I deserved every word and I’m going to make the time.
starting now.
I hit send and let the message sit there glowing on the screen like something alive before I drive. The city passes in flashes of light and reflection, streetlamps bleeding through the rain, shop signs flickering past. My mind keeps replaying her voice, the set of her shoulders, the steadiness in her eyes when she told meno.She was the first person in a long time who didn’t take my apology and smooth it over. For some reason it makes me smile, baffled but a littleimpressed.
By the time I reach home, I’m shaking, not from cold but from whatever has been lodged in my mind, finally breaking loose. I drop the keys on the counter, hoodie still damp, shoes still on, and walk straight to the piano. The first few notes are aimless, just sound in a soundless room, until it starts to shape itself.
Miami. Her laugh in the sun. The taste of peach soju still ghosting the back of my throat. The cascade of her dress. The fabric moved,stirred at every breath, every small turn, as if it couldn’t help but obey her. I remember thinking how easily it might slip from her skin, how natural it would be to move together like that, to let our bodies say everything we couldn't. I told her she looked like Persephone come to life, not fragile, but radiant and dangerous. The thought alone pulls at me, my body remembering before my mind can stop it. I adjust, clear my throat, try to focus on another memory to control myself, calm what threatens to bloom into a hardening urge I can’t ignore. But when I close my eyes, I’m back there again.
All of it floods me, every image, every pulse of my blood and body. I play anyway, I let it carry me until the melody finds her, bright at first, then aching, something between worship and confession. I record it before I can talk myself out of it. Just the opening minute, soft keys, a few scattered chords, that thread of her still clinging to my voice. It’s not perfect, but it’shonest.I send the clip with a short message:
don’t know if this counts as effort yet
but it’s what I had to give tonight.
miami. you.
I hit send before I can edit it into something safer. After that, the adrenaline runs out. I go still. The room feels too big, the bed too empty. I pick up my phone again, thumb hovering over the camera. For a second, I think about sending something bold, probably stupid, my body still warm from the ways I'd imagined her. I contemplate a snap of skin, stubble, a reminder of what made her look twice. But it feels wrong, a way to distract instead of penance. So I pull the blanketup instead and snap the photo. I frame my eyes, my hair a mess against the pillow. The kind of picture you only send when you’ve got nothing left to hide behind.
you spend all day looking at eyes what do you see in mine?
I’ll keep talking until you ask me to stop. the words I should have given you
I'll send them all
I stare at the message for a long time before pressing send. Then I set the phone down, pull the blanket tighter, and let the silence do what it always does, settle like a consequence I finally earned.
Chapter 45
Alright, Hades
Rafe
By morning the text bubbles still sit unanswered. It's fair. She doesn’t owe me anything, but it doesn’t stop me from checking the screen every ten minutes like an idiot holding a heartbeat in his hand. Studio time again today, but this time I’m not late. We’re polishing the fan collaboration, just the band, no guests, no fans to smile for, no pretending I’m fine. Thankfully. I need the work, the noise,the distraction.
When I get there, Ronan’s already behind the kit, tapping out something loose and lazy. “Look who survived the night,” he says, twirling a stick. “You talk to her?”
“Kind of,” I say, dropping my bag by the wall. “Iftalkcounts as texting the void.”
He grins, sympathetic, his tone warm enough that it doesn’t sting. “Progress. At least the void gets good material.”
Kiri slings his bass over his shoulder, smirking like he’s been waiting for a reason to stir things up. “Speaking of good material, you know the leader of that Altarettes group? Stef?”
I groan. “The Altarettes? Jesus Christ. That’s the actual name?”
“Don’t knock it,” he says, laughing. “They’ve got followers. My point was, Stef. Dude. She was into you,hard. Practically in your lap a couple times and you were on another planet, didn’t even blink.” He claps my shoulder, half joking, half serious. “I added all of them on IG. Could get her number if you want it?”
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
“Come on,” he pushes, relentless. “Bet she’s a demon in bed. Couple hours with her and you won’t even remember the doctor. You’ll be downing electrolytes, just trying to survive what she’d do to you. Perfect rebound fuck. A thing of beauty.” He laughs, pleased with himself, waving his hands like a sculptor shaping the scene in his mind.
Before I can answer, Rithy cuts in from the corner, tuning his guitar with that measured calm that always hides a blade. “He doesn’t needa rebound fuck, he needs a reality check.”
Kiri elbows him. “You’re supposed to behelping me,little brother, not killing the mood.”
Rithy tilts his head, still focused on the strings. “I guessLady Altarettewould at leastunderstandhis language. Chords, progressions,sound.Not eyes and blood pressures.” He yawns, feigning boredom like Kasia and everything about her life is dull, which earns him a bark of laughter from Kiri until Ronan finally rolls his eyes and snaps the snare in irritation.
“Let the man breathe, you two,shit.”
