“Ugh, men,” she says, exasperated. “You don’t get it.”
I tilt my head up at her from the bench. She’s close now, standing over me, and for a second, everything feels suspended. Sunlight, breath, the air between us. Then I do something I probably shouldn’t. Something the old me would’ve done without thinking.
I reach out and slide my hand along her throat, not pressure, just presence, a line of contact that asks more than it takes. She leans into it, I feel the faint pressure build behind my grip. My voice drops, rough and dark. “I thought this was more the reason,” I say, “not the aesthetic?”
Her lips part. She lifts her hand, lays it over mine. Her pulse flutters under my fingers, quick and alive. I squeeze, just a little. Everything condenses in that moment: the flash of heat, the places it could go, the instinct. The blood beats loud in my ears.
Then I close my eyes, trying to repress all the thoughts that threaten to take control. My body a traitor, straining and hardening. When I open them, she’s smirking, the challenge written all over her. Waiting for me to make it real. But I don’t, I draw my hand down, slowly, grazing all the things I'm denying myself along the way. Her fingers follow until both fall away and we finally breathe again. I clear my throat, turning back toward the piano, my voice catching in a forced normalcy.
“So. Right. Where should I put my hands?”
She stays still for a long moment, frozen in that line we almost crossed. Then she exhales, stepping closer.
“Here,” she says finally, moving my hands into place, and then the shutter noise from her camera clicks.
“Well?” I ask.
She turns the screen toward me. It’s me at the piano, head slightly bowed, hands resting on the keys. The light cuts across the room in bands, catching the outline of my jaw, my wrist, the texture of the wood. It looks candid and posed at once. The kind of shot that makes you think someone knows the person behind the lens.
“It’s good,” she says, proudly. “Looks like something real.”
I study it, then glance up at her. “You’ve got an eye.”
She shrugs, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I like fixing focus.”
The joke barely hides the pulse still running between us. I look back at the screen, thumb hovering.
I type a few words, then show her:Finding the right dial on the static.
She studies it, then nods once. “Post it before you ruin it by thinking.”
I hit upload. The little spinning circle turns, and the post goes live. Almost instantly, the notifications start lighting up, hearts, comments, the usual flood. She leans on the piano, watching, amused.
“Oh no,” she murmurs, reading one. “They’ve already started the detective work. Who took it? Where is he?” She laughs, soft and wicked. “You’ve unleashed chaos.”
I glance back at the photo. “We’ll just… enjoy knowing.”
“Asecretbetween artists.”
I lock the phone, set it down on the piano, and reach for her hand. “Come on. If I’m the one on breakfast duty, I need supervision.” She laughs, threading her fingers through mine.
“What’s the plan, maestro?” she says, stretching like she’s shaking off sleep.
I groan. “You think I have a plan?”
“You have a kitchen, don’t you?”
“Allegedly.” I open the first cupboard, two mugs, a jar of honey fossilized into amber, and something that might once have been rice. “What would your parents make right now?”
She laughs, leaning against the counter, hair still a little wild. “Tata would fry kielbasa and eggs in enough butter to terrify a cardiologist. Mama would pretend to be horrified and then add fruit to the table to balance the guilt.”
“That sounds edible.”
“Yours?”
“My mum made rice porridge with honey when I was a kid,” I say. “My father just drank black coffee and said things like,‘Breakfast is for people who slept.’”
She smirks. “That explains a lot.”
