His thumb keeps moving, the smallest motion that somehow affects every nerve in my body. “I’m not exactly uncomplicated myself.”
“This is just about the song.”
“If that’s what you need it to be.”
I look at him then, really look at him. There’s no performance in his expression, no carefully constructed musician’s mask. Just him, tired and talented and patient in a way that terrifies me.
“Don’t kiss me unless you mean it,” I hear myself say.
His hand shifts from my wrist to cup my face, thumb now tracing my cheekbone with the same gentle certainty. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“I mean it, Darian. I can’t do casual. I can’t do meaningless. I can’t do another person who takes what they want and disappears.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Instead of answering with words, he leans in slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull back. I don’t. I meet him halfway, and when our lips touch, it’s nothing like that desperate collision in my apartment. This is deliberate. Conscious. A choice we’re both making with eyes wide open.
He tastes like bourbon and possibility. His hand in my hair is steady, grounding. When I make a small sound against his mouth, he pulls back just enough to look at me, checking, always checking that this is okay.
“The song,” I manage.
“Can wait,” he finishes.
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“What were you going to say?”
I take a shaky breath. “The song deserves better than us using it as an excuse.”
He considers this, hand still tangled in my hair. “You’re right.”
“So if we’re doing this?—”
“We do it honest.”
“No hiding behind the music.”
“No using each other as material.”
“No promises we can’t keep.”
He kisses me again, softer this time. “How about promises we can?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ll be here tomorrow. Like I won’t take anything you’re not willing to give. Like this matters to me more than I know how to explain.”
The words sit between us, heavy with meaning. I think about all the reasons this is dangerous, all the ways it could implode, all the damage we could do to each other. Then I think about the note in my pocket, those seven words that started this. Not just “Let’s finish it,” but the acknowledgment before it. “It’s a good song.” Like he sees the value in what we’re creating. Like he respects it. Like he respects me.
“Let’s finish it,” I say.
“The song?”
“Everything. The song, this conversation, whatever’s been building since you walked into my venue.” I pull back enough to see his whole face. “But Darian?”
“Yeah?”
