When we finally come together on that old leather couch, everything slows down. Time stretches, and all that exists is her weight above me, the way her hair falls forward like a curtain around us, the soft sounds she makes that I want to memorize forever. I let her set the pace, let her take what she needs, amazed by the trust it takes for her to be this open, this unguarded.
“God, Darian,” she breathes, and my name in her voice like that becomes my new favorite song.
I map her responses, learning what makes her arch, what makes her gasp, what makes her fingers dig into my shoulders. She’s music in motion, and I’m just trying to keep up, to be worthy of this trust she’s placed in me.
“Look at me,” I ask again, needing to see her, needing her to see me.
Her eyes open, lock on mine, and the connection is almost too much. This isn’t just bodies finding pleasure. This is recognition. This is two people choosing each other despite every reason not to.
When she comes apart with my name on her lips, I follow her over, lost in the perfection of this moment. We collapse together, breathing hard, skin damp with exertion. The lamp casts us in amber, and I think I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Rye Hayes learning to trust again.
“So,” she says after a moment, laughter creeping into her voice. “That happened.”
“That very much happened.”
“On the green room couch.”
“The historically questionable green room couch.”
She laughs fully then, the sound filling the space like music. “Oh god, we’re never going to be able to look at this couch the same way.”
“Worth it,” I murmur against her neck.
“Yeah,” she agrees softly. “Worth it.”
We lie there tangled together, the too-small couch forcing us closer. Through the thin walls, I swear I can still hear the ghost of our song, those notes we played hanging in the air like a blessing.
“We still need to record it,” she says drowsily.
“The song?”
“Mm-hmm. Before I lose my nerve. Before I start second-guessing every note.”
“Tomorrow,” I promise, running my fingers through her hair. “We’ll record it tomorrow.”
“And then?”
It’s the question neither of us has wanted to ask. What comes after the song is complete? What happens when there’s no excuse to meet in dark venues with whiskey and notebooks?
“Then we write another one,” I say simply. “And another. As many as you want.”
She props herself up on an elbow to study my face. “You make it sound easy.”
“Not easy. But simple. We make music. We make this.” I gesture at the space between us. “We make it work.”
“Despite all the reasons it shouldn’t?”
“Because of all the reasons it should.”
She considers this, tracing patterns on my chest. “I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“But you’re staying anyway.”
“So are you.”
The acknowledgment settles between us like a vow. Whatever comes next, we’re choosing it together.
