His eyes flick up at me, sharp and dark. For a second, I forget the chord progression entirely.
I force myself to look back at my fretboard and drag us into a chorus, anything to keep my hands moving while my brain short-circuits. We finish the song, let it trail out into silence, neither of us moving.
Then his knee shifts, brushing the edge of mine. Not intentional. At least, I don’t think so. But my whole body reacts like it was.
I clear my throat, desperate for neutral ground. “So, what do you actually study? You can’t major in basketball.”
He laughs under his breath, low and short. “Business.”
I raise a brow. “Of course. Captain, son of Wisconsin royalty, future CEO.”
His smile falters, and shit—I didn’t mean it like that.
“Hey,” I say quickly. “I wasn’t—look, I get it. Parents shove their vision down your throat, and you either choke on it or find a way to breathe around it. Business isn’t the worst place to land.”
He stares at me for a second longer, then nods, just once. “You’re not wrong.”
I don’t push. Instead, I let the quiet stretch, our guitars still humming faintly between us.
He breaks it first. “What about you? Music major, right?”
“Scholarship kid,” I say, giving him a crooked grin. “My parents worked their asses off to get me here. Every instrument lesson, every recital, every late-night drive to some shitty community theater just so I could practice on a decent piano. Music was the deal. No plan B.”
“Do you want one?” he asks, tilting his head.
“A plan B?”
“Yeah.”
“No.” I meet his gaze and hold it. “I’ve already got the only plan I want.”
Something passes between us then, heavy and electric, like a third note humming under the melody. His cheeks flush again—deep this time, staining the edges of his jawline. And fuck if I don’t feel it in my chest.
I break eye contact first, strumming nonsense until my hands remember they’re supposed to be playing. “So,” I say, keeping my tone unbothered, “what do you do when you’re not running drills or winning games?”
He shrugs, but it’s the most unconvincing shrug I’ve ever seen. “Not much time for anything else.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smirks, faint but real. “What do you want me to say?”
“That you sneak out at night to do slam poetry.”
His laugh startles out of him, genuine and warm, and it does something to me I’m not proud of.
“I don’t,” he says once he recovers.
“Then what?” I press.
He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. “I read,” he says finally. “A lot. Mostly history. Sometimes novels. It’s… quieter that way.”
Quieter. Yeah, I get that.
I nod, and he looks almost relieved. Like he thought I’d laugh. Like he thought sharing even that tiny piece would sound stupid outside his head.
We slide into another song, this one slower, not Metallica or anything flashy. Just chords that stretch into the air, filling the small space between us. His voice surprises me when he hums along—low, tentative, but steady.
“You sing too,” I say, startled into a grin.
