“If you ghost me after this, I will hunt you down.”
His laugh is quiet, real. “Noted.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere, Rye. Not unless you tell me to.”
Something in my chest loosens at the words, a knot I didn’t realize had been pulled so tight. We sit there in the candlelight, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, while the unfinished song waits on the piano and the finished bourbon sits in our glasses.
“We should work on the bridge,” I say eventually.
“We should,” he agrees, but neither of us moves.
“This is going to complicate everything.”
“Everything’s already complicated.”
He’s right. He has been since that first night when he played like he was trying to exercise demons and I stood there like Icould save him. Or like he could save me. Or like maybe we could save each other.
“Play it again,” I tell him. “From the beginning.”
He picks up his guitar, fingers finding position. This time when he plays, I don’t hold back the harmony. I let it exist fully, the way it wants to, the way it’s been trying to since we started. Our voices find each other in the space between notes, creating something neither of us could make alone.
The song builds and breathes and becomes. Just like whatever this is between us. Dangerous and necessary and too late to stop now.
When we finish the last verse, he sets down his guitar and looks at me. “Again?”
I nod. “Again.”
We play it through three more times, each iteration revealing new layers, new truths. By the time the candles dim, we have something complete. Something whole. Something ours.
“You were right,” I tell him quietly.
“About what?”
“It’s a good song. Better than good now.”
“Rye?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For trusting me with this.”
I know he means more than just the song. I know he understands what this costs me, letting him in even an inch. I know because it’s costing him something too, this careful offering of himself without defense or pretense.
“Don’t make me regret it,” I whisper.
“I’ll try not to.”
It’s not a guarantee. Can’t be. We’re both too scared for guarantees, too aware of how easily things break. But it’s honest, and right now, that’s enough.
The candles flicker, casting shadows that dance across his face. I know the complications are waiting. The doubts, the reasons this can’t work, they’re all still there. Right now though, there’s just music and possibility and two people choosing to stop running from something that feels inevitable.
“Stay,” I hear myself say.
“Here?”
“Just to play. We could work on another song. Or finish polishing this one. Or?—”
