The moment stretched—just a second—where I wondered if this was too much. Too earnest. Too obvious.
But I’d already crossed that line the second I asked her to meet me here.
I sat on the edge of the blanket, resting the guitar against my knee. The wood felt cool, familiar. Steady.
She leaned back on her hands, watching me like she was waiting for a secret.
“You play?” she asked.
“Not like… impress-people play,” I said. “Just… this.”
“That’s exactly the kind that impresses people.”
I exhaled, fingers finding the strings.
The first chord was soft. Barely there. I kept my voice low when I started to sing—not performing, not projecting. Just enough for her. Just enough to live in the space between us.
A slow ballad. Something old. Something about longing and almosts and the kind of love that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
Her eyes locked onto mine.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t blink.
I sang like I meant it.
Like every word was something I’d been trying to say since the night I saw her across a crowded bar and couldn’t breathe right afterward. Like the song was a bridge and she was standing on the other side.
The candlelight danced over her face, catching in her eyes. The fireflies blinked in time with the rhythm, like they were part of it. Her lips parted slightly, her breath slow and shallow.
I felt it then.
That certainty.
That quiet, dangerous knowing.
Tonight.
This was it.
She shifted closer without realizing she was doing it, drawn in like the sound had weight. Her knee brushed mine. Stayed there.
When I finished the last note, I let it fade instead of filling the silence.
She didn’t clap.
Didn’t speak.
She just reached for me.
Her hand slid into my hair, fingers curling at the nape of my neck, anchoring me. Her thumb brushed my cheek, slow and reverent, like she was memorizing the shape of my face.
“You’re unfair,” she whispered.
I laughed quietly. “That bad?”
“That good,” she said.
