The validation shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Most people, especially men, take boundary-setting as a personal challenge. Something to negotiate or work around. Darian just accepts it.
“So we finish the song,” I continue. “Record it, make it good, then that’s it.”
“That’s it.”
“No late-night sessions that turn into something else. No bourbon and candlelight. No repeating last night on green room furniture.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The couch thanks you.”
Despite everything, I almost smile back. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” He picks up his guitar case, slings it over his shoulder. “When do you want to run through the song again?”
“Tonight. After closing.”
“I’ll be here.”
He moves toward the door, and I should feel relieved. I should be happy that he’s respecting my boundaries, taking theterms I’ve set without argument. Instead, I feel something that might be disappointing.
He pauses at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. “Rye?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t regret last night. Even if it never happens again.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, leaving me alone with the smell of his cologne and the echo of guitar strings that still hangs in the air.
I stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away. The rational part of my brain approves of how I handled this. Clean boundaries, clear expectations, protection for the things that matter most.
After he’s gone, I find myself walking back to the green room. The quilt is folded neatly on the couch arm. The lamp is off. Everything is back to normal, except for the indent in the leather where our bodies pressed together, the lingering warmth of shared space.
I reach out without thinking, my palm finding the back of the couch where his shoulders rested. The leather is still warm.
This is what I want to avoid. This moment of reaching for something that’s already gone, of missing something I told myself I didn’t need. I’ve been down this road before, I know how it ends. With broken promises and stolen songs and the kind of heartbreak that makes you forget why you loved music in the first place.
The smart thing would be to call him, cancel tonight’s session. Finish the song on my own if it needs finishing, or leave it incomplete. Incompleteness is safer than whatever comes after completion.
But as I pull my hand away and head back to the bar, I can’t shake the memory of how he looked at me when I set my terms.Not disappointed or frustrated, but understanding. He’d rather have me on my terms than not have me at all.
It’s been a long time since someone respected my boundaries without making me feel guilty for having them. Most men hear “no” as a negotiation starting point. Darian just heard it as information and adjusted accordingly.
That should make me feel better. Should make the decision easier.
Instead, it makes everything more complicated.
The venue won’t open itself, and there’s inventory to finish, supplies to order, a dozen small tasks that keep this place running. I throw myself into the work, letting the familiar routine steady my nerves. Check the beer coolers, count register cash, review tonight’s booking schedule. Normal things that have normal solutions.
But when I pass the piano later, checking that the bench is properly positioned, I catch myself humming. The melody from last night, the one we built together note by careful note.
I stop humming immediately. Music stays music. That’s what I said, what we agreed to.
But the song keeps playing in my head anyway, stubborn and persistent. It wants to be finished. Wants to exist in the world as more than just memory and possibility.
Maybe that’s what I’m really afraid of. Not that working with Darian will complicate things, but that the song we’re building together might actually be good. Good enough to matter. Good enough to change something.
I’ve been hiding behind this bar for years, convincing myself that managing other people’s music is enough. That keeping the venue running is contribution enough to the world of songs and stories. But last night, sitting at that piano with someone who heard what I was trying to say and helped me say it better, I remembered what it felt like to create something new.
That’s the real danger. Not Darian himself, but what he represents. The possibility that I might still have something to say, something worth saying. The chance that the voice I buried under years of practical concerns and protective instincts might still exist, might still matter.
