The venue was still waking up when they arrived—cases being rolled in, cables snaking across the stage, that low hum of anticipation settling into the walls. It was soundcheck time, but like always, conversations drifted before anything actually started.
They were gathered loosely near the stage when Mick clapped his hands together once. "Alright, before we start—encore. Let's talk about it."
That got everyone's attention.
For this tour, the encore had become a kind of ritual—something different every night. One song. Something unexpected. Something they hadn't touched in years.
"Suggestions?" Mick asked.
Stevie didn't hesitate. "Silver Springs."
There was a beat.
Lindsey shook his head immediately. "No."
Stevie's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I said no," Lindsey replied, sharper this time. "I'm not doing that one."
"Oh, that's interesting," Stevie shot back, crossing her arms. "Because you get to do Go Your Own Way every night."
"That's not the same thing."
"It absolutely is the same thing."
The tension shifted—subtle at first, then unmistakable.
Mick and John exchanged a look.
"Right," John muttered under his breath. "We'll just—"
"—leave them to it," Mick finished, already turning away.
And just like that, the two of them stepped off, giving the space wide berth.
Because this wasn't just a disagreement anymore.
It was building.
Lori stood off to the side, arms folded loosely, watching. At first, she stayed quiet—like everyone else. This wasn't new. Stevie and Lindsey arguing over songs was practically tradition.
But something about this felt... different.
Sharper.
Stevie stepped closer. "You don't get to shut it down just because it makes you uncomfortable."
Lindsey scoffed. "Uncomfortable? That song is a disaster waiting to happen."
"No," Stevie snapped. "You're the disaster."
The words landed hard.
Lori felt her stomach tighten slightly.
She hadn't been there in 1980—but she'd heard the stories. The Tusk tour. The argument. The guitar.
The way it had almost turned into something worse.
And the way this—right now—was starting to feel just a little too familiar.
"Stevie, drop it," Lindsey said, his voice low, controlled—but strained.
"No," she shot back. "I'm not dropping it."
"Then we're not doing an encore."
"Oh, that's real mature."
"Better than dragging that song back out—"
"Say it," Stevie challenged. "Say why you won't do it."
Lindsey's jaw tightened.
"Because it's a mess, Stevie."
"No," she said, stepping even closer. "Because you can't handle it."
That was it.
The shift.
