We all look at him. He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Scriabin’s bold. Technically demanding. Emotionally intense. Risky.”
That word lands hard.
Risky.
A sudden twist of panic tightens in my chest. What if he slips? What if the critics are ruthless?
I’m still trying to steady my thoughts when the stage door opens, and Sebastian steps out.
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
He’s... breathtaking. Poised, yet slightly shy, the perfect balance of confidence and vulnerability. His shoulders are straight, his chin lifted, as if he belongs here, and somehow still doesn’t quite believe it.
Black tailored trousers skim his slender frame, and the cream silk shirt he wears clings gently to his skin, open just enough to hint at the soft curve of his collarbones.
His dark curls are partly tied back, a few loose strands framing his face. A thin tortoiseshell headband holds the rest in place. It’s unconventional, almost eccentric. But on him, it’s flawless.
He scans the audience and finds us. His eyes catch mine. They brighten. And then that dimple appears.
I’m lost. Completely, hopelessly lost.
The applause begins. He bows with quiet grace, then takes his seat at the piano. Hands poised. Breath held.
The first note falls into the silence like a drop into still water.
And the world vanishes.
He becomes the music. Every movement, every breath, every tilt of his head tells a part of the story. At times, the sound roars like thunder. At others, it’s barely a whisper. But it’s all him, raw, open, fearless. Played with such truth, it feels almost too intimate to witness.
I forget to think. I forget to blink.
Time dissolves.
He moves from one piece to the next without pause, completely absorbed, radiant with the sheer energy of creation. His forehead glistens with sweat, and his curls, now untamed, frame his face, flushed with effort and emotion.
He’s not just talented. He’s extraordinary. And it’s not just the technique, though that’s immaculate. It’s the way he gives himself to the music. Unreservedly. Unafraid. Every note feels like a confession.
When he finally rises for the interval, the spell breaks. I sink back into my seat, dazed, like surfacing from deep water. Anne leans over and nudges me gently.
“Remi… are you crying?”
I reach up, touch my cheek. She’s right. I nod, smiling faintly, still unable to speak.
“I’ve never heard him play like that,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?” I manage, voice low.
“He’s always been brilliant. But tonight… it’s different. There’s something raw in it. Like he’s letting us see something he usually hides. It got to me.”
“It got to me too,” I murmur, letting out a soft laugh. “Like… like a soaking-wet sock wrung out over my heart.”
She snorts, and we both dissolve into quiet laughter. I’m grateful for the moment of lightness. But then she turns to me, really turns, and her expression shifts. Searching. As if she’s trying to read something I haven’t said out loud.
Luckily, the others return from the bar just in time. Jamie hands me a bottle of water. I take it with a quiet thanks, grateful for the simple gesture.
But it’s not what I need.
What I need, what I ache for, is Sebastian.
