I play the transition once more. This time, I allow the line to strain. The note trembles at its edge before finding center.
“Yes,” he says, low. The sound of approval lands deeper than it should. He doesn’t step away immediately.
For a brief second, I’m acutely aware of how easily he could remain there. How natural it would feel to lean back into the steadiness of him.
The thought unsettles me, heat curling low. I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw him—heard his concerto. When he withdraws, I can breathe again, but my pulse still races.
“The cadenza doesn’t resolve anything,” he grumbles. “It exposes what can’t be repaired.”
I lower the violin slowly. “And you’d rather leave it unexposed?” I challenge.
We’re not speaking about concerti anymore.
His gaze darts to mine. The storm thickens outside. “You should leave before the road disappears.”
“I don’t like driving in snow.”
We both know that’s not true.
He looks at the window again, measuring the whiteout. “Probably already too late,” he says.
There’s resignation in it now. Not reluctance.
“Until the road clears,” he continues, measured, “I’ll work through the transition with you.” He pauses, then repeats,“Just the transition.”
“Thank you,” I say, more breathy than I should.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts the piano lid. The sound of it opening feels intimate. Private.
Outside, the mountain buries the path I climbed in powdery stillness. Inside, the fracture he refuses to name has already begun to widen.
Chapter
Three
REED
The storm settles in as if it intends to stay. Wind shushing against the roof, ice tapping the windows.
By morning, the road is gone. Snow has filled the narrow track that winds down the ridge, smoothing it into an unbroken slope of white. The sky hangs low and heavy, pressing the mountain into silence.
I’ve seen storms like this before. They move slowly, patiently. The kind that bury fences and swallow the posts whole.
Inside the cabin, the air carries the quiet weight of confinement.
Ivy Callahan stands by the window with her violin tucked beneath her arm, studying the storm as though measuring it. She smells of lilacs and regret. Regret for what I can’t be for her.
“You won’t be leaving today,” I say.
She glances back at me. “I assumed that.”
“Then, why didn’t you take better precautions?”
She arches an eyebrow. “You mean, not come up here?” That’s when her eyes drop to the flannel draped over my arm.
“No, dress more warmly,” I correct, draping the warm fabric over her shoulders.
Her exhale is too soft, too needy.
