The Uber driver's eyes widened in the rearview mirror as Amias climbed into the backseat, the plastic bags from the restaurant crinkling against his leg. The car smelled like pine air freshener mixed with old coffee, that particular scent of a vehicle that had been working the late shift too long.
"Yo, wait—you're Amias Mars!" The driver twisted around, face lighting up with recognition. "Man, my daughter's obsessed with that Poland song. She's been doing this dance—hold up, let me show you."
He fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it in his excitement. Amias managed a tired smile despite the weight sitting heavy in his chest.
"That's dope, man, but maybe keep your eyes on the road?" Amias suggested gently as the car drifted slightly.
"Oh shit, yeah, my bad." The driver faced forward again but kept talking through the mirror. "But for real, she's gonna lose her mind when I tell her. You mind if I get a quick—"
"How I sign something for her?" Amias offered, already reaching for the napkins in the takeout bag.
"Bet, bet! Her name's Aaliyah. Two A's at the start."
Amias scrawled a quick message and signature on the cleanest napkin he could find, the pen skipping slightly on the soft surface. The driver chatted the entire ride—something about his daughter's TikToks, how she'd learned all the words despite not knowing what "wok" meant, how she'd probably scream loud enough to wake the whole building—but the words barely registered.
Amias stared out the window, watching Manhattan blur past in streaks of neon and shadow. His phone sat heavy in his pocket, Zara's contact photo burned into his mind.
"Aight, this you," the driver announced, pulling up to the house. The meter showed thirty-two dollars. Amias handed him three hundreds.
"Yo, that's too much—"
"For Aaliyah," Amias said, grabbing the bags. "Tell her to keep creating."
The air hit sharp and clean as he stepped out, a relief after the recycled warmth of the car. The house loomed before him, windows mostly dark except for a few ambient lights they'd left on. Three-something in the morning—that liminal time when the city finally admitted exhaustion.
Larry stood by the gate, posture alert despite the late hour. His breath formed small clouds in the cold air, dissipating quickly. Marcus, one of the off duty cops, leaned against the fence a few feet away, scrolling through his phone but with that particular awareness security developed—never truly distracted.
"Boss man is back," Marcus announced unnecessarily, straightening up.
"Y'all don't want to come inside?" Amias asked, lifting the bags. The smell of expensive food wafted out—truffle something, probably. "Got you some food from that bougie spot."
Larry shook his head with a slight smile that deepened the lines around his eyes. "Nah, we're good out here. Wouldn't be guards if we didn't guard, right?"
"Plus it's actually nice tonight," Marcus added, tilting his head back to look at the sky. "First time in a week it hasn't felt like the Arctic. Can actually see some stars."
"In Manhattan?" Amias squinted upward. "Where?"
"Right there," Marcus pointed. "That bright one. Pretty sure that's a plane, but let me have this."
That got a genuine laugh from Amias, the first in hours. He handed them the bags—expensive food wrapped in paper that probably cost extra, still warm.
"Well, at least eat good while you're out here," he said. "Got you both the steak ones. And there's some of those truffle fries that taste like disappointment until you're hungry enough."
"You saying we look hungry?" Larry asked, already peeking into the bag.
"I'm saying you look human," Amias replied. "Mitch around?"
"Doing a perimeter check," Marcus said, checking his watch. "Should be back in twenty. Man takes his job serious."
"Good. That's why I pay him." Amias paused at the door. "You guys need anything else? Coffee? Red Bull?"
"We're good," Larry assured him. "Get some rest, kid. You look tired."
Tired. That was one word for it. Exhausted, wrung out, emotionally excavated—all more accurate, but tired would do.
Amias headed inside, the warmth hitting him immediately. The house was tomb-quiet, his footsteps seemed too loud on the hardwood, each creak an announcement of his return. The kitchen light was on, casting long shadows down the hallway. Someone had left a note on the counter—Zel's handwriting: "Saved you some Chinese food in the fridge Capari."
His chest felt strange—not the usual pressure from exhaustion, but something else. Like his heart was trying to escape, pushing against his ribs with each beat. It had been building all night, through the studio session, through the conversation with Cole. All those questions about unresolved emotions, people he'd been avoiding, feelings he hadn't let himself feel.
The stairs seemed steeper than usual, each step requiring conscious effort. He paused halfway up, hand on the banister, trying to identify this feeling. Fear? Anticipation? Both?
Light leaked from under their door—a soft glow that meant she was still awake. Of course she was. When had she ever been able to sleep when something was weighing on her mind? He'd known her for six years, and some things never changed. Stress meant insomnia for Zara, always had.
He pushed the door open quietly, hinges mercifully silent. She was propped up in bed, laptop balanced on her knees, the screen's blue glow highlighting the planes of her face. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, a few curls escaping to frame her face.
"You're up," he said, the words coming out rougher than intended. His throat was dry.
She looked up, and something in her expression made his chest tighten further. Not the wariness from earlier, but something else. Concern? "Couldn't sleep. You okay?"
It was such a simple question, but the weight of it—the way she really looked at him when she asked, like his answer mattered more than anything—nearly undid him.
Amias shrugged off his jacket, taking his time hanging it on the chair. The fabric was soft under his fingers, expensive in that understated way.
"Long night," he said finally, crossing to the bed. He sat down beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Close enough to feel her warmth through the hoodie, far enough to maintain the careful distance they'd been keeping. "You been up this whole time?"
"Mostly." She closed the laptop, setting it on the nightstand. The screen's glow faded, leaving them in the softer light of the bedside lamp. "Tried to sleep for like an hour, but my brain wouldn't shut off. Started looking at marketing strategies for next week, then fell down a YouTube rabbit hole about serial killers."
"Naturally."
"Did you know that most serial killers have a signature? Like, something they do every time that's specifically theirs?"
"That's... dark, Zara."
"Says the guy who—" She cut herself off, color draining from her face. "Shit. I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," Amias said quietly, though they both knew it wasn't. Not really.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they weren't saying. Zara fidgeted with the hem of the hoodie, pulling at a loose thread. She'd painted her nails recently—a deep burgundy that was already chipping at the edges.
"You good?" she asked again, softer this time. "Like, actually?"
Amias stayed silent for a long moment, trying to find words for the storm in his chest. How could he explain the conversation with Cole? The weight of Em's observations? The way success felt like drowning when you achieved it without joy?
Finally, he turned to face her properly, searching her face. In the lamplight, he could see the concern etched in the furrow of her brow, the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was anxious.
"What did you mean earlier?" he asked quietly. "At the after-party. When you said you don't want me to have to keep boundaries?"
The question hung between them like a held breath. Zara's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, something like panic, then a careful blankness that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I don't..." she started, then stopped. Her hands stilled on the fabric. "That was hours ago. Why are you—"
"Because I can't stop thinking about it," he admitted. "Can't stop thinking about a lot of things, actually. But mostly that."
She looked away, jaw working like she was chewing on words she couldn't quite voice. The lamp cast shadows across her face, highlighting the tension in her shoulders.
"I was just... it was nothing," she said, but her voice lacked conviction. "I was just tired. You know how I get when—"
"Zara." Just her name, but weighted with years of friendship, of knowing each other's tells. "Please. No more dancing around this."
She met his eyes then, and he saw something crack in her expression. "What do you want me to say, Amias?"
"The truth. Whatever it is, just... the truth."
She laughed, but it was brittle. "The truth? You sure you want that?"
"Yes."
"Fine." She shifted to face him fully, crossing her legs under her. The movement brought them closer, knees almost touching. "You want the truth? I meant that I'm tired of pretending. Tired of watching you flirt with other girls and acting like it doesn't bother me. Tired of being professional when all I want is—"
She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.
"All you want is what?" Amias prompted, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Does it matter?" She asked, frustration bleeding into her voice. "We have a good thing going. You're about to blow up—really blow up. You need a manager, not... whatever this would be."
"Do I though?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
"What?"
"I've been thinking," Amias said, the words coming faster now. "Really thinking, for the first time in weeks. About us, about this whole arrangement. And I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest."
She nodded slowly, warily.
"Are you my manager because you want to be, or because it was the only way to guarantee you'd stay in my life when things got crazy?"
The directness of the question seemed to catch her off guard. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"That's not—" She stopped, took a breath. "It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?"
"No!" The word came out sharper than intended. She softened her tone. "I mean, yes, I wanted to make sure we'd still... that I'd still be around. But I also genuinely think I'm good at it. I like the strategizing, the planning. I'm organized, I know you better than anyone, I—"
"But do you want it?" Amias pressed. "Like, really want it?"
Zara was quiet for a long moment, pulling her knees up to her chest. She looked younger like that, more like the thirteen-year-old who'd beaten him at Street Fighter.
"I don't know," she admitted finally. "Maybe both? I like parts of it, but..."
"But?"
"But sometimes I'm talking to you about your brand or your image or whatever, and all I can think is that I don't want to be your manager. I want to be your—" She stopped again, frustrated. "This is exactly why mixing business with... other things... is a bad idea."
Amias stared at her, his heart was already racing because he knew, had known for years probably, but needed to hear her say it.
"Don't make me spell it out," she said quietly. "Please."
"I need to hear it," he said. "Because I've been going crazy thinking I'm imagining things. Thinking maybe I'm just projecting what I want onto—"
"What you want?" She interrupted, eyes widening.
Amias took a breath. This was it. The cliff edge.
"I've been playing games," he said. "With you, with myself. For years, probably. Dating other girls, telling you about them like you're just my friend, like I'm not trying to..." He ran a hand over his hair, frustrated with his own inability to articulate. "I don't even know what I was trying to do. Make you jealous? See if you cared? It's childish."
"You were trying to make me jealous?" Her voice was small.
"Maybe? Yes. Definitely." He met her eyes. "That's messed up, right? I'm sitting here at seventeen realizing I've been playing emotional games since I was fourteen because I didn't know how to deal with you rejecting me."
"I didn't reject you," Zara said quickly. "I just said I wasn't ready to date anyone until—"
"Until you were eighteen, I know." Amias smiled ruefully. "And then I watched you turn down every other guy with the same line, and I thought maybe, just maybe, I was different because you kept talking to me."
"You were different," she said softly.
"How?"
She laughed, but it was watery. "You really gonna make me say it?"
"Please."
"Fine. You were different because I was already interested in you, you idiot." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Happy? I was thirteen and confused, so I made up a rule to protect myself and then had to stick to it because what else could I do?"
The admission hit Amias like a physical force. "Zara—"
"No, you wanted honesty, so here it is." She was on a roll now, words spilling out like a dam had broken. "I hate watching you with other girls. I hate that Kenzo was all over you and I had to watch the stream and be professional about it. I hate that I became your manager partly because I knew if you blew up—when you blew up—you'd have even less time for me, and I couldn't stand the thought of you forgetting about me."
"I could never—"
"You say that now," she interrupted. "But I've know how this works. The tours, the late nights, the people who suddenly want to be your best friend. Everyone wanting a piece of you. And where does that leave me? Your childhood friend who has a crush? Please."
"Is that what you think you are to me?" Amias asked, genuinely hurt. "Just some childhood friend?"
"I don't know what I am to you!" The frustration in her voice was palpable. "Sometimes I think you see me the way I see you, and then you're telling me about some girl you kissed or asking my advice about someone else, and I just... I don't know, Amias. I don't know what we are."
The words hung between them, raw and honest. Amias felt something shift in his chest, like tectonic plates realigning.
"You want to know what you are to me?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, eyes suspiciously bright.
"You're the one I want to tell when something good happens. When something bad happens. When nothing happens." He reached out, taking her hand. She let him, fingers intertwining naturally. "Besides my mother…. you're the person who makes me feel most like myself. Not Amias Mars the rapper, just... Amias."
"Amias..." Her voice was thick with emotion.
"I'm in love with you," he said simply. "Have been for longer than I probably even realize. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
The words seemed to light up the room. Zara's eyes filled with tears she quickly blinked away.
"You can't just say things like that," she whispered.
"Why not?"
"Because we're seventeen."
"Because you're scared," he corrected gently. "So am I. But I'm more scared of not saying it and losing you to this distance we've been maintaining."
She was crying now, quiet tears sliding down her cheeks. "I'm in love with you too," she whispered. "God, I've wanted to say that for so long."
The relief that washed over Amias was almost overwhelming. Like he'd been holding his breath for years and could finally exhale. In his peripheral vision, something shimmered—the System's interface appearing unbidden, glowing with an intensity he'd never seen before.
[HEART ESSENCE: 50% [UNBLOCKED]]
But he pushed it aside mentally. Not now. Nothing mattered right now except the girl in front of him, looking at him like he'd hung the moon despite the tears on her cheeks.
"Come here," he said softly, pulling her into his arms. She came willingly, burying her face in his chest. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt, her shoulders shaking slightly.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled against his chest.
"For what?"
"Crying. Being a mess. I just... I didn't think you'd ever—"
"Hey." He pulled back enough to see her face, cupping her cheek gently. "You're not a mess. You're perfect."
"I'm really not," she said with a watery laugh.
"To me you are."
They stayed like that for a moment, just breathing each other in. Then Zara seemed to remember something, pulling back slightly.
"Wait. What does this mean for... us? The business stuff? I can't be your manager if we're..."
"If we're what?" Amias asked, though he was smiling.
"You know what."
"I want to hear you say it."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. "If we're together. If we're... a thing."
"Is that what we are?"
"I don't know, you tell me. You're the one making declarations of love at three in the morning."
"Four," he corrected, glancing at the clock. "And I meant every word."
Her expression softened. "I know. That's what makes it scary."
"We're still young though," he said, thumb tracing circles on her hand. "Seventeen. People would say we don't know what we want, that this is just hormones or proximity or whatever."
"What do you think?" she asked.
His eyes caught the tattoo on his wrist, the Bible verse seeming to pulse with meaning: Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
"I think we've known each other for six years. I think you've seen me at my worst and still chose to stay. I think love isn't about age—it's about connection, understanding, choosing each other even when it's complicated." He paused. "But I also think we should be smart about this."
"Smart how?"
"Take it slow. We're for each other—I know that in my bones. But maybe we wait until we're eighteen before making it official? Before we take it further..."
"Take it further how?" she asked, but there was mischief in her eyes now.
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't. You'll have to be specific."
"Zara."
She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. Then, before he could react, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft at first, tentative, years of careful distance collapsing into this single moment. Then deeper as he responded, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pulling her closer.
When she pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
"That," she said, slightly breathless. "Nothing beyond that until we're eighteen."
"Just kisses?" he asked, still dazed.
"Just kisses," she confirmed. "Think you can handle that?"
"I've waited six years," he said. "What's one more?"
"Technically it's like eleven months."
"Eleven months of just kissing you? I think I'll survive."
She smiled, but then her expression grew serious again. "What about the manager thing though? For real. I can't be both."
"Then don't be," Amias said simply. "Be my girlfriend. Let me hire someone else to handle the business."
"But I'm good at it," she protested weakly.
"You're good at a lot of things. Doesn't mean you have to do them all." He studied her face. "What do you want, Zara? Not what makes sense, not what keeps you close to me. What do you actually want?"
She was quiet for a long moment, considering. "I want to finish school. I want to go to university, study business or maybe marketing. I want to support your dreams but not lose myself in them. I want..." She met his eyes. "I want to be with you. As your partner not your employee."
"Then that's what we'll do," Amias said. "I'll find another manager. You'll be my partner. We'll figure out the rest as we go."
"It's that simple?"
"Why can't it be?"
They sat there for a moment, the reality of what had just happened settling over them. Then something occurred to Amias—a clarity that came from having his heart cracked wide open.
In his peripheral vision, the System's interface pulsed again:
[HEART ESSENCE: 75% [UNBLOCKED]]
Cole had asked when not making music would hurt more than making it. Right now. Right now, with his chest full of emotions he'd kept buried for years, he needed to create.
"Come with me," he said suddenly, standing and pulling her up with him.
"Where are we going?" she asked, but she was already following, fingers still interlaced with his.
"You'll see."
He led her downstairs, their footsteps quiet on the carpeted stairs. The house was still silent, everyone else lost in sleep. The studio setup glowed softly in the darkness, equipment on standby. Amias flicked on only the necessary lights, not wanting to break the spell of intimacy that surrounded them.
"What are you doing?" Zara asked as he powered on the computer, FL Studio loading with its familiar interface.
"Something I haven't done in years," he admitted, pulling the keyboard from its stand. Instead of sitting at the desk, he lowered himself to the floor, cross-legged, the keyboard balanced in his lap. The position felt more intimate, less formal.
Zara grabbed a bean bag from the corner, dragging it close before settling in. "Are you going to make a beat?"
"No," Amias said, fingers finding the keys experimentally. "I'm going to sing."
Her eyes widened. "Sing? You don't sing."
"I used to." Hiss mind trailed off, not wanting to bring his father into this moment. "It's been years. But right now, I feel like I need to."
The first notes came hesitantly, muscle memory fighting against years of suppression. His fingers fumbled slightly, finding wrong keys before correcting. Then something clicked—maybe it was the emotion coursing through him, maybe it was Zara's presence, maybe it was finally being honest about his feelings—and the melody began to flow.
When he opened his mouth to sing, his voice was rough at first, uncertain. It cracked on the first note, years of disuse evident.
"I don't stand in line, I don't pay for clubs, yeah
But I wait for you"
Even rough with disuse, his voice had something that made Zara's breath catch—honey and smoke, warmth that seemed to fill the small studio.
"I don't like to drink, I don't like to think, ooh
But I ponder you, oh I'm bending it over."
But as he continued, something magical happened. His voice found its register, a rich neo-soul tone that seemed to surprise even him. Zara's mouth fell open slightly, her eyes wide with wonder.
"You're my four leaf clover
I'm so in love, so in love"
He glanced at her on those words, and she had to look away, overwhelmed.
"There's no one above up above
Forever's a long time, yes."
She started swaying gently, instinctively responding to the rhythm. Her hand found his knee, squeezing gently in encouragement when his voice wavered on a particularly high note.
"My blue jeans
Will last me all
My life, ohh yes
So should we"
He looked directly at her during the chorus, the meaning unmistakable. She caught it, her eyes filling with fresh tears, but she was smiling.
"I'm spending all, yeah
This time, ohh."
When he hit the line about spending all this time, she mouthed the words along with him.
"Met you at the arcade, sun was gettin' hot, yeah"
She smiled at the change—arcade instead of shop, their real story.
"I'm in the city on my own
Never would've thought you'd be the one,
I got a homie
But that's the way it goes
I'm reaching Nirvana
Goodbye sweet Rwanda
High school was never for me, yeah I say let it be, let it be
Forever's a long time, yeah."
As he reached the final section, Zara was fully entranced. She'd started snapping her fingers in time, adding her own percussion to his performance.
"My blue jeans
Will last me all
My life, ohh yes
So should we
I'm spending all
This time
You don't even know me
You don't even know me, yes
I'm hanging from the tree
Ahhh Ahhh Ahh-ah-ah."
The last notes hung in the air between them, delicate and profound. In his peripheral vision, the System interface blazed:
[HEART ESSENCE: 100% {UNBLOCKED}]
When he finished, running his hands across all the keys in a flourish that was pure muscle memory, she burst into applause.
"Oh my god," she breathed. "Amias, that was... your voice is..."
"Rusty," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
"Beautiful," she corrected firmly. "Like impossibly beautiful. Why did you ever stop?"
The question hung heavy, but before he could figure out how to answer without ruining the moment, she was already moving on.
"Do another," she said immediately, eyes bright with excitement. "Please. I can't believe I'm the first person to hear this in years."
"Another?" He was grinning now, high on the feeling of singing again, of sharing this piece of himself he'd kept locked away. "What kind?"
"Something more playful," she suggested, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Show me your range. And this time, don't hold back."
He played with a few progressions, humming under his breath, muscle memory gradually returning. His fingers found a groove that felt right—more upbeat, flirtatious. This time when he sang, there was more confidence, a playful edge to his delivery.
"I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me
I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me."
The song was definitely about her—had always been about her. His voice was stronger now, more assured, each run making her bite her lip.
"What you, ooh, uh, what you do?
Made a move, should have made a move
If I knew, would have made a move
Is it too late to pursue?
I bite my tongue, it's a bad habit"
He looked right at her on that line, and she raised an eyebrow.
"Kinda mad that I didn't take a stab at it
Thought you were too good for me, my dear
It's okay, things happen for
Reasons that I think are sure, yeah.
I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me
I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me
Please say to me
Whenever you want it
I wish you wouldn't play with me I wanna know…"
He paused for effect, fingers still dancing on the keys.
"Uh, can I bite your tongue like my bad habit?"
Zara's eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across her face at the suggestive line.
"Would you mind if I tried to make a pass at it?
No, you're always good for me, my dear
Funny it feels meant to be, my dear"
The sincerity in those words made her expression soften even as she kept smiling.
"It's okay, things happen for
Reasons that I can't ignore, yeah
I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me
I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me, oh"
His voice had found its full power now, filling the room with sound so beautiful it made her chest ache.
"You can't surprise me
I'm everywhere, I'm cross-eyed, and I wish I knew you wanted me
You always knew the way to wow me
Mess around, get tongue-tied, and I turn it on, I make it rowdy
Then carry on, but I'm not hidin'
You grabbin' me hard 'cause you know what you found
It's biscuits, it's gravy, babe"
She mouthed 'what?' at the biscuits line, trying not to laugh.
"You can't surprise me
But you know it's biscuits, it's gravy, babe
I knew you'd come around
'Cause you know it's biscuits, it's gravy, babe
Go stupid, go crazy, babe I know
I'll be in your heart 'til the end
Don't beg me, babe."
The last note faded, leaving them both slightly breathless from laughter and singing.
"Well," Zara said, mischief dancing in her eyes, "you can definitely bite my tongue."
He burst out laughing, nearly dropping the keyboard.
"What? I'm just responding to the lyrics you chose to sing to me." She was trying to look innocent but failing spectacularly. "If you didn't want me to comment, you should've made a different song."
"You're trouble," he said, setting the keyboard aside carefully before moving to sit beside her on the bean bag. It was barely big enough for both of them, forcing them to press close together.
"You love it," she countered, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I do," he admitted. "I really do."
They sat there for a moment, processing everything that had just happened. The studio felt like a sanctuary, separated from the world beyond. Just them, the soft hum of equipment, and the lingering echo of music.
"So," Zara said eventually, her voice soft against his shoulder, "I can officially say I'm the first person to hear Amias Mars sing in years?"
"The first," he confirmed.
She lifted her head to look at him. "Why did you stop? Really?"
The question he'd been dreading. But looking at her face, open and caring without judgment, he found he could answer.
"My father," he said simply. "He... didn't think men should sing. Made sure I understood that. Physically."
Zara's face went through several expressions—understanding, anger, sorrow. "Amias..."
"It's okay," he said, though they both knew it wasn't. "It was a long time ago. But the fear stuck, you know? Every time I tried to sing after that, I'd hear his voice."
"But not tonight?"
"Not tonight," he agreed. "Tonight I just heard you."
She kissed him then, soft and sweet, tasting like promises and new beginnings. When she pulled back, she stayed close, forehead resting against his.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For trusting me with that. With all of this."
"Thank you for giving me a reason to sing again," he replied.
The clock on the wall showed nearly 5 AM. Soon the house would wake up, the day would start, the real world would intrude. But for now, in this moment, it was just them.
"We should probably try to sleep," Zara said, though she made no move to get up.
"Probably," Amias agreed, equally stationary.
"Or..." she said, a smile playing at her lips, "you could sing me one more song?"
"Greedy," he accused, but he was already reaching for the keyboard again.
"Always," she agreed without shame. "So? What'll it be?"
And sitting there on the floor of a New York studio, dawn approaching but not yet arrived, Amias Mars sang for the girl he'd loved for six years.
Just music, just love, just them.