Always Not Enough

Heaven and hell.

Those are the only words I can think of to describe this tragically beautiful moment. My soul feels like it's in heaven because I get to hold this precious goddess in my arms. But it's also hell—because I know it can't last forever.

Fifteen minutes. That's how long we've been laying like this. Awake, aware, and waiting for reality to crash back in. Her heartbeat is steady beneath my fingertips, but I can feel the storm coming.

And like clockwork, my phone vibrates on the coffee table. Alex's name lights up the screen, the ringtone slicing through the fragile quiet.

I sigh heavily, feeling Jupiter stir against me. She lifts her head, her curls spilling over her shoulders like a halo, and her warm brown eyes meet mine. "It's my manager," I explain, my voice tinged with reluctance.

"Oh." She shifts slightly, pulling away. "You should probably get that."

Her attempt to move sends a pang through me, and I tighten my arm around her waist. "Don't move," I murmur, the words low and raw. "It's okay. I'm not ready for this to end yet."

Her eyes search mine, hesitation flickering across her face. But after a moment, she relaxes against me again, resting her head on my chest. My free hand reaches for the phone, and I answer, putting Alex on speaker.

"Good morning, superstar," Alex's gravelly, English-accented voice fills the room, sharp and efficient. "We've got a packed day ahead. First, there's a meeting with the label about the album. Then it's straight to the studio to finalize some tracks."

The words hit like a splash of cold water, dousing the warmth of the moment. I stare up at the ceiling, biting back a groan. The damn album. The one that's been bleeding me dry for months.

"What time's the meeting?" I ask, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

"Noon. So get yourself presentable, sober, and put on that rockstar smile to charm the execs." Alex's tone is clipped, no-nonsense, like he's already bracing for me to push back.

As Alex speaks, Jupiter's hand carefully rises and caresses the side of my face, her fingertips soft and delicate. God, please don't let me screw this up.

My jaw tightens, but I nod anyway. "Got it. See you soon, mate."

I end the call, tossing the phone back onto the coffee table. The silence that follows is heavy, like the room itself is mourning the loss of the fragile peace we'd carved out.

Jupiter props herself up on her elbows, her gaze soft and searching as she looks at me. There's something in her expression—sincerity, pity, maybe even a trace of understanding. Her hand rises slowly, her fingertips brushing against the side of my face, featherlight.

"I forgot how different you sound when you're talking to them," she says quietly, her tone gentle but probing.

I frown. "What do you mean?"

She tilts her head, her curls brushing against my arm. "Your voice changes. It's more… polished, like you're wearing a mask."

Her words hit deeper than I expect.

"Jupe, that's just... it's just how it is," I say, running a hand through my hair. "You know what the industry's like. They don't want Malyen Grayson. They want Malyen Raynes. And Raynes? He's a product. A brand. He's what keeps the label happy and the fans screaming."

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, she doesn't say anything. Then, softly: "But that's not who you are."

I swallow hard, her words striking a nerve I didn't know was still raw.

"It's not that simple," I say, my voice quieter now. "Raynes is the one they see. He's the one who gets to be everything Grayson never could."

Her gaze sharpens, her brows drawing together. "Everything you think he couldn't be, or everything you're afraid to be?"

The question slices through me, leaving my chest hollow.

"Jupe..." I trail off, unable to find the words. Because she's right.

She always has been.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly as she rests her chin on her arms. "I'm not saying it's easy, Mal. But you don't have to keep running from who you are. Not with me."

Her words are a balm and a blade all at once.

"Do you even know who I am anymore?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn't answer right away, her gaze searching mine. "You're the boy who held my hand through every storm. The boy who taught me to play the guitar even though I was terrible at it. The boy who kissed me under the glow of plastic stars and promised me the moon." Her voice wavers, but she doesn't look away. "That's who you are, Mal. And I don't care what name you use to hide from the rest of the world. I just want him back."

My throat tightens, and I have to look away, blinking against the sting in my eyes.

"God, Jupe." I shake my head, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

She doesn't respond with words. Instead, she leans forward, her forehead resting against mine. Her breath brushes my lips, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us.

"No more running," she whispers.

Her words settle in my chest, heavy and certain, and for the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe.

The sharp chime of my phone breaks the moment, Alex's name flashing on the screen again.

"Mal, we really need to go," Jupiter says softly, her voice laced with understanding.

I nod, my jaw tightening. "I'll fix this. I promise."

She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know."

I leave her apartment feeling like a man caught between two worlds—the one I've built as Raynes and the one I've been running from as Grayson.

And for the first time, I'm not sure which one I belong to.

The hum of the studio equipment was a far cry from the quiet sanctuary of Jupiter's loft. The air smelled like stale coffee and ambition, the kind of atmosphere that gnawed at my nerves. The headphones weighed heavy around my neck as I sat on the edge of the booth, my acoustic guitar balanced on my lap, the strings vibrating faintly from the weight of my hand.

The studio lights were harsh, buzzing faintly, and the console in front of me blinked with cold, unfeeling precision.

The studio buzzed with low chatter. Alex leaned against the console, his shirt crisp as ever, his phone in one hand and a coffee in the other. He always looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ instead of in a recording studio. His brow furrowed as he scrolled through something, likely some chart predicting how much this album needed to perform to keep the label happy.

He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow. "You've got something to say, or are you just admiring my impeccable taste in suits again?"

"Neither." I smirked, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "I've got a track I want to lay down."

"Of course you do," Alex said, setting his phone aside and folding his arms. "Something polished and marketable, I assume?"

"It's called 'Eclipse of You.'"

His jaw ticked at the corners, but his expression didn't falter. "Right. And this song? It's not another self-indulgent dirge, is it?"

I sighed, already feeling the familiar pull of frustration. "Just give it a chance. It's different."

Trav, sitting by the soundboard, perked up. "Oh, yeah. I remember the demo for that one. It's good. Real good."

Alex shot Trav a sharp look before turning back to me. "Fine. Let's hear it. But if this track is some moody ballad about how your soul aches for the moon, I'm telling you now—"

"You'll what? Scowl me to death?" I muttered under my breath, earning a glare.

The studio fell silent as I adjusted the mic and settled my guitar in my lap. My fingers hovered over the strings, nerves tingling with something that felt a lot like hope.

Alex leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as he studied me with a look I couldn't quite place.

I played the first chord, letting the sound settle before my voice followed:

"In the quiet of the night, I'm chasing shadows,

Every chord I play, it aches for your echo..."

The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered. Every note was for her—the girl who reminded me who I really was.

The melody swelled, the lyrics crashing into the chorus with a force that felt like ripping my chest open:

"You're my golden hour, my sweetest eclipse,

The gravity pulling my heart to your lips.

Every light, every shade, you're the truth in my lies,

The storm in my soul, the calm in my skies..."

When the final chord faded, the silence that followed was thick, hanging like the weight of the song itself.

Trav broke it first. "Damn. That's... something else."

One of my bandmates nodded. "It's got that pull, y'know? Like it stays with you even after it ends."

I glanced at Alex, whose expression was unreadable. He didn't speak for a moment, just stared at me like he was deciding whether to chew me out or let me off easy.

Finally, he let out a breath. "It's good. Really good."

The room shifted slightly, the tension easing.

"But," Alex added, his tone sharpening, "good doesn't always mean it's going to sell."

My frustration flared, but before I could argue, Alex raised a hand. "Listen to me, Mal. This track? It's personal. I get it. It's probably one of the best songs you've written in years. But personal doesn't always translate to commercial."

Trav jumped in, frowning. "With all due respect, Alex, that's a bullshit take. People want songs like this—songs that feel real."

Alex turned to him, his voice calm but pointed. "And you think I don't know that? I've been in this industry longer than you've been plugging in cables. I know what works and what doesn't. This business isn't about what people want; it's about what we can sell them before they move on to the next thing."

"I'm not looking to churn out disposable crap," I said, my voice rising. "I want to make something that matters."

Alex stood, his full height adding weight to his presence. "And you think I don't want that for you?" His voice was low, sharp with emotion. "You think I've spent the last eight years fighting tooth and nail to get you here because I don't believe in you?"

His words hit like a punch to the gut.

"Do you even remember where you were when I found you?" he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Some kid playing to half-empty bars, thinking he could make it on charm and a cheap guitar."

"I remember," I said quietly.

"Good. Because I do too. I remember the fire you had—the determination. And I remember your sister, sitting backstage with her sketchbook, waiting for her brother to be the star she already knew he was."

My chest tightened. Alex had always been more than a manager. He'd been the one to see potential in me when no one else did. The one who fought for me, even when I didn't deserve it.

But sometimes, that closeness made his words cut even deeper.

"You're better than this, Mal," Alex said, his voice gentler now. "But if you want the world to see it, you've got to find a way to make them care."

The room was quiet again, the air thick with unspoken things.

"I want this song on the album," I said, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest.

Alex studied me for a long moment before nodding. "Alright. We'll see what we can do."

It wasn't a promise, but it was enough.

As the session wrapped up, I lingered in the studio, my guitar resting against my knee. Alex paused by the door, his expression softening.

"You've got something special here, kid," he said. "Don't waste it."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the weight of his words and the song still ringing in my ears.