“Back to the loft?” I ask.
“Please. Melody probably staged a coup by now.”
We walk the two blocks hand-in-hand, afternoon light at our backs, carrying the lingering heat of salsa.
Back inside, I lead Nora down a short hallway off the living room—marble floors underfoot, recessed lights gradually brightening as we go. At the end is a matte-black door covered in stickers from every grimy club I ever sweated in. I tap the Jimi Hendrix decal, then push the door open.
“Welcome to the real chaos.”
She steps inside and stops cold. The ceiling isn’t high, but the walls curve in subtle angles—acoustic treatment disguised as modern art. Guitars hang like a private constellation: vintage Tele, scar-notched Les Paul, a tiny parlor Martin I bought with my first royalty check. Keyboards line one wall, a baby grand crouches under a dim Edison bulb, and cables coil everywhere like black ivy.
“Wow,” Nora breathes, fingers hovering over a rack of effect pedals. “It’s like stepping inside your brain.”
“Messy, then?” I grin, crossing to a worn leather stool. “Messy, but functional.”
I grab the parlor Martin—mahogany body glossy from years of bar sweat and tour bus bumps—and tune by feel. The room goes velvet-quiet except for the micro squeak of steel strings under my callouses. Nora perches on a padded amp, eyes wide, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows. The soft yellow lamplight catches the dust in her hair like glitter.
“Will you play something?” she asks, voice hushed.
I nod, throat tight. “Acoustic version of ‘Anchor Storm’? Haven’t done it unplugged in a while.”
“That’s the song you closed with at Madison Square,” she says, surprise lighting her eyes.
My chest does a slow, implausible flip. “I guess someone did their research recently.”
She blushes and admits: “I had to. After I found out who you really are. And then I couldn’t stop listening.”
I clear my throat, thumb a G chord so soft it trembles rather than rings.
I start slow—no drums, no crowd roar—just the spine of the tune: a steady heartbeat bass note under a descending minor line. My voice follows, lower, stripped of stage grit:
“Lights go down but the echo stays, I’m stuck in the hum of yesterday…”
The lyrics spill out easier than they do in arenas. Maybe because she’s listening like every word is worth cataloguing. Nora folds her hands atop her knee, breathing in rhythm.
Halfway through, I steal a glance—her lashes flutter with each chord change, and when the chorus swells she presses a hand over her heart, almost unconsciously. My gut tugs, something between triumph and terror. The song softens into the bridge, a confession dressed as melody:
“I was a storm with no harbor in sight Until you dropped anchor inside the night.”
I let the final chord breathe, strings ringing out into the angled silence. for a moment the only sounds are Melody’s soft mews as she settles on Nora’s lap and the thud of my own pulse in my ears.
Nora exhales like she’s been underwater. “That sounds… completely different without the amps. Beautiful. Vulnerable.” Her voice cracks on the last word; she clears her throat, embarrassed.
I set the guitar on its stand, palms suddenly slick. “That bridge never lands right in a stadium. Too many lights.” I shrug, trying for casual. “You make for a better crowd.”
She offers a small, stunned smile. “That’s the nicest compliment anyone’s ever given me while I’m covered in cat hair.”
I laugh, tension breaking. “Stick around long enough and I’ll top it.”
She scoops Melody, stands, and crosses the few feet between us before I can inhale. Her free hand slides up my chest—tentative, purposeful. “I think I’d like that.”
Heat flares under my sternum, but I keep my promise to take it slow. I cover her hand with mine, anchor it over the thrum of my heartbeat.
“Then we’ll make it a long set,” I murmur, leaning forward to brush a light kiss—barely lips, more breath—against her temple. Her skin prickles, though the room is warm.
Melody chirps, an adorably disgruntled third wheel. Nora laughs, stepping back with the kitten tucked like a football. “Your number one fan demands sound check is over.”
I bow to the tiny tyrant. “All right, roadie. Enough music.”
