The Reckless Collision

Ray.

~~~

I lay sprawled on my back in my old bed, the thin curtains doing little to block out the sunlight spilling across the room. It painted everything in a light haze, soft and familiar. The scent of the house was just as I remembered—a mix of old wood, and a hint of coffee lingering from the kitchen.

I stretched lazily, every muscle in my body protesting. A dull ache settled in my shoulders, a physical reminder of the demands of my life. From downstairs, I heard the soft clinking of dishes, followed by Logan humming a tune I half-recognized. It brought a smile to my face.

Pushing off the covers, I pulled on the nearest shirt, its fabric wrinkled from being crumpled on the floor, and made my way downstairs. The floorboards creaked under my bare feet, each sound pulling me further into the comfort of the house.

Logan was at the stove, his back to me, flipping eggs in a pan like a seasoned short-order cook. The warm aroma of butter and toast filled the air.

"Finally up, old man?" he teased, throwing a glance over his shoulder. His grin was lopsided, the way it always was when he thought he'd landed a good joke.

I chuckled, running a hand through my hair. "I'm not that old."

Logan smirked, shaking his head as he plated the eggs. "Keep telling yourself that."

Sliding into the chair at the kitchen island, this table had seen countless meals, late-night conversations, and heated debates. A memory of Sam sitting across from me here not long ago flashed in my mind. Her laughter, her presence—it lingered in this space, just out of reach.

Logan set a plate in front of me: eggs and toast, simple but perfect. My stomach growled, breaking the silence. "You still make the best breakfast," I said, digging in.

Logan sat down across from me, his tone lighter now. "I had to learn way more since I live alone. It was either this or starve."

We ate in silence for a while, the only sounds were the scrape of forks on plates and the distant hum of traffic outside. It was comfortable, familiar. But underneath the surface, there was something else—a tension I couldn't quite shake. Logan had been quieter than usual since I came back to L.A., his usual playful jabs tempered by something more serious.

"So," he said finally, breaking the silence, "big day today."

I nodded, pushing a piece of toast around my plate. "Yeah. Auditions."

Logan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His bright blue eyes lit up with excitement, but there was something guarded there too. "I know who I'd pick if it were up to me."

I smirked, leaning back as well. "Let me guess. The guy you've been talking about for weeks now?"

Logan nodded, a little too eagerly. "He's solid. Great sound, and fits the band's vibe. He's perfect."

I didn't answer right away, staring down at my plate as my appetite faded. Everyone had an opinion—Logan, Andrew, even the label—but in the end, the decision was mine. The weight of that responsibility pressed down on me like a physical thing. This wasn't just about picking a guitarist; it was about shaping the near future of the band. My stomach tightened at the thought.

Logan must've sensed my hesitation because his voice softened. "I know it's your call, but we need someone who can hit the ground running. We don't have time to break someone in right now."

I looked up at him, meeting his gaze. There was sincerity in his eyes, a quiet determination that made me pause. Logan had grown up a lot in the past few years, stepping into his role with the band in ways I hadn't always expected. I couldn't just brush his opinion aside.