“The green room. There’s a couch.”
She stands, taking my hand, and we move through the darkened venue like we’re in a dream. Past the bar where our story started, past the stage where I played my broken songs, to the green room I’ve only glimpsed before.
She flicks on a small lamp, casting everything in warm gold. The couch is there as promised, worn leather that’s probably seen too much history. But I’m not thinking about that as Rye turns to face me, backlit like something holy.
“If we do this,” she starts.
“We’re already doing this,” I remind her. “We’ve been doing this since you warned me not to kiss you unless I meant it.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
She steps closer, fingers finding the hem of my henley. “This changes everything.”
“Everything’s already changed.”
“Not like this.” Her voice catches slightly. “After this, there’s no going back to being strangers who write songs.”
I know what she means. This is the line between possibility and actuality, between maybe and yes. Once we cross it, everything shifts.
“Look at me,” I ask softly.
Her eyes meet mine, and the vulnerability there takes my breath away.
“I see you,” I tell her. “All of you. The manager, the mother, the musician who’s afraid to sing. The woman who builds walls with careful hands. I see you, and I’m still here.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
She processes this, fingers still on my shirt but not moving. Then, decision made, she pulls it up and over my head in one motion. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’m trusting you with this. With me. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” I catch her hands, bring them to my lips. “I promise I won’t.”
Her hands explore my chest with the same careful attention she gives to lyrics, to melodies, to things that matter. When she leans in to press kisses along my collarbone, I have to close my eyes against the intensity of it.
“Your turn,” she murmurs.
I find the hem of her sweater, pull it up and over slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn’t. Instead, she helps, tossing it aside with a confidence that makes my chest tight. In the lamplight, she’s all golden skin and delicate strength.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because she is, because she needs to hear it, because it’s true in ways that have nothing to do with how she looks.
She kisses me in response, and we move together toward the couch, clothes disappearing with careful reverence. When skin meets skin, we both pause, breathing hard, taking in the magnitude of this moment.
“Wait,” I say, pulling back slightly. “Are you sure about this? After last time?—”
“Last time was different,” she admits quietly. “That was running away from something. This is choosing something.”
The distinction matters. What happened at my apartment was desperation and anger, two people colliding in the wreckage of their defenses. This is deliberate, conscious, a decision we’re both making with eyes wide open. I frame her face with both hands, making sure she can see my eyes. “We can stop. We can slow down. Whatever you need.”
“What I need,” she says, voice stronger now, “is to stop being afraid of wanting things. What I need is to remember what it feels like to be touched by someone who actually sees me. What I need is you.”
The words undo something in me. I kiss her then, pouring everything I can’t say into the contact. She responds with equalfervor, and soon we’re lost in each other, in the slide of skin and the catch of breath and the perfect imperfection of two people learning each other for the first time.
