The look she gives me is impossible to read and for a second, my brain goes entirely the wrong direction.
“Kasia,” I start, voice hushed in surprise, half teasing but mostly serious. “If this is about to turn into—”
She cuts me off with a laugh, already pulling me down beside her. “We still have to do the picture first, remember? Before your manager sends a search party.”
I’m still catching up when she moves again, stretching out along the couch and settling her head in my lap. For a second, my heart jumps like she might be proving me right after all, and then—
“No post of justme,” she says, holding up her phone. “We’ll dothisinstead.”
She lifts the phone, the sunlight catching across the lens. I glance up just as she snaps the picture, her head resting against me, my hand sliding through her hair, both of us half-lit in morning haze.
She checks the photo, grins. “Now we have one of us both.”
I look down at her, at the way she looks in the light, unfiltered, unguarded. The kind of moment that could never survive what the internet would do to it.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We do.”
She starts to sit up, but before she can move away, I reach out and catch her wrist, pulling her gently back toward me.
“Rafe—” she starts, half laughing. “We still have a PR crisis to manage, remember?”
“Later,” I say, and it comes out lower than I intend.
She laughs and tries to twist free, but I hold her there, just enough to make her pause. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. She looks at me, brow raised, like she’s deciding whether to tease or surrender. Then she exhales, and it tips, that invisible point where humor becomes heat. She pushes me back instead, reclaiming her balance, straddling my hips before I can process it. Her hair slips forward over her shoulders, and the world doesn't exist beyond the one she’s just made for us, beneath her canopy.
I can’t help it, my mouth opens of it’s own accord. “No painter could capture you like this,” I say, staring up at her, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Even Vermeer would’ve given up.”
Her eyes flicker, startled and amused at once. “You can stop seducing me,” she whispers, but her mouth is already finding mine.
The kiss is immediate and deep, opening to each other in all the ways that matter, all the tension from last night collapsing into it. Both of us are completely lost until her phone slips from her hand, landing with a soft thud on the rug. Mine’s next. It feels real and unstoppable,when you know you’re past the point of pretending. Then I pull back, breath catching. She looks at me, eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted like she’s about to call me a coward.
I brush her hair back from her face. “Trust me, I don’t want to stop either. But we have to get this damn photo uploaded first. The last thing I want is to be interrupted in the middle ofthat—with you.”
She blinks, caught between frustration and understanding. Then she sighs, resting her forehead against mine.
“Fine,kurwa,” she whispers. “If your manager calls again, I’m blocking him.”
I laugh softly, pressing a kiss to her temple, still breathing her in. “Full permission.”
She pauses for a moment, then stands, dragging me up reluctantly before shoving me towards the piano.
“Hands on the keys,” she says, circling behind me like a director setting a scene.
I raise an eyebrow. “Specific.”
“Artistic,” she corrects, deadpan. “You’re a musician, people need proof.”
Her voice has that edge of teasing that gets under my skin. I settle on the stool, flexing my fingers, and she leans against the frame of the piano, studying me. “Your hands are one of your best features,” she says, pretending to be casual, feigning innocence.
“Yeah, I figured that out when I saw all the videosdedicatedto them,” I say.
She blinks, caught between shock and amusement. “You’ve watched those?”
“I’vebeen sentthose,” I correct, smirking. "Ronan thinks it's fucking hilarious."
She laughs, but there’s a blush creeping up her neck, and I can tell she’s seen them too. She tries to hide it, fiddling with the camera app. I watch her try to look unaffected, and it only makes her look softer, more real.
I look down at my hands, turn them over, study the lines, the veins. “Is it really that big of a deal?”
