The question hangs between us while she arranges bottles alphabetically for the third time this week. I wait, watching her jaw work like she’s chewing words she doesn’t want to swallow.
“A finished song,” she says finally. “That’s what we have.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Rye.” I lean forward, elbows on the bar. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly. Her eyes carry the same wariness I’ve seen since that first night, like she’s always calculating escape routes.
“The song is finished,” I agree. “But this isn’t.”
“This what?”
“Whatever’s happening between us that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
She flushes. “I don’t?—”
“You do. Same way I look at you.” I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. “Same way we looked at each other when we were recording and forgot there was a world outside that booth.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the bar’s worn wood surface. “Meeting your family implies things.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re building toward something. Like this matters beyond convenience and chemistry.”
“Doesn’t it?”
The question sits heavy between us. Her face cycles through emotions—want, fear, resignation, hope. She’s been hurt before, badly enough to make her believe that caring leads to losing. But something tells me she’s tired of those defenses, tired of playing it safe.
“I have a daughter,” she says suddenly as if this is an excuse she uses often.
“I know.”
“She’s ten. Musical. Brilliant. The most important thing in my life.”
“I know that too.” I suspect she’s everything like her mom.
“I can’t bring chaos into her world.”
“Do I look like chaos to you?”
She studies my face for a long moment. “You look like everything I told myself I couldn’t want.”
The admission hits me square in the gut. Raw and honest and brave in a way that makes me want to reach across the bar and touch her hand.
“One dinner,” I say instead. “No implications, no expectations. Just good food and people who care about me meeting someone who . . .” I pause, choosing words carefully. “Someone who matters.”
“I matter?”
“You know you do.”
She’s quiet again, the debate playing out across her features. Fear wars with curiosity, safety battles against the possibility of connection.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask suddenly.
“What?”
