“Don’t talk.”
My fingers find the buttons of his jeans, and yank—hard—working them open with hands that shake slightly.
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m not sure about anything. But I need this.”
“Need what?”
To feel something other than careful. To remember what it’s like when someone touches you because they want to, not because they think they should.
“You. Right now.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, searching for something I’m not sure he’ll find. “Rye?—”
I silence him with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against his until he groans into my mouth. My shirt hits the floor. Skin against skin, heat building between us with the same intensity that filled the room when we played music together.
His hands map my body like he’s learning a new song—careful attention to rhythm and pressure, finding the places that make me arch against him. When his mouth follows the path of his fingers, I forget why I came here in the first place.
This isn’t about the notebook or the song or creative theft. This is about the way he listened to my music like it mattered. About being seen by someone who understands the difference between entertainment and art.
We move toward his bedroom, shedding the rest of our clothes along the way. The bed is unmade, sheets twisted like he’s been having the same restless nights I have. Sunlight streams through gauze curtains, painting geometric patterns across our skin.
He kisses me like he owns all the time in the world, hands exploring with the same careful attention he gives his guitar. When I reach for him, he catches my wrist gently.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want to stop thinking.” The admission scrapes out rougher than intended. “I want to forget everything except this.”
“Just this?”
“Just this.”
He understands what I’m not saying—that this isn’t about promises or futures or anything beyond the immediate need for connection. This is about two people who found something unexpected in each other’s music and want to explore what else they might discover.
When he moves over me, settling between my thighs, something loosens in my chest that I didn’t realize was locked tight. His body against mine, inside me, creates a rhythm that matches the harmony we found at the piano. Like we’re continuing the same conversation in a different language.
I lose myself in the movement, in the way he responds to every sound I make. When release builds in my core, spreading outward through my limbs, I don’t think about consequences or complications. I just let it happen.
Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets that smell like sleep and possibility. His arm curves around my waist, fingers tracing patterns on my hip that resemble music notation.
“I needed that.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Good.”
“Not good. Honest.” I turn to face him, studying the way afternoon light plays across his features. “I don’t want you to think this means anything more than what it was.”
Something flickers across his expression—disappointment, maybe, or understanding. “What was it?”
“Two people who got caught up in the moment.”
“Is that what you want it to be?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
“It’s what it needs to be.”
He nods slowly, gets up and gives me a fine view of his very nice ass, and disappears into the other room, leaving me there to wonder if I just made another mistake.
