“This.” I gesture vaguely—whatever we are, whatever this is between us.
“Ask my ex how much I fucked that up. She could explain it better than me, use a few choice words, I’m sure.” I try to make it sound lighter than it feels, but the knot in my chest tightens. She looks up, eyes kind, the spark of a laugh and that breaks me more than pity ever could. Everything in me wants to stop, to take it back, erase what’s already out. But then I look at her, and I can’t keep it in.
“Emily,” I sigh her name, the way it feels inside, the weight of it still there haunting me. “We met in Paris. She was studying art, came to a show with a friend. She didn’t even know who we were.” I laugh softly, remembering how unimpressed she was. “Maybe that’s what drew me to her. We were nobodies then, first tiny European tour, ten people in the room but we thought we were kings.”
Heavier now: “Neither of us thought it’d be more than a fling. But then, we kept talking. I’d fly back to Paris whenever I could. She’d visit. When she graduated, we got a place here together. Then everything took off. I thought I hadeverythingI wanted. But the truth is… I didn’t know what todowith it.”
She tilts her head, eyes luminous in the dark.
“I broke us,” I admit. “Not the cliché shit like doing lines of cocaine off hookers or throwing guitars around hotel rooms. I wasn’t asaint, either.” I shake my head, let the regrets hold me a moment. “I flirted, crossed lines, tried a fewrecreational substances, but in the end, it was the work that killed it. I got wrapped up in the praise, in the applause.Myself, really. I think being wanted,admired,is better in some ways, than being loved.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
“The real parts get ugly. The stuff that gets you rejected in the end. I’ve spent most of my life pressing those messy parts into songs. Maybeso I can pretend I don’t carry them, like it doesn’t matter?” I almost ask it like it’s something I’ve never considered until just now, never managed to put into words.
She’s still for a long moment. Her fingers find my jaw, just a brush. “Does anyoneever buythat? That you’re just some mysterious musician and not actually just as fucked up as the rest of us?”
“See? This—this is the problem.” I laugh under my breath, barely there. “You see everything. I don’t even know how. Youlookat me like you already know it all. Still debating whether that’s the most beautiful or the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced.”
She shifts, meeting my eyes. “You’re terrified ofme? Or thatyou’llmess it up?”
“Haven’t I already? Just look at what’s happened, the fucking nightmare with Rithy, when all I wanted was to spend time with you. My life feels like impossible chaos sometimes. I’m shocked you’re here right now.”
Her hand slides into mine, fingers fitting like they were made for each other. “You haven’t messed anything up,” she says. “At least, not yet.”
Thatyethangs in the air, not a threat, not doubt, just the truth between us. She’s too smart for illusions. That’s what I like. That’s what will ruin me. Maybe I should be afraid of her, instead.
“I don’t want to make you another casualty of whatever this life does to people,” I say. “Every time I get close to something good, the chaos, all the noise, finds a way in. And you…” I shake my head. “You deserve better than my static.”
She studies me for a moment, her thumb gliding over my knuckles. “Static is necessary,” she says finally. “It’s all the frequencies at once, right? Maybe you just need someone to stay until you can dial it in. Not try to silence it.”
For a second, I forget to breathe. Then she rests her head back on my chest, like the conversation never even broke the rhythm. Outside, the rain starts again. My hand stays on her back, tracing slow circles I don’t even realize I’m making. I know I should sleep, but I can’t. I just watch the ceiling fade from shadow to the faintest blue of morning and think—please, not this time.
Don’t let me ruin this. Not her.
Chapter 42
Hands
Rafe
The morning comes in pieces. Hazy light seeps through the curtains, warm and golden, turning everything soft around the edges. Dust motes drift in the air like tiny planets, caught between worlds.
We didn’t sleep much, too many hours spent talking, drifting, kissing until the line between night and morning blurred. The kind of exhaustion that feels almost transcendent. She stirs first, a groggy noise slipping out as she tries to move.
“I can’t feel… something. Probably a limb.”
I laugh, voice rough. “Try being me. I was your mattress all night.”
That earns me a sideways glare. “Keep talking like I’m dead weight and you’ll be lucky if I ever use you as a mattress again.”
Her voice is dry, that effortless wit sharp even half-asleep, and I swear it goes straight through me. She doesn’t even mean it to sound seductive, but it lands like a spark anyway.
Before I can stop myself, I lean towards her, catching her waist. “Maybe Iwantto be your mattress.”
She laughs, pushing at my shoulder but she doesn’t really resist. “I have morning breath. There’s probably drool somewherehere—” she gestures at my chest “on your nice shirt.” She glances down like she might actually find it.
I catch her face between my hands before she can. “Idon’t care,” I say, voice graveled from lack of sleep, meaning every word.
