The studio room off the west wing was darker than the rest of the house.
More intimate.
Less for show.
A small group had gathered—Walker, Miranda, two label executives, and a producer I vaguely recognized from a magazine cover
Landon had once rolled his eyes at.
Landon plugged in his phone with hands that looked calm if you didn’t know him.
But I did.
I knew the tiny tension in his jaw.
The way he flexed his fingers when he was nervous.
The way he avoided eye contact when something mattered too much.
He looked at me once.
Only once.
But it was enough.
That look said:
stay with me.
So I did.
The first song started.
And God.
Even after helping him write half the album, hearing it like this—
fully produced, finished, alive—
still took my breath away.
It was raw and achin
