“Okay,” she says finally. “Wednesday.”
“Wednesday,” I echo, because it suddenly feels like I can breathe. “I’ll text you tomorrow, make sure you don’t change that brilliant mind of yours.”
“You better.”
“You’re first on my agenda,I promise.”
I lean down, kiss her once more, like a seal on the moment. Then she pulls away, laughing under her breath as she heads for the door, helmet tucked under her arm. I stay there long after she’s gone, staring at the empty driveway, sun already bleeding into late afternoon, and all I can think is that Wednesday can’t come fast enough.
Seattle feels different after the cabin. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of everything, the buzz of the refrigerator, the echo of traffic through double-glazed glass, the silence of someonenothere.
I drop my keys on the counter, toss the helmet beside them, and just stand there for a minute. My shirt carries her imprint, rain, perfume, sunlight filtered through skin. I should shower. I should sleep. Instead, I sit at the piano.
My fingers find a few soft chords without thinking, the kind that sound like morning. Every note feels like her laugh, her pulse against mine, her breath catching when she teased me. The words start before I even know what I’m saying, something about warmth, the sun breaking through clouds, how I desperately want to keep it all in a jar like a firefly before it fades. It’s simple,toosimple.But it’s true.
I stop, hands hovering above the keys, and realize, somewhere between the jokes and the chaos, I hadn’t thought. I’dfelt.For the first time in years, I just let it happen. No analysis or exit plan. No filter between us, between the world inside my head and what I gave to her.
She makes me feel unbound in her hands. If it already feels like thisbefore, if my body remembers her without even having the right to, then once it happens, once I’m allowed to have her, there won’t be a particle left in me that she doesn'town.
Maybe that’s what all the masters of poetry meant. The ones who wrote like they were bleeding politely onto parchment. Maybe this is the ache they were translating, thetorture and the magicsitting side by side.
It’s not abstinence, no, something far closer to devotion. That unbearable beauty in wanting and not touching, in the pause before the flood. It’s been years since I was denied anything like this. But, I don’t feel deprived. I feelalive.The suffering’s exquisite, in its way, gorgeous and maddening. The kind of ache that promises a future worth reaching for.
Someone worth reaching for. Her.
Chapter 44
Abducted By Synthwave
Rafe
The next morning, I wake up smiling. Which should’ve been my first warning. The light cuts through the blinds in those soft strips that make everything look gentler than it is. I can still smell her on the shirt I crashed in. I wasn’t ready to lose it, so I slept in it. The kind of scent that makes the rest of the world feel like background noise. Thenrealnoise breaks me out of the daydream, someone starts hammering on my front door.
“Rafe! Get your ass up before I throw a cymbal through the fucking window!”
I groan, dragging myself up, hair a wreck. “Ronan? What are you—what time is it?”
He pushes the door open like he’s my parole officer. “Ten, and before you ask, yeah, you’re late. Fan collab day, the contest winners? Remember?”
I blink, brain catching up. “Oh,shit.”
He smirks, a mix of amusement and pity. “Stefan sent me because you weren’t answering your phone and I'm the only one that knows where you keep your spare key.”
Ronan’s already moving toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s still alive, I think. Move, Obelus. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
Shower. Jeans. Black tee. Eyeliner, smudged enough to hide four hours of sleep. The practiced ritual of pretending to be put together. By the time I sling my guitar case over my shoulder, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m fine.
The studio’s chaos when we get there, caffeine-fueled chatter, pastel-haired fans bouncing in excitement. The four women, a band, musicians in their own right, hide their shaky hands while trying very hard to look normal about standing ten feet from us.
Rithy’s leaning against the soundboard when I walk in, guitar slung over his chest. He looks at me and I can tell he's smirking even underneath the veil. He wore it for the photo opportunities, for the mystique. Everyone we work with has to sign an NDA and keep our faces hidden in photos. He's well aware, he just likes it when the fans are a little in awe of him. When they get to seeHaima,close up.
He loves to play the role of an outcast demigod. Kicked to earth, ready to play, fuck and create chaos. I used to envy it, how he wraps the world in his hands and turns life into a game, but now I'm starting to see cracks in his trickster armor. He narrows his eyes on me when he catches me thinking, staring too long.
“Good of you to join us, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Nice to see you too,” I say. “You tune that thing or just pose with it?”
He flicks a string, lazily. “Wouldn’t want tooutshinethe star.”
