Nick's smirk cuts through the weight of the moment like a blade through butter. "I also did it because I wanted my guitar back. It was passed down to me by a special friend."

A laugh bursts from me, unexpected and genuine, my head falling back as I shake it in disbelief.

"You know you could of just asked for it back?" I say, grinning at the simple truth of it.

"Come on, let's hear something," the teasing edge in his voice making the moment lighter.

Nick smiles before turning to fiddle with the soundboard, his movements precise and practiced. The strings hum under my fingers as I tune, each familiar motion keeping me present to this moment.

"You know," Nick says, his tone casual but carrying weight like storm clouds heavy with rain, "I really do mean it when I say you've got real talent, Nate. Ever thought about making music more than just a side thing?"

I pause, glancing up at him, fingers stilling on the strings. "Never seemed like an option to be honest."

"Why not?" he asks, leaning against the table, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp as broken glass.

I shrug, avoiding his gaze. "I guess my dad always saying music's a hobby, not a real man's job, made me believe it." Saying my Dad leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Nick's face hardens, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. "Your dad is a real piece of work."

I let out a laugh that's more scar tissue than sound.

"You have no idea."

"But do you believe him?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke, making me think harder than I want to.

"I don't know," I admit, running my thumb along the guitar's smooth neck. "I guess I never gave it enough thought. I mean, I've only just started playing and writing again."

"Gotta start somewhere." Nick straightens, crossing his arms as something shifts in his expression. "He came by a few weeks ago. I want to be honest with you. Scott tried to throw his weight around and offered to buy the place out because he thought a wine bar was a 'waste of real estate.'"

Familiar heat rises in my chest, anger burning like acid.

Of course he did. Typical Scott Sullivan thinking money is a skeleton key that can unlock any door, fix any problem, or better yet, control anyone who dares stand in his way.

"Sorry," I mutter, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

"Don't apologize for him, ever. Especially not to me. Guys like that? They'll never be happy. Always chasing something they'll never catch because nothing will ever be enough for them. Don't let that be you, Nate. You're not him. You never were."

I pluck at a string, the note ringing sharp and clear as truth. "Sometimes it feels like it's in my blood, though. Like poison running through my veins."