He kisses me quiet, and I let him. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll stay. We’ll play. See what happens.”
See what happens. Such a simple phrase for something that feels like jumping off a cliff in the dark. But his hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and suddenly the fall doesn’t seem so far.
We reach for the instruments again, for the music that brought us here, for the connection neither of us quite knows how to name. The venue holds us in its quiet darkness, protective and patient, while we create something new from all our broken pieces.
The song is finished, but we’re just beginning.
darian
. . .
Rye’s fingershover over her notebook instead of picking it up, and I can’t focus on the guitar strings when she’s this close, when I can still taste bourbon and possibility on my lips.
“Play it once more,” she says, but her voice carries a different quality now. Rougher. Like she’s holding something back.
I position my hands on the guitar, but when I glance at her, she’s watching me with an intensity that has nothing to do with music. The candlelight catches in her eyes, turning them to amber, and I forget what chord comes next.
“You’re not playing,” she observes.
“You’re not writing.”
Her notebook lies forgotten on the piano bench beside us. We sit there in the soft light, the space between us charged with everything we just admitted, everything we just promised. The venue feels smaller somehow, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier.
“Darian.” Just my name, but the way she says it pulls me toward her like gravity.
“We should finish the?—”
She sets her notebook aside carefully, deliberately, then turns to face me fully. “The song is finished.”
“There’s still the bridge to polish.”
“The bridge is perfect.” Her hand finds my chest, palm flat against my heartbeat through the henley. “Stop looking for excuses.”
“I’m not. I just—” The words die as she leans closer, her other hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. “Rye, are you sure?”
“I asked you to stay.”
“To play music.”
“Did you really think that’s all I meant?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize I’ve been so careful about not pushing, not assuming, that I missed what she’s been trying to tell me. She asked me to stay. Not just for tonight. Not just for music.
“I wanted to be sure,” I admit.
“Be sure now.” She shifts closer on the bench, our knees pressing together more insistently. “Be very sure.”
I set my guitar aside carefully, leaning it against the piano, then turn back to her. My hands find her waist, steadying her, steadying myself. “Rye?—”
She kisses me, deeper than before, with intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding. When she presses closer, eliminating what little space remained between us, I groan into her mouth, hands tightening on her hips.
“Not here,” she says against my lips. “Not on this bench where anyone could walk in.”
“Where?”
