"Easier said than done."
"Most worthwhile things are."
He studied me. In the low light, his eyes looked more blue than gray, and I was acutely aware of how close we were. How thin his t-shirt was. How myborrowed clothes carried his scent and I'd been breathing it in all night.
"Will you play for me?" I asked.
"Willow—"
"Just one song. Anything. I promise I won't critique."
"You critique everything."
"I'll make an exception. Temporary amnesty for piano performances at 2 a.m."
He hesitated. I watched the war play out across his face—the wanting and the fear and the years of telling himself this didn't matter.
Then he lifted the cover.
His fingers found the keys, and he started to play.
The melody was unfamiliar—classical, I thought, but I didn't know enough to place it. What I knew was that it was beautiful. Rusty, like he'd said. Imperfect. His fingers stumbled over passages they'd once known by heart. But underneath the rust was skill, and underneath the skill was joy.
He'd missed this. I could see it in the way his shoulders loosened. The way his breathing changed. The way his eyes half-closed as muscle memory took over.
When the last note faded, neither of us spoke.
"That was beautiful," I said.
"That was sloppy."
"Both can be true."
He closed the cover, but his hands stayed on the wood. "I haven't done that in years."
"How did it feel?"
He considered the question. "Like remembering who I used to be."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I'm not sure yet."
We sat there, side by side on the piano bench, the city glittering below us. My shoulder pressed against his arm. His thigh lined up with mine. Every point of contact felt electric.
"Callum," I said.
"Yes?"
"I should go back to bed."
"You should."
"I'm not going to sleep."
"Neither am I."
I turned my head. Found him already looking at me, his face inches away, his eyes searching mine for permission or refusal or answers neither of us had.
