Cameron Cross didn’t usually write in public spaces.
Studios were easier—soundproofed, temperature-controlled, stocked with guitars and keyboards and everything he needed to coax lyrics into existence. But lately, everything he wrote came out polished, predictable, shaped for what people expected from a Cross brother. He needed something raw again. Human. A melody that didn’t care about chart positions.
So he put on a hoodie, sunglasses despite the overcast sky, and slipped into Eastside Brew, a downtown café that smelled like burnt espresso and freshly baked cinnamon bread.
The first thing he noticed wasn’t the music playing through the speakers or the line of half-awake customers.
It was her.
Jayla Hale moved behind the counter with weary precision, like someone who had learned that
