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The melody evolved through my fingers as the words continued to take shape, line after line, verse after verse, nothing grand or dramatic, only devastatingly honest. By the time I reached the chorus, my hand slowed.

The truth stared back at me from the page.

This wasn’t just a song. It was a confession.

On impulse, I picked up my phone from the coffee table where I’d left it. There was only one person I trusted to do this song justice. I opened my messages and typed.

For when you wake up. I want you to take a look at something.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Julian: What makes you think I’m asleep? And why are you awake at 3 in the morning?

I could ask you the same question.

I just got home. I got invited to a sex party. What’s your excuse?

I glanced at the notebook next to me. I wrote something.

Three dots.

Do I get any more than that?

I wrote a song.

Three dots. *That* kind of something.

I exhaled slowly. If I send it, can you look at it tomorrow?

The typing bubble appeared again.

Send it now.

This assumes you can read my scrawl.

I snapped a photo of the page and sent it. Thirty seconds passed.

This is beautiful. Is there music?

Yes.

Can you send that too?

Give me a minute.

I clicked on voice recorder, set my phone down, and played the whole thing. I sent the recording.

OK, I’ll listen in the morning.

I chuckled as I typed. It *is* morning.

We can talk about this in rehearsal. Night.

Apparently, Julian had run out of either words or steam.

I left my phone of the table and crept back to the bedroom. Quinn was still curled on his side, one arm stretched across the space where I’d been lying earlier.

I slid back into bed beside him, and within seconds he shifted closer, pressing against me.