Jackson’s P.O.V.
The morning sun in Fairview hit differently. It didn’t burn the skin like the southern heat I was used to back in California. It was soft, slower. The kind of warmth that made you want to breathe deeper, take longer sips of your coffee, and for once—not run away.
I was doing something I hadn’t done in a long time. Just walking.
No security detail,
no tour schedule.
No fans.
No paparazzi.
And no damn expectations.
Just me and my boots on a sidewalk that smelled faintly like pine and pastries. And a guitar case waiting back at the B&B with two songs scribbled down in the same handwriting that hadn’t produced anything real in months. It wasn’t just the quiet of Fairview or the charm of that creaky old house I was staying in. It wasn’t the waffles Jenna made me t
