As the day progresses, our wordless communication becomes more natural. We explore the woods, our fingers intertwined. Every squeeze, every meaningful glance, speaks volumes.
At one point, Ana stumbles on a root. I catch her, spinning her into an impromptu dance. She laughs, her eyes sparkling as I dip her low.
For a second, I hold her there just long enough for our laughter to tangle. Her hands are clutching my shoulders, mine firm at her waist, and we’re both breathing hard from the surprise of it. When I straighten her, her body fits against mine for a heartbeat too long. Her pulse flutters at her throat, and the sound she makes—half-laugh, half-sigh—slices straight through me.
I bite back a laugh, mostly to keep from kissing her. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and pretends to look away, though I can see the smile she’s trying to hide. We fall back into step, but the air between us feels changed—lighter, charged, full of the kind of promise that doesn’t need words.
Back at the cottage, I grab my battered guitar instead of my flute, then hand Ana her instrument. With a nod, we begin to play. It’s chaotic at first, our styles clashing. But then something clicks. Ana’s classical training melds with my rock sensibilities, creating something entirely new.
The music swells, filling the cottage with a sound that’s part symphony, part power ballad. As the final notes fade away, we stare at each other, breathless and smiling.
God, she looks beautiful when she’s loose and happy. She’s not performing anymore; she’s sharing. And I’m the luckiest bastard alive to be the one she’s sharing it with.
The sun dips below the horizon, marking the end of our silent day. But neither of us speaks immediately. Instead, Ana moves closer, her hand coming up to cup my cheek.
When our lips meet, it’s like coming home. Soft and sweet at first, then deepening with all the emotions we couldn’t express in words.
Finally, Ana pulls back, her eyes shining. “Nyxx, that was… incredible. I’ve never felt so in tune with someone before.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, I smile. “That’s because you were listening with more than just your ears, princess. You were feeling it.”
She nods, comprehension dawning in her eyes. “I think… I think I’m starting to understand what you’ve been trying to show me.Music, life—it’s not just about following the notes on the page. It’s about what’s in here.” She places a hand over her heart.
“Exactly,” I murmur, pulling her close. “And what’s in there is pretty damn spectacular, Ana.”
As we curl up on the couch, Ana’s head on my chest, I realize something has shifted between us. This connection, this understanding—it goes beyond physical attraction or shared interests. It’s something deeper, something so big it scares me.
Outside, twilight has deepened into full dark, the world hushed except for the pulse of crickets and the soft rhythm of her breathing against me. Every inhale seems to sync with mine until breathing feels like a duet. She’s changed the shape of the air in this place—of me. For the first time in years, silence feels like peace instead of punishment.
The room has gone dusky, filled with the faint hum of evening insects and the fading warmth of the day. Ana’s breath is slow and even, her fingers tracing small, absentminded shapes against my chest. Now and then, she hums—a soft, wordless tune that feels like the echo of everything we played together earlier.
I tighten my arm around her and let the quiet stretch. For once, I don’t need to fill it. The music’s still there—just quieter, just ours.
Chapter Fourteen
Nyxx
Ana’s been calm all afternoon, her flute case propped open beside her, pages of sheet music fanned across the bed. The air hums with half-finished melodies. Late sunlight slants through the window, gilding the dust motes—and her hair—when her phone buzzes.
She glances at the screen and freezes. “Artistic Administrator from the Philharmonic,” she whispers, then pastes on a bright voice.
“Clara! Hi—how are you?”
I set my guitar aside. Every inch of Ana’s body says this is important.
At first, her tone is light, almost chirpy. Then, as whoever’s on the other end keeps talking, the brightness drains out of her.
“I see… yes, of course.”
A pause.
“There was avideo?”There’s panic in her voice now. “It wasn’t a performance, just… something spontaneous.”
Her shoulders inch higher with every word. Her breathing goes shallow, clipped.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says softly, and hangs up.
The phone stays in her hand as if it’s turned to stone.
