RYDER:
It was late—somewhere close to two in the morning—but sleep wasn’t even a whisper in the back of my mind.
Phoenix was passed out upstairs, tangled in one of my old tees, limbs draped across the bed like she’d conquered it. Her sketchbook still rested on the nightstand, a pencil tucked between the pages like a promise she’d be back to it before sunrise.
But me? I was in the office, barefoot, in sweats, a mug of cold coffee untouched beside my laptop.
Final touches.
That’s all it was now.
A few final details standing between us and the opening day of The Phoenix.
I leaned back in the office chair, hands behind my head, staring at the layout I'd mocked up weeks ago—now a breathing, pulsing reality just outside this room’s thin walls.
Custom airbrush stations? Booked.
Local str
