“And immediately started cleaning.”
Now I do look at him, prepared to snap about making assumptions, but his expression is more curious than accusatory. Like he actually wants to know what I’m thinking.
“The venue opens in three hours. There’s work to do.”
He leans against the doorframe, watching me attack the bar with unnecessary vigor. “The bar’s been clean since Jovie closed it last night.”
“There’s always something.”
“Rye.”
I pause in my scrubbing, shoulders tense.
“Talk to me.”
The request is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. If he were demanding or pushy, I could build defenses against that. But gentleness slips past walls.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
I set down the rag and finally face him fully. He’s still beautiful in the morning light, still looks at me like I’m music he wants to learn. It would be easier if last night had been a mistake, if the connection felt forced or desperate in daylight. Instead, I can still feel the weight of his attention, the careful way he listened to every sound I made.
“I’m thinking that this complicates everything.”
“Does it?”
“Of course it does.” I gesture between us. “We’re not casual people, Darian. I don’t know how to do this halfway.”
He slips his shirt over his head with deliberate, slow movements. “What would doing it all the way look like?”
The question catches me off guard. I expected him to argue or reassure or push. Not to ask what I actually want.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at wanting things and keeping them.”
“What if you didn’t have to choose?”
“Everyone has to choose.”
He walks closer, stops at the bar but doesn’t cross into my space behind it. Respecting the boundary even as we talk. “What if we finished the song and saw what happened?”
“Just that simple?”
“Just that simple.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe it could be uncomplicated, that we could write music together without the rest of it getting messy. But I know better. Know how quicklycreative partnerships turn into dependencies, how artistic intimacy bleeds into everything else.
“Music stays music,” I say finally. “No distractions from real work.”
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to catch. “Okay.”
“I mean it. I have a business to run, a daughter to raise. I can’t afford to get distracted by whatever this is.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
He meets my eyes steadily. “You’re protecting what matters most. I get it.”
