“Sing me something,” she requests, settling back against my chest.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Something true. Something yours.”
I think for a moment, then start humming low and soft. Not one of my old songs or our new one, but something forming at this moment. A melody that tastes like bourbon and possibility, that sounds like walls coming down brick by careful brick.
She hums along, finding harmony even half-asleep, and I marvel at how natural this feels. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
Her breathing evens out, and I know she’s drifting off. But I keep humming, letting the melody carry us both. The building’s old pipes tick and settle in the walls. The lamp buzzes faintly. Normal sounds that feel different now, with her weight against my chest.
I shift carefully, pulling the old quilt from the back of the couch to cover us. Rye murmurs something in her sleep, burrowing closer, and the trust in that unconscious movement makes my chest ache.
“I’ll be here,” I whisper into her hair. “Tomorrow and the day after. As long as you’ll let me.”
The promise hangs in the air like the last note of a perfect song. And as sleep finally claims me too, I think about how Zara was right—hiding isn’t living. How Levi knew music wasn’t my problem. How sometimes the biggest risk is the only one worth taking.
Rye sighs in her sleep, her hand finding mine even unconscious, fingers interlacing like they belong that way. And maybe they do. Maybe this is what it feels like when runningfinally stops making sense. When standing still becomes the bravest thing you can do.
The lamp casts long shadows across the wall, and I can feel myself starting to drift too. Soon there’ll be questions and complications, reality intruding on this perfect bubble we’ve created. But right now, there’s just Rye warm and trusting in my arms, our song complete, our story just beginning.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, that’s enough. More than enough.
It’s everything.
rye
. . .
I wakeup to warm skin and the sound of breathing that isn’t mine.
For a split second, I can’t remember where I am. This couch isn’t mine, and neither is the dimly lit lamp or the gold wallpaper. I close my eyes, thinking it’ll help my focus. There’s a crumpled henley on the floor and an arm draped over my waist. I shift and the arm tightens. I take a deep breath, and that’s when Darian’s cologne—woodsy and warm—washes over me. My body sighs against his until everything crashes back.
The song. The candlelight at the piano. His hands on my skin. Fingers, rough and calloused from years of playing the guitar. Lips, needy and tender, pressed to mine.
Panic hits hard and immediately.
I extract myself carefully, holding my breath as I slip from beneath his arm. He doesn’t stir. In sleep, his face loses that careful watchfulness he wears when awake, and he looks younger. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight.
I grab my sweater from the floor and pull it on, then stand there staring at him. At what we did. At what I let happen.
Again.
The green room feels smaller in daylight, shabbier. The couch where we had sex suddenly looks like what it is: an old leather sofa that’s seen too much, and witnessed too many mistakes. Somehow, I feel dirty, like what Darian and I have done makes me feel like a roadie.
I need to move. I need to clean. I need to do something with my hands before this feeling swallows me.
The venue needs attention. Always needs attention. I can inventory the liquor, check the sound system, count register receipts. Normal things. Safe things. Things that don’t involve sleeping with musicians who play guitar like they’re pulling secrets from strings.
I’m wiping down bottles that don’t need wiping when Darian appears in the doorway, shirt dangling from his hand, hair mussed from sleep and my fingers running through it. I swallowed hard at the sight of his abs. Deep, defined ridges now familiar to my fingers and tongue.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough.
“Morning.” I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the bottle of whiskey in my hands. The same whiskey we shared before he kissed me.
“You left.”
“I woke up.”
