Author's Note: Based on promo photos for Wednesday's episode, "She's Got You".

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I.

He saw her before she saw him – walking into the restaurant texting, looking oddly demure in a pair of jeans and a plain yellow coat, her hair pulled into a braid down one shoulder. And, of all things, a pair of brown-rimmed reading glasses sitting on top of her head.

Odd. Will never saw Layla Grant as a girl who wore glasses; too against her image.

Then again. He took off his hat, set it on the table next to his beer. He was one to talk.

She finally looked up from her phone, smiled when she sees him. It occurred to him that it was like she knew where he was this entire time, without ever having to look.

"You gonna pull the chair out for me?" she said. Her smile teased, but her eyes were careful, narrowed. She knew what kind of lunch this was, why he'd really wanted to meet her here.

He stayed where he was sitting.

"I only do that for dates," he said coolly.

Layla arched an eyebrow. The smile on her face didn't falter; there was not an ounce of silliness to it. She slid into the seat across from him, turned to the waiter when he came by and ordered a sweet tea.

"Okay," he said as soon as the waiter had gone. "First thing's first. We gotta get some things straight here."

Layla folded her hands in her lap, widened her eyes. The smile slid away, her expression turned serious.

"Okay," she said. "Shoot."

Will opened his mouth, then closed it again. The way she took to this like a business deal surprised him– though he figured, given that their entire "relationship" was a business deal orchestrated by Layla and sponsored by their record label, he guessed he shouldn't have been so surprised. He already knew Layla was smart, and probably wasn't easy to throw off guard.

Which meant he really had to sleep with one eye open.

"Three things we need to work out before we go further with this 'Layla and Will' thing," he said. He hoped he was making himself look impassive. He'd underestimated her before. Wouldn't let that happen again. Couldn't afford to. "Okay?"

Layla nodded. "What'd you have in mind?"

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Number one," Will said. "We keep this out of our personal lives. This stays on Twitter only. We're not actually dating."

He frowned. "I'm not your boyfriend. What stays between us is strictly business."

"Agreed," Layla said. He couldn't tell if she sounded disappointed or not. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, really.

"Number two," he said, "you don't post anything about us without running it by me first. No photos, no tweets, no little messages…no more hashtag surprises."

Layla bobbed her head in agreement.

"Of course," she said. "And I would expect the same from you, too."

He watched her for a moment. She barely blinked.

"Number three," he said slowly, and lowered his voice, hoping this got his point across. "You leave Scarlett alone. Whatever it is you did at Luke Wheeler's showcase – and I know you did something, so don't deny it – don't do it again."

When Layla's expression didn't change, Will leaned in more closely.

"Scarlett's my friend," he told her. "Just that. Nothing else. But mess with her again, and 'Layla and Will' is done. No matter what Jeff says. Clear?"

Layla's mouth twitched, and for a moment, he thought he thought she might argue. But then her face smoothed over into a look of cool blankness, and she held one manicured hand out to his.

"Deal," she said.

He took her hand, and they shook. He was surprised that someone so small and thin had such a strong handshake.

Then again, a lot of things were surprising him about Layla Grant, recently.

The waiter took their orders. Layla got up to use the ladies room. Will took a sip of his beer, eyeing the restaurant. He was right to choose this place. Quiet. Not in the city. No press, no cameras, no people giving him double takes or whispering behind their hands to each other. Just some faceless chain with generic burgers and cheap beer, with no fancy lighting or fake decorations or trying to be something it wasn't. Bland and boring and anonymous. The perfect neutral corner to do business.

Especially the…less-than-savory kind.

Will's eyes circled the place one more time, sweeping the corners, and then paused a moment before settling on a table in the back, near the kitchen. Four men, around the same age he was, wearing baseball caps and watching the Predators game on the TV mounted on the wall, drinking the same cheap beer he was and talking with each other.

One of the men – tall, with dark hair and a scruffy chin – had his hand rested on the shoulder of the person sitting next to him. A slender guy, dark hair, no hat or jersey.

Will stared for a full minute before he realized what he was actually staring at. Or rather, who.

Brent's eyes caught his, and for an instant it felt like neither of them could look away. His eyes were wide, surprised, and something else Will couldn't pick out but knew he was feeling the same way, whatever it was.

Then the tall guy squeezed Brent's shoulder again, and bent down closer to tell him something. He laughed, and Brent tore his eyes away to laugh with him. He shot Will one last, hasty look before turning to the TV and the conversation with the other men, beers in hand.

Will did the same; turned back to his own beer and the TV above the bar – playing the highlights from last week's college draft – and found the drink had lost all its taste. When he tried to focus on the screen, he couldn't make anything out, just colored blurs flashing across his eyes. It was like trying to focus on something through a rain-streaked window.

Except he could see very clearly – the image of Brent, holding hands with that taller man.

Looked like they were on some sort of double-date.

Will caught himself on his words. Double-date. What was he? A thirteen-year-old girl?

He had to look away from the screen; it was starting to blur. He stared into his beer. His throat suddenly felt bricked shut, the taste in his mouth like iron. He could still feel like he could hear their laughter, from that table all the way in the back.

"Did you know?"

He looked up, startled. Layla was taking her seat across from him, nodding over his shoulder.

"What?"

The waiter appeared. Layla waited until he put down their orders and left before darting her eyes to the table in the corner.

"About Brent," she said. "Did you know he was gay?"

Will almost spit out bite he had just taken of his hamburger. He tried to swallow it down, then started coughing again, almost choking on it.

Layla handed him one of the glasses of water sitting on the table, expressionless, and he gulped it down.

"You okay?" she asked.

He nodded, between coughing jags.

"Fine," he sputtered.

When he could breathe normally again, he tried to keep his voice steady when he asked, "what makes you say that?"

Layla raised her eyebrows. "Apart from the fact that he's five feet away from us, holding hands with another guy?"

Will hoped to God his face wasn't as red as he thought it was. Though maybe she thought it was from the coughing.

Layla looked over at Brent's table. "I always thought it was kinda obvious."

His heart might have stopped there for a moment. "How is it obvious?"

"Ever heard of gaydar?"

He tried not to blink. "Come on, that's a myth."

"Or maybe yours is broken," she countered.

When Will frowned, Layla shrugged. "Look, It's not like it's a big deal or anything. Doesn't matter to me."

She took a fry off of Will's plate. He didn't try to stop her, just watched as she dipped it into the ketchup pooling on the side and took a bite.

"I mean," she said, taking another fry from his meal, "Brent's super-cute. That guy's really lucky, whoever he is."

She nodded in their general direction once again "And he looks like he knows it."

Will's throat suddenly became stuck. He cleared it, maybe too loudly, because the older couple at the table a few feet away gave him an odd look. He turned away, flushed, staring at the rest of his now-cold burger.

"Who's date are we on," he muttered, scowling at Layla. "Ours, or theirs."

Layla cocked an eyebrow. "I thought this was specifically NOT a date."

Before Will could work out a reply, her phone buzzed.

"It's my manager," she said. "Hold on. I gotta take it. Back in a sec."

Will waited until she was out the restaurant door before attempting to look discreet about taking a peek at Brent's table. When he saw the guy with his hand on Brent's shoulder, though, he had to look away, and instead focused intently on the mayo oozing out of his sandwich and towards the bottom of his plate. He took off his hat and set it down on the table next to him, staring at food he was no longer hungry enough to eat, and tried to convince himself that it was something wrong with the food that was tying his stomach in knots.

II.

He could have gone the rest of his entire day without ever seeing Brent or Layla again, but he had a press conference at Edgehill later that night, and if he wasn't there he could kiss the label and his new tour with Juliette goodbye. So he and Layla parted ways for the time being, and Will headed back home to steel himself against being stuck in the house with Gunnar

An hour, tops. Maybe less. As long as it took him to get in, shower, iron his good black shirt, and get out. That shouldn't even take forty-five minutes, if he hurried.

Gunnar's car wasn't in the driveway when he pulled up. Good. Will breathed a sigh of relief; he might actually be able to get in and out without ever needing to deal with one pissy roommate who hated his guts more than usual these days.

He found his shirt in the laundry, soaking wet and clinging to the side of the washer. He scraped it off the side and threw it in the dryer, but instead of turning it on he stared at the dial, the bottle of generic detergent, the stack of towels and Gunnar's dirty clothes piled on top because Scarlett had taken the only laundry bin when she'd moved out.

He was in the same spot where Brent tried to kiss him. The same spot where Will hit him back.

The same spot where Will almost let himself do something else entirely; nearly had.

Because he wanted to.

Without thinking why, he knocked the pile of clothes off the machine in one violent sweep of his arm. They fell to the dirty floor in a heap, shirts and towels scattered. The detergent spilled also; thick and gooey at his feet, all over his new boots.

"Shit," he yelled, as if it was a surprise.

It didn't stop the detergent from pulsing out of the bottle, gushing into the floor. He stared at it, almost mesmerized, watching it spill out all over the hardwood.

Shit. He guessed he ought to clean that up.

He used the towels that were stacked on the dryer to mop up what he can, but the floor was still sticky, and the smell of soap is overpowering. He grabbed the roll of paper towels in the kitchen and tried to clean up whatever else he can, but the floor was still messy, and shit, it'd probably fuck up the floor.

Awesome. Just what he needed right now – another reason for Gunnar to be pissed at him.

He kept trying to mop up the rest of the suds, the slippery thickness trailing all over the floor, when he heard the front door bang, followed by voices. Someone's Will half-recognized but couldn't place, followed by Gunnar's.

Great. Just who he needed to see right now.

The voices got closer.

"Man, you're nuts." The other voice – yep, Will definitely knew he'd heard it before. Just couldn't remember where. "That chorus is fine."

"I still say it's missin' something." Gunnar. "I can't put my finger on it, it's just…I dunno. I still say it's not done all the way."

"It ain't cookie dough! There's no timer that goes off that lets you know it's ready. It's a song. And it was done four days ago. It told you that." The fridge opened and closed, and them there was the pfft of beers being opened, the clink of glass against glass. "You know what your problem is?"

"I can't figure out a good way to end this chorus?"

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder."

Will stayed hunched on the laundry room floor, soapy towel in hand. He thought about ducking behind the washer for a half-second, then realized he was being stupid. They saw his bike in the driveway; they probably knew he was here.

And anyway, they would see him in three, two –

"Oh. Hey."

One.

Will looked up. Two shadows, one tall and one shorter, standing in the doorway of the laundry room. Each holding a guitar in one hand, a beer in the other.

He stood up, tried not to notice the mess on the floor. "Hey."

"Hey." Gunnar regarded him coolly, with that same look he'd given Will ever since the stockholder's showcase. "Didn't think you'd be home."

Will looked at the other shadow, the smaller one. And he finally placed the voice.

Scarlett's ex. That Avery kid.

Short, greasy. Dressed like a douchebag. Weaselly little face, stupid facial hair.

"Uhhh." Avery cleared his throat, then rested his guitar against the wall and reached out a hand towards him. "Hey. I don't think we've ever really been introduced. Avery Barkley. Will, right?"

Will took his hand, tried to keep his voice level. "Yeah. Hey, there. I've, uh, seen you around. At the Bluebird."

"What happened in here?" Gunnar asked, looking around. "Did the detergent explode, or something?"

Will tried to grin. "Yeah," he said, trying to make it out like he was teasing. "Or something."

"Did you get it all cleaned up?"

Will shot him a look. Gunnar didn't flinch.

Avery looked between the two of them, eyebrows raised. Then he grabbed his guitar, stepping out of the doorway.

"I'm…uhhh, I'm gonna go get started," he said, slipping into the living room. He ignored the two of them and busied himself with a tuning job that didn't actually need to be done.

Will peered into the living room. "You guys workin' on a new song, or something?"

Gunnar shrugged.

"Or something," he said coolly.

Will sighed.

"Okay," he muttered. "Okay. Fine. Be that way."

"Be what way, exactly, Will?" Gunnar snapped.

Will dumped the used towels in the washer, slammed the switch on, and brushed past Gunnar.

"You know what," he said, purposely knocking Gunnar into the door frame, "I'ma be outta your way in a second. I just need to grab my shit."

"Great," Gunnar called behind him. "Sooner the better."

Will stalked past Avery, sitting quietly in the living room, and headed upstairs, taking them two at a time. He slammed the door to his old apartment – where he'd been sleeping since the stockholder's showcase – and while he stripped out of his faded jeans and button-down, he could hear the guitar strums and melding harmonies from the two men down the stairs.

So. Apparently, Gunnar had a new best friend.

He slammed the shower door, so hard Will was surprised it didn't break on impact. It didn't really surprise him that Gunnar was in the mood for a new best friend, but seriously – Scarlett's ex? Will was stuck with Layla Grant, his best friend hated him, he no longer welcome in his own home, and the guy Gunnar never stopped bitching about last year was now his new writing buddy.

And most likely, Will realized, a new roommate. Once he went on tour, Gunnar wouldn't be able to afford this place on his own, just by working the soundboard and setting up tables on Open Mic nights. He'd need someone else to chip in, pay the bills. Right now he was paid up until the next month, but when Will came back from Juliette's tour, there was a real possibility that he might not have a place to come home to.

Oh well. Will gritted his teeth. Tried to ignore the tang of iron sweeping through his mouth. Wouldn't be the first time in his life he'd been homeless. Or the second, or the third.

The shower sputtered on him, barely more than a trickle. Will cursed. He always hated this bathroom. One of the perks of Scarlett moving out had been Will moving to the spare bedroom on the first floor and being able to use the bathroom down there. The shower in that one made you feel like you were actually getting clean, not just spit on.

Plus, he thought, gritting his teeth, it would sure as hell have drowned out the sound of the guitars from downstairs. Even with the shower on, he could still make out the way they harmonized, the chords of a song he didn't recognize. Probably a new one they were writing together, because Will knew all of Gunnar's old songs by now.

He remembered when he used to do that with Gunnar. Just the two of them. Drinking beer, playing music, hanging out by the light of the fire, letting the rhythms guide them.

Did Gunnar remember any of that? Did he ever miss it?

Probably not. They hadn't really hung out like that in months. At least, not since Scarlett had dumped Gunnar after bailing them out of jail. And definitely not since the stockholder's showcase.

Hell, they'd barely spoken at all since then. In the past few weeks, Gunnar had found more and more reasons to be out of the house, and between doing shows around town and Edgehill events to promote the upcoming tour, it wasn't like Will was a homebody these days, either.

And even when they did find themselves here at the same time, it's not like Gunnar ever really talked to him. Not even a "pass the ketchup" or "do you have shaving cream upstairs?". Stealing that song had really ruined things between them.

Well, that, Will figured bitterly, and it was probably nice to not have to worry about some dude dive-bombing you in the living room.

After all. Who the hell wanted a fuckin'…whatever the fuck he was…living that close to you, if that's the kind of shit you had to worry about.

No wonder Gunnar had replaced him.

Will slammed his hand against the shower dial, turning up the water as hot as it would go. Which wasn't all that hot, but just hot enough to hurt – which was exactly what he'd wanted, anyway. He let the scorching heat run down his skin like nails, hissing through the ache, and after standing in the steam for so long he got used to the burn.

He didn't realize, until he reached for the soap, the bottle of girl shampoo sitting on the edge of the tub. He looked at it for a moment, wondering why it was still there. He didn't think it had been there the other night, the last time he'd used this shower.

Hadn't Scarlett moved all her shit out of the house a few weeks ago? He thought she was going on tour with Luke Wheeler, anyway.

Will wrapped himself in a towel, patted himself dry, dressed from the waist down. He swiped the steamy mirror with his palm, staring at his blurry reflection.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yeah," Will called, and Gunnar poked his head in. He was holding Will's rumpled, now mostly-dry shirt in one hand.

"Hey," he said. "You left this in the laundry room." He threw it at Will, and it landed on the bed next to him. "Figured you needed it for your little show tonight."

Will narrowed his eyes at him.

"Little show?" he echoed. "As opposed to the big one you're puttin' on tonight?"

It was a low blow, but it had the right effect; Gunnar's face turned red, and Will looked down at his boots, focusing on brushing away some imaginary dirt as he tried not to smirk. It was so easy to wind him up.

"You know, Will," Gunnar said. "You have somewhere to be, so why don't you just go on and get lost."

Will looked at him carefully.

"Oh don't worry," he said. "I will."

Gunnar scowled. "Good."

He turned to walk back down the stairs.

"By the way," Will called, when Gunnar was almost down the steps. "Is Scarlett moving back in?"

That stopped Gunnar in his tracks. "What?"

"Scarlett," Will repeated. "Is she moving back in? Cause I found some girly shampoo in my bathroom. Thought she packed up all her shit weeks ago. Unless she's back and I didn't know about it."

Was it just him, or did Gunnar blush? Maybe that part was his imagination, but Will didn't make up Gunnar clearing his throat and looking away pointedly.

"No, she isn't moving back in," Gunnar said. "She may have just left that here. That's probably what happened."

Why Scarlett would leave her shit in his bathroom was a little beyond Will, but he didn't say anything.

"I could take it to her if you want," Will said. "Y'know. I'm gonna see her tonight, so…"

"No," Gunnar said quickly. "No. I mean, it's not a big deal. It's just shampoo, or whatever. I can just throw it out myself."

Will raised his eyebrows.

"Okay," he said, and wondered what Gunnar wasn't telling him.

Gunnar turned and headed back down the hallway.

Will watched him go, the question bursting on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't help himself.

"Gunnar."

Gunnar turned. "What?" he said, irritated.

Will opened his mouth, closed it again. But he had to know.

"Do you think," he said slowly, "that it would really mess you up?" He stared at his hands. "To see Scarlett with someone else?"

Gunnar didn't look at him. Focused on a spot on the floor instead.

"I dunno, man," he mumbled. "I mean, I'm not her boyfriend anymore, y'know? She's allowed to do whatever she wants. So I guess…no, it wouldn't matter. Not all that much."

Will narrowed his eyes at him. Where did THAT bullshit come from?

Will had been here the night Scarlett turned down his proposal, and had been there in the days and weeks after. The guy had been an absolute trainwreck. He'd acted like Scarlett dumping him was the end of the world; had moped and pouted and acted like a whiney girl for days.

"But you don't think it would bother you at all?" Will pressed.

"It wouldn't mess you up at all. to see her happy with someone else? Knowing that it's not you?"

His voice softened a bit. "And knowing it could have been?"

Gunnar had to be lying. He HAD to. You didn't just get over that, not this fast. You didn't just…wake up and stop caring about someone, like a switch got flipped in your brain. That wasn't how it worked.

Right?

Gunnar just looked at him for a moment.

"I dunno!" he finally said, and put hands on his hips. "Look, man, we're broken up, alright? We're allowed to do whatever we want. S'not like there's any rule that says I can't."

He paused a moment. "Or that she can't. Or…whatever. I don't really know."

Gunnar shook his head, staring determinedly at the ground.

"Not like it matters, anyway," he muttered. "Cause we're both adults."

Gunnar shook his head again, still staring at the floor. When he finally looked at Will, a familiar scorn crossed his features.

"Anyway," he said gruffly, "why is this any of your business? Didn't you say you were leavin'?"

That tone was back. The one that let Will know that, by the way, he didn't forget that he was mad, and no, they weren't friends anymore, and yes, Will was still a fuck-up.

The tone that said: You are still replaced. You are still unwelcome, unforgiven. You are still unwanted.

Will stared him down. Gunnar scowled back. Finally, Will sighed, and grabbed the wrinkled shirt off the bed.

"Whatever, Gunnar," he mumbled, walking past him.

He walked straight past the still-messy laundry room, past Avery sitting quietly on the couch. He grabbed his hat off the table by the door, and walked out without another word.

It made sense, really. That Avery, of all people, was Gunnar's new singing buddy. He was the better singer. Certainly the better songwriter. Will had heard him sing, heard him play at the Bluebird. The guy might have dressed like a Bon Jovi wannabe and needed to get that annoying smirk wiped off his face, but he was a good musician. He could probably write hit after hit after hit...and Will had to steal the only song he'd ever had.

He wasn't an artist. Not like Gunnar, or Avery, or Scarlett. Not like any of those other people he saw singing at the Bluebird; hell, not even like Juliette Barnes, country music's freaking princess of bubblegum and glitter. Will had heard some of the stuff she'd written on her own – she might have worn fruity perfume and shorts that left nothing to the imagination, but that girl could write a song, sparkly high heels or not.

At the end of the day, where did that leave him?

Hell, he already knew the answer to that one. He wasn't anything. He was just what he'd told Rayna James he was – a guy who sung other people's songs.

And anyway. People always replaced each other, right? That was the way it went. Like Jeff replaced half the acts at the label when he took over. Like country acts replaced each other the way some people changed their socks. Like Scarlett had replaced Avery with Gunnar; like Gunnar had replaced Avery with him.

Like Brent had replaced him.

Will swung on his bike, gripped the handles so hard his hands felt raw. If he waited any longer, he'd be late, and the last fucking thing he needed right now was to make Jeff mad at him. Again.

And anyway, Layla was waiting for him.