"My mother taught us all. Before she died. I was… decent."
"Define decent."
"Chopin without looking at the keys."
I sit up straight, my hands flying to his shoulders. "That's not decent. That's GOOD. That's like, recital good."
His gaze drops to where my robe has slipped open. "It was a long time ago."
"Do you still play?" I trace the line of his collarbone with my fingertip, feeling his pulse jump beneath my touch.
He catches my hand, stilling it against his chest. "No."
"Why?"
He shifts slightly, his arm tightening around me. "I was deployed a long time. Not many keyboards in Afghanistan. Then after my father died, there wasn't time. Then there wasn't space. Then I stopped being someone who could make music. It kind of became Dante’s thing after he lost his voice and then it didn’t feel right for me to play anymore."
The words hurt my chest. I think about the boy who played Chopin, wonder if he's still in there somewhere under all that tactical armor. Under the man who can gaze into my eyes while coming inside me but still needs a gun within reach to make breakfast.
"I have something too," I say. "Something from my mother."
I tell him about the watch. Hidden in my drawer since my quinceañera. Rose gold with her initials engraved on the back.
"She gave it to me the morning of my party. Said it was for the woman I'd become." My voice cracks slightly. "I can't wear it. Can't throw it away. Can't even look at it without crying."
"Maybe someday."
"Maybe someday you'll play piano again."
"Maybe."
We sit with that for a moment. Two broken people finding pieces of each other in the wreckage.
The silence stretches between us, comfortable but expectant. His fingers trace absent patterns on my arm, and I watch the sunlight shift across the hardwood floor, painting golden rectangles that crawl slowly across the room.
"Languages," I say suddenly, since I can't wait a moment longer for him to ask about my special talents. "I speak four."
"Four?"
"Spanish, obviously. English. Portuguese from summers in Brazil. And passable Italian from my mother's side."
"When did you learn all that?"
"Mami insisted. Said language was freedom. That you could become anyone if you knew how to speak their words."
"She sounds smart."
"She was. She was everything. Dios, I miss her."
He tells me about his family then. How he calls Marco every Sunday even when they have nothing to say. How he hasn't taken a vacation in seven years. How he doesn't know how to do nothing.
"What would you even do on vacation?" I ask.
"I don't know. I've never thought about it."
"That's sad, Horse Man."
"You could teach me."
