“But I’m not sorry I did it.”
The admission hangs between us like a challenge. He should be sorry. He should be apologetic and deferential and willing to destroy everything he created using my music. Instead, he looks at me like someone who knows he crossed a line but would cross it again if given the chance.
“You should be sorry.”
“I know.”
“You stole from me.”
“I collaborated with you . . . without permission. There’s a difference.”
The distinction matters in a way I don’t want to examine. Because collaboration suggests partnership, shared creation, the kind of musical intimacy I haven’t allowed myself to want in years.
“That’s not a collaboration. That’s theft.”
“Is it?”
He moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that the question becomes less about the music and more about whatever builds in the space between our bodies.
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you asked me to delete it?”
The question stops my breath because he’s right. I should have demanded he erase every trace of the song the moment I found it. I should have made him promise never to use my music again. Instead, I asked him to play it for me.
“Because you’re good at making me forget why I’m angry.”
“Are you angry?”
I consider this, trying to untangle the emotions coursing through my system. Anger, yes, but also something else. Something that resembles recognition. Like being seen by someone who understands the language I speak most fluently.
“I was angry.”
“What are you now?”
Scared. Excited. More turned on than I’ve been in years.
“Confused.”
He reaches up, fingers barely brushing my cheek. “About the song?”
“About a lot of things.”
“The music?”
“The music. You. This.” I gesture at the small space between our bodies, the electric tension that’s been building since I walked into his apartment.
His thumb traces along my jawline, a touch so light it might be my imagination. “What about this?”
Instead of answering, I kiss him.
Nothing gentle or tentative or resembling what first kisses are supposed to be. This is desperate and hungry and driven by months of loneliness I didn’t realize I carried. His hands find my face, fingers threading through my hair as he kisses me back with matching intensity.
I taste coffee and something else—surprise maybe, or relief, or the specific flavor of getting something you didn’t know you wanted.
His body presses against mine, backing me against the wall beside his bookshelf. Stacked books dig into my spine, but I don’t care because his mouth moves along my neck and his hands find the hem of my shirt.
“Rye.” My name sounds different in his voice, lower and rougher than five minutes ago.
