And as much as she might be, she’s the one who took the time to be considerate. To take care of me after a long day’s work.

Can’t say anyone has ever done that for me before. Or rather, maybe I’ve never given someone the opportunity to do that.

There’s something to be said about that, but my brain’s too tired to recognize it.

I peel back the foil, and the scent of garlic bread hits me. My mouth waters as I move to the other side of the island and pull open the warming drawer to find a plate loaded with pasta and what looks like a bolognese.

Jesus. The woman knows a way to a man’s heart.

Have I eaten since breakfast? Hell. No wonder I’m starving.

I grab the plate, sit down and dig in. Homecooked meals are a rarity for a guy like me. Sure, I have a chef prepare meals for me and leave them in my fridge, but it’s not like this. Not even close.

This is a million times better than what I normally grab with one of the guys. We’re the take-out kings when we’re writing an album, but they’re crazy if they think I’d share any of this with them.

The first bite is as good as the food smells. The woman can bake and cook. Lucky fucking me.

My phone vibrates on the counter. Thirty something missed texts? Fuck me. I skim through the ones that matter as I eat and fire off responses to the guys and their bullshit razzing over why I’m MIA. Most of which have to do with Hendrix. A majority of them cruder with each unanswered text.

Fucking assholes.

But I finish my texts and my food with a grin on my lips.

She should have told me she cooked. I would have eaten with her. Kept her company. The thought strikes as I’m washing my dishes, and I realize how inconsiderate I’ve been to her.

I asked Hendrix to pack her life up for me and yet, I haven’t made any adjustments to mine. If the roles were reversed, I’d revel in the solitude and the silence I’ve left her to have. I’d spend all day in my head creating music or drinking beer by the pool and relaxing.

But she’s not me. She’s without her comforts, without her normal surroundings, and honestly, she’s forbidden to really tell anyone where she is. So does this feel like a prison to her? Being cooped up in this house where everything is someone else’s and that someone else never seems to be around?

Yeah. No doubt it does.

It doesn’t matter how nice a house is, the walls can still feel like confinement. I know that for a fact. That’s how I first felt when stardom struck and I was struggling to adjust.

But then she goes and does this.

I scrape a hand down my face and exhale harshly.