“You didn’t—” He grabbed for the mop, missed, grabbed again. His face had gone the color of a fire extinguisher. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I would never—I mean, I wasn’t performing, I was just—my daughter, she plays your music all the time, and I guess it gets stuck in my head, and I—”
He was already backing away, one hand raised like he was warding off a lawsuit. Taylor recognized the panic. She’d seen it a hundred times: the fan who thought they’d done something wrong simply by existing in her orbit.
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” she said, and sat down in the nearest seat. Not a power move. A stay-here move. “Which song was that?”
He stopped retreating. Blinked at her like she’d asked him to solve a calculus problem. “Love Story,” he finally said. “My daughter, Ella. She’s twelve. She knows every word to every song you’ve ever written. She plays them in the car, in the kitchen, in the shower. I told her once that I liked the chorus, and now she thinks it’s our song.”
He said our song like he was confessing to a crime.
“That’s sweet,” Taylor said.
“It’s embarrassing,” he corrected. “I’m a forty-four-year-old man who cleans arenas for a living, and I’ve got your lyrics stuck in my head like a teenager.” He finally managed to pick up the mop. Leaned on it like a cane. “I’m Mike, by the way. Mike Hendricks. I’ll, uh. I’ll just get back to work.”
But he didn’t move. Because she was still sitting there, and some part of him knew this wasn’t a moment you walked away from.
Taylor looked at him. Really looked. The way you look at someone when you’ve got nothing to sell and nothing to promote and no cameras anywhere nearby. The work shirt was clean but faded, the collar soft from too many washes.
His hands were rough—the kind of rough that comes from gripping things that don’t grip back. And there was something in his face she recognized. Not fame. Not ambition. Something heavier.
Worry.
The kind that lives in your chest when you love someone and you’re not sure you’re doing enough for them.w
“You said Ella wants to be a singer?” Taylor asked.
Mike’s whole face changed. Softened. Lit up like someone had struck a match behind his eyes. “She’s got this voice, you wouldn’t believe it. She practices in her room with the door closed because she’s shy about it. But I’ve heard her. Through the wall.” He laughed, a short, embarrassed sound. “I stand in the hallway sometimes. Just listening.”
“Does she ever get to go to concerts?”
