artful possibilities.
He lets one hand drop, strokes down her neck, tracing the line of her shoulder. Instinctively, Daisy knows this is the moment. This is where everything changes, where the tension snaps, and whatever’s been building between them finally breaks free. When Billy’s lips finally meet hers, it’s like a match striking against stone, all heat and wild inferno, sparking to life in the darkness.
________________________
Graham: It sounds pretty crazy when I say it now, but I think we all knew we were really getting to be something. I liked our sound before Daisy, of course I did. But it was clear that we were nothing compared to what we could be with Daisy. I’m sure other people felt differently, Billy especially, but I don’t think we would’ve blown up the way we did without her. That party was one of the only nights all six of us ever spent together outside of studio time– and I mean all of us: me and Warren, Karen, Billy, and Daisy. [pauses] Oh, and Eddie. Ha! Sorry, Eddie, if you’re seeing this.
Eddie: Sorry– Daisy fell asleep? No, I really don’t remember that. Jesus– she really fell asleep at his house? That’s fucking hilarious, you know what they say about subliminal desires. Wait, is it ‘subliminal desires’ or ‘subconscious desires,’ do you know? Whatever, you know what I mean. Whichever way is the right way, you know what they say about that.
Daisy doesn’t waste a second. She’s on him, mouth claiming his, hot and insistent and lovely. Hands caught up in his hair, pulling him down into her tempest. For once, perhaps for the first time, he doesn’t fight his instincts. He lets himself drown in the taste of her, lose himself in the muted whispers she breathes against his mouth. She traverses his shoulders, his neck, pulls him closer, erasing all the poisoned space keeping them apart.
He lets his hands fall to her waist, slide up her back, lifting her shirt as he goes. Pulls her against him, crushes her to his chest. Doesn’t think he’ll ever want to pull away from her ever again. What he wants is to sweep all the fragile uncertainty from her mouth with his tongue. What he wants is to worship her body, take his time. Whatever he can’t fully see with eyes, he can feel with hands. That’s a gift, not a compromise.
It’s nothing short of frantic, the way they come together– a wild collision. A growing sense of urgency, a silent desperation that hints at something more profound. Her skin tastes of salt and sweat and something sweet, like pineapple.
All their usual tentativeness is gone, replaced by bold possession. He grips her arms, sways her over with a commanding ease, pulls her down with him to the ratty sofa. Their shared world contracts to the frayed cushion beneath them and the fierce, undulating rhythm of their bodies stretching together, springs groaning under shifting weight.
In the basement's pitch-black depths, with the world above fading into oblivion, it’s just them. It’s almost too easy to fall into the fantasy. To believe he’s stripped Daisy of her shirt a thousand times before, that the tug of her fingers at his zipper is working on muscle memory. That there’s nothing clandestine about this encounter. As he helps her shed the last of her clothes and she reciprocates the favor, it feels like a practiced dance, their movements seamless and familiar. Almost well-rehearsed.
Daisy’s breath fans across his collarbone, warm and uneven, and he swears he can feel her heartbeat sync with his, erratic and desperate. His hands move on instinct, tracing the lines of her body like they’re mapping out new territory, though the movements are all hauntingly familiar. Like he’s always known the curve of her hip, the dip of her spine. Everything about this feels like a homecoming, from the slide of her mouth against his to the way she scratches over his naked ribs with delicate motions. He wants more. It seems obvious that she does, too.
Billy doesn’t dare speak, terrified that words will bring reality crashing back in. But the fear is nothing compared to the sharp desire coursing through him, an undeniable force that pulls him closer. Thrumming tension builds with every brush of her skin against his. It’s Daisy who breaks the silence first. Bravely, her words pour out like a confession: “Billy, is this okay?” The question lingers, and he feels the weight of it settle at the back of his chest.
He swallows hard, hand heavy and unmoving against her cheek as he answers, “Of course it is.” It’s the truth and a lie all at once. As the words leave his mouth, he knows with sickening certainty that they’ve already gone too far to turn back. He can’t find it within himself to regret it.
Daisy fashions her body as the perfect resting place for his. Bone against bone, flesh to flesh, hardness against heat. Shadows close in, tightening around them like a second skin. When she leans back into him, burrowing against his neck, it’s easy to forget again.
________________________
Camila: I was proud of Billy for welcoming Daisy into the band. Changing his mind…well, that was never easy for [Billy]. It’s easy to forget that we were all still kids, back then. We had adult responsibilities, but we weren’t real adults, not like our parents.
Billy: Is there anything else you want to talk about? I feel like I’ve already said all there is to say about the party.
Daisy lets Billy’s words make camp under her skin, each syllable sinking deeper until they’re completely embedded in her being. There’s something intoxicating in his answer, in the way he says it with such quiet certainty, like they’re the only ones who matter. Like it’s just this—their tangled breaths, the press of his hand against her lower back, the temptation of his firm thigh at her center.
She knows she should be scared, should pull away. But she doesn’t. Tilts her head up to look at him and whispers back, “Good.” And just like that, she’s all in, for whatever this is that they’ve started and can’t seem to stop. Better judgment and good sense crumple in favor of more. It’s a claiming and a surrender. A heady, feverish dance.
Her thoughts drift back to the first time she saw Billy play the guitar, fingers caressing the strings with dextrous precision. She’d found herself fantasizing about his hands—pictured them tracing patterns over her skin, playing her with the same deft competence. Lurid, wicked thoughts. At the time, she was deeply confused by her own reaction. Body and brain vibrating on entirely different frequencies, lust and loathing. Equal and opposite. Now, as those hands hold her with a fierce tenderness, she realizes her dreams have merged with reality.
As their bodies collide, mouths crashing together again and again, she's transformed. Every brush of his hand paints whirlpools of sensation across her skin and reminds her that, at least right now, he’s choosing this. He’s choosing her. It might be temporary, but the best things often are.
She feels his hand slip between her legs, and nothing’s ever captured her focus quite like this before. Her whole world begins and ends at his fingertips, her sun rises and sets with the exquisite slide of his tongue against the base of her throat. Billy slowly sinks fingers into her and she moans, an ancient sound that rattles the whole room. His clever thumb presses against her and she unleashes a filthy gasp.
The measured speed of his touch starts to increase and Daisy clings to him, writhing and desperate, on the verge of begging. It’s biologically subversive, the way he’s bypassed the learning curve of her body. Throbbing hunger quickly replaces all other thoughts in her head.
She knows she has a reputation for being prickly, for bristling at direction; that label’s been fairly earned, but when Billy whispers a ragged missive in her ear, “Come for me,” she has no choice but to blindly obey.
Sweetest violence claims her body, tears through her, illuminates all the fissures of the universe. Billy does not let up, pulling her through the aftershocks. Before she has a chance to recover, before she can even catch her breath and blink the blistering fractals of light away from her eyes, Billy’s flipping her all the way onto her back. Gently, he cradles her neck and lowers her head and body; it’s the most care someone’s shown her in weeks, not that she’ll ever tell him that.
She can’t help staring right at him, given that his face hangs directly over hers. He’s careful to balance most of his weight on his elbows, splayed out on either side. It’s another considerate gesture, and it’s lovely, but she resents any molecules of atmosphere that come between them. Wanting to feel him against her from top to toe, she presses an insistent hand against his lower back, urging him downwards.
“I don’t want to break you,” he half-laughs. If she’s ever thought of Billy as an inconsiderate man, this encounter has partially absolved her of that belief.
Her reply is as heartbreaking as it is true: “You won’t, don’t worry. You can’t.”
Billy nods minutely, swoops in to plant kisses all along the exposed column of her throat. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers against her skin. “Really fucking beautiful. You know that?” Doesn’t pause for her response before he recaptures her mouth. Daisy’s lips buzz against his as she purrs soft sighs of contentment.
She can feel him, hard and pulsing against her hip. Turnabout’s fair play: this time, she grabs him by the face, trembling hand at his jaw. Squeezes thumb and forefinger against his cheeks to emphasize her point: “I want to feel you. All of you. Please? Just one time.” Hears the responding echo in her mind: Just one album. Hopes there's no such thing as just once. Not with him. Not with this.
Briefly, she thinks he’s going to deny her. That he’s taken a few, furtive seconds to identify an imaginary line and define it with invisible chalk, to rationalize why naked kissing and intimate touching is acceptable, but anything more would be transgressive. His tongue soon plunders all the worry from her mouth.
It’s clear to both of them that they’re equally ready. Billy lines himself up, then hesitates. Asks, “Yes?” Men have asked her similar questions in similar circumstances. The difference is that Billy isn't asking rhetorically.
“Yes,” she confirms. Is quickly and wonderfully rewarded as he eases himself into her. The exquisite, stretching fullness makes her feel complete, a critical absence that’s been filled.
She raises her knees to grips his torso, gladly meeting the pace he sets for them. It’s punishing, and it’s not enough. At the end of this, she wants bruises on her hips– anything to prove that it happened. That Billy wants her. Wanted her. The present tense is decidedly preferable.
Together, they grind and move. He bends his head to sink teeth into the delicate meat of her shoulder, elicits a strangled yelp. It’s everything she would’ve dreamed of, if only she’d known she could dream this big. In some distant, independent corner of her mind, despite the ineffable desire Billy’s coaxed from her, Daisy wonders if they’ll ever write a song about this night.
It’s enough to push her over the edge. She comes again, harder and more shocking than the first time. The savage rush of sensation floods her with little warning. Delirious with pleasure, Daisy feels his hips chasing hers, staccato and sweet, until his body follows hers into the abyss.
Billy shivers against her, then shifts, rolling them both over until he's wedged into the narrow gap between her side and the back of the couch. One hand tangles in her hair, fingers scratching lightly at her scalp, while the other locks her against him. It might feel domestic, this otherworldly expanse of time, if they were other people. If this were another place, and not a mildewy basement, allegedly infested with spiders. If his family wasn’t just upstairs.
She doesn’t have to ask to know that this is going to tear him up inside. That their already-fragile dynamic will suffer most of the observable fallout. She’s sturdy and strong-willed, she’ll figure out some means of bouncing back, even if it costs more than she can afford. But her relationship with Billy, such that it is, such that it will be, may not.
Their breathing syncs, stretches into a new time signature, hearts beating a poetic syncopation. For a moment, she allows herself to acknowledge that she’s never found greater peace in another human being, however briefly. More than anything, Daisy wants to memorize every detail of the way he’s touched her tonight, for agonizing fear that it’ll never happen again.
As the silence stretches, Daisy breaks it with a whispered, “We should go back upstairs.” Her voice lacks conviction, flickers like a candle deprived of oxygen. Billy hesitates. For a moment, neither of them move. Then, reticently, he nods. “Yeah, we should.”
He walks his fingers across her face, traces the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the slope of her nose, commits her contours to memory. There’s a bittersweetness to his touch. This—whatever this is—can’t last. They both know it, as certain as the rise and fall of their chests. She feels like he’s saying goodbye even as they’re just beginning.
Slowly, reluctantly, they peel away from each other, hands still brushing. Rising from the sofa feels like tearing through layers of velvet. Without another word, they shrug back into their clothing, fumbling with fabric in the dark.
The magic of the basement inevitably fades with every inch they put between them and the loveseat. At the bottom of the staircase, they pause, still as statues. It’s stupid, she knows it’s pointless, but she can’t stop herself from wishing that time itself might rewind and let them linger in their stolen moment a little longer. Billy turns to her, and she can see his conscience weighing him down like an iron shroud.
He catches her wrist. Pulls her close, fits their bodies together on the vertical axis, this time. Where Daisy ebbs, he flows. And when his lips find hers again, it’s slow and soft to start, tinged with weary melancholy. Quickly, the kiss turns scalding, a searing, magnetic force. She is certain that the firebrand of his mouth will leave a visible mark. It’s an apology and a promise all at once—salt and honey, a desperate attempt to etch her into his bones before he has to let her go.
Eventually, when they’re breathless, she pulls away. When Billy speaks, it’s a rough whisper. “We should—” he begins, trailing off into silence, words swallowed by the weight of the day waiting just beyond the cellar door.
Morning beckons treacherously, and there’s no real point in prolonging the inevitable more than they’ve already managed. “You’re right,” she replies, voice trembling like a leaf in a storm, “we should.”
The pull of reality tugs at their heels, dragging them up the stairs, step by heavy step, feet echoing a reluctant farewell to the sanctuary they’ve created in the darkness.
_____________
Billy: Daisy and I, we came to an understanding that night. I knew that it wasn’t going to be easy between us. We both knew that there were things we’d need to navigate. Hard things. But that was the day I finally realized that any struggle would be worth it. I– the band needed Daisy. It was as simple as that.
Daisy: Joining The Six was one of the greatest things I’ve ever done. I’ll never forget that it was Billy who did that for me. No matter how we ended, I’ll always be really fucking grateful to him.
Upstairs, in the cruel, crowning dawn, he looks at Daisy. Feels a chasm open in his chest, pushing and pulling at his ribs. Distantly, thinks he’ll need to find a way to close it, one of these days. The night’s heat clings to him like a shroud, every sensation—her touch, the electric hum of their closeness—burned into his memory with ruthless clarity.
Already, Billy struggles to anchor himself in the present, to keep from flashing back. There’s a deep, unwelcome peace blooming inside of him, a counterpoint to all the heavy guilt that hangs like a stone around his neck, dragging him down even as he forces himself to stand tall. With shuddering resignation, he considers that it would be much easier to feel inexcusably evil— at least, it’d be less of a torment than the moral dissonance gnawing at him now. He yearns for stark, simple absolutes. He also knows better than to expect them.
So he busies his hands with the mundane—adjusting picture frames, fiddling with the throw blanket—anything to create a veneer of normalcy that might shield them from intrusion. Each gesture is careful, stilted, meant to keep the reality of his surrender hidden from his wife’s waking eyes. The ritual of pretending, of creating a façade of untroubled domesticity, is a bitter irony, but it’s one he must perform. The quiet hum of the early morning settles around them, a cocoon of awkward pretenses and dreamy half-snatches of imagination.
His fingers linger on Daisy's arm, he can’t help himself. Touching her, it turns out, is maybe more addicting than cocaine. “Let’s get you back on the couch,” he rasps. She nods, slow and deliberate, and he’s grateful that she understands the necessity of their charade.
Together, they arrange blankets in an artful tableau of feigned sleep. "So," Billy ventures unsteadily, "what now?"
"We pretend nothing happened. Just another night, right? I got too fucked up and crashed on your couch, end of story. Embarrassing for me, really."
He’s taken aback by how quickly her demeanor shifts from vulnerable to composed, her face a mask of practiced nonchalance. Startled by how effortlessly she flips the switch– it’s a seamless transition. Wonders how many times she’s had to do it out of necessity; the math on that is bleak.
“Look,” she continues, pointing into the kitchen, “power’s back.”
Indeed, there’s a dull light emanating from the kitchen, distinct from the morning’s glow. He studies her face, but she’s already slipped back into costume. “Are you okay?” It’s a loaded question, and he can’t help but ask it. He’s desperate to know if she’s feeling as shattered as he is, even if she hides it better.
Her smile is too quick, too easy. “Always,” she says lightly. He catches the way her fingers shake when she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. They both know it’s a lie.
Billy hears the faint creak of floorboards overhead and his heart jolts—there’s no time. Daisy catches it too, and she slides back into her role without hesitation. Curls up under the blanket, eyes fluttering shut in a perfect mimicry of sleep. Billy busies himself with gathering empty bottles, the clink of glass against glass a poor cover for the pounding in his chest.
The stairs groan as Camila descends, footsteps slow and heavy with sleep. Notably, she does not skip the creaky stair. Also notably, and unlike him, she has no reason to hide her whereabouts. “You’re up early,” she murmurs, still husky from the night. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Not much, but it’s fine. Just getting a head start on clean-up duty.” Billy forces a smile, turns to face her, tries to shake off the buzzing residue of guilt that clings to his skin like smoke. “Didn’t want you to wake up to a complete mess.”
Camila glances at Daisy, ostensibly fast asleep on the couch. He watches her expression melt into something soft, borderline maternal. Feels like she’s throwing salt on his wound, however unintentionally. “Looks like she couldn’t keep up with the rest of us,” Camila teases, stepping into the kitchen.
Billy nods, forces a brittle response, “I know, she’s been out cold all morning.” Mechanically keeps his hands moving, all connection between mind and body temporarily severed. He’s terrified that if he stops, if he loses any inertia, the gravity of the situation will collapse in on him like a dying star, compressing its own beauty and brilliance into a singularity of darkness and density. Pressure builds, the kind that distorts time and reason, threatening an event horizon where they are all swallowed up by a black hole of consequence.
He cleans and arranges, fills bag after bag with trash. Keeps himself perpetually in motion, a blurry dervish of activity. Still, the truth gnaws at him, a current lapping at his ankles. Isn’t it true that a man can drown in just an inch of water? And still, still, the tender sting of regret is chased away by his unbidden, reckless joy at having tasted something so achingly alive, a feeling that burns brighter against the backdrop of his own moral decay.
In the end, Billy feels twice as irritable and half as wrong, a paradox of guilt, avoidance, and seething exhilaration. A marionette of his own making.
His hands stutter to a halt when the first stirrings from the couch interrupt his mindless tasking. Gives himself permission to look over at the couch for one second – one, one only, for confirmation purposes, nothing more– and sees Daisy stretching herself out, a delicate blend of confusion and lingering drowsiness plastered on her face. For a moment, she blinks at the room. Yawns. He’d swear on his life that she winks at him, but he wouldn’t swear on anyone else’s, he can’t be that certain. She’s a tremendous fucking actress.
Camila’s cheerful hum carries from the kitchen, sunshine cutting through the grime. He feels anxious. He feels absurd. On a practical level, he’s exhausted. Simultaneously, he worries that he’ll never get restful sleep again, that he’ll dream of Daisy anytime he closes his eyes.
Dreaming is pointless, he thinks, a very poor facsimile of the real thing. A tantalizing reminder. It doesn’t matter; in any case, he hopes Daisy might dream of him, too. That their dream-selves can achieve all that’s impossible here in reality.
He doesn’t expect to make sense of anything that’s transpired over the past few hours, so he won’t try. For now, it’s enough to know that he doesn’t know.
It’s enough to hear Daisy yawn, “What did you put in those mai tais?”
It’s enough for Camila to reply, “Just the usual stuff. Sleep well?”
It’s enough for him to step outside before he’s paralyzed by their easy exchange of laughter, to smash an empty bottle on the paving stones just so he has something else to sweep clean.
It’s enough, until it’s not. Until he catches Daisy’s eyes through the patio door, exchanging a look so quickly, so barely there, it might’ve been imagined. But it wasn’t. It never is. The moment passes, slips through his fingers like sand, but the weight of it remains. He watches her, watches them. From the edge of the shadows, the shards of the bottle twinkle like fractured stars at his feet.
It’ll have to be enough— the laughter fades, the door closes behind him, and he’s left alone in the wreckage, a universe collapsing inward, no light left to bend.