The building will be a fortress before nightfall.
Lucky moves around inside, barefoot, guitar slung low across her body, notebook open. She hums quietly, tentative. Better than yesterday. Must be because I’m here, breathing the same air, watching, covering.
I stand, brush sawdust from my jeans, and walk inside. She looks up, half-smile, eyes tired but alert. I close the gap between us in measured steps, hand resting lightly on the table near hers.
“I’m moving in,” I say, clipped, no room for argument. “Temporarily. Security measures. Don’t make me ask twice.”
Her gaze flickers, hesitates, then a slow nod. She’s been trying to keep her mind on her music, and I respect that. Good.
I glance at the notebook, the messy scrawl of chords and lyrics. “You writing new stuff?”
“No,” she says softly. Voice low. “I’m not going back… not to the industry. I don’t know what I’m doing. Music… It’s just… what my soul needs right now. But I can’t focus.”
I step closer, feet brushing the edge of the rug where she sits. My tone softens, the soldier inside taking a quiet backseat to the man who’s already seen how fragile she can be.
“You don’t have to go back,” I say. “Don’t let anyone dictate how you do it—ever. Write the songs you want to write. Play the music you need to play. Nobody else matters.”
Her fingers hover over the strings, unsure, hesitant. “I… I don’t know if I can,” she admits, gaze falling. “I’ve been… broken for so long, I don’t know where to start.”
I crouch down and reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, thumb resting lightly on her cheek. “Start anywhere. Your way. No stage. No cameras. No deadlines. Just you and the music. One chord at a time.”
Her lips twitch into a small, grateful smile. She stands, sets the notebook on the coffee table, and strums softly, unsure at first, then with more confidence. The sound fills the room—quiet, imperfect, alive.
I stand behind her, arms crossed, watching, silently. She’s finding her voice again. Her rhythm. Her self. And I’m here, guarding it, guarding her.
Because nothing else matters right now.
Not Scheifer. Not the past. Not anyone else.
Just this room. Just this music. Just her.
Every imperfect chord she plays on her guitar is alive, real, and it makes my chest tighten.
I take a slow step closer, hands still crossed, but I can’t stop thinking about how much she’s given herself to me already—her trust, her fear, her heart. And I realize I’m done hiding mine.
“Lucky,” I say quietly, letting my voice catch in my throat, “I need you to know… I care about you. More than I probably should. More than anyone should care about anyone. And I don’t want to lose you.”
She stops mid-strum, head tilting back, eyes opening slowly. Her expression is a mix of surprise and… something softer. Vulnerable.
I let my arms unfold, stepping closer until I’m just behind her, close enough that my chest nearly brushes her back. My hand hoversnear hers, resting lightly on the edge of the guitar—not touching her, not yet—but close enough that she feels me.
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” I say, low, careful. “I’m not asking for a promise, or a move, or… anything. Just… know how I feel.”
Her shoulder shifts slightly against me, tiny, unconscious. Her hair brushes my fingers when she breathes, and I feel that pull—the pull of her, of her body, her fear, and her trust.
Then she leans back a fraction, just enough that the heat between us is undeniable. I can smell her, my shower gel she used earlier at my place, hear the subtle catch in her breath, and my restraint falters. My hand drifts to the small of her back, anchoring her gently.
She puts her guitar down, turns, and her lips find mine before I can even process it. They’re soft, tentative at first, but she presses closer, all of her—the tension, the trust, the need—folding into me. My other hand lifts to cradle the back of her head, keeping her near, keeping her safe.
The world narrows. The cabin, the music, the past, the stalker, everything—it’s just us. Her lips move against mine with desperation, with relief, with a kind of raw honesty I’ve never known before.
And I let it take over. Her hands fisting in my shirt, her chest pressing to mine. I lean into her, deepening the kiss, letting her weight shift onto me, feeling her trembling. She’s fragile, scared, alive. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be: the one holding her together.
Her lips part against mine, and I feel it—the raw, urgent need she’s been holding in, the way she presses closer like she’s been starving for this. I slide my hands down her back, letting them rest on her hips, anchoring her to me, feeling her shiver.
She presses herself harder, and my restraint cracks. My thumb brushes along her spine, tracing the curve where her shirt rides up, and I feel the heat radiating off her. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in lightly, desperate for contact, for connection, for me.
I tilt my head, deepening the kiss, letting it become a conversation without words. Her body molds against mine, and for the first time, she’s not hiding, not guarding, not pretending. She’s just… Lucky. And she’s mine to protect, to hold, to let her feel whatever she needs to feel.
