Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“We do it honest.”
“No hiding behind the music.”
“No using each other as material.”
“No promises we can’t keep.”
He kisses me again, softer this time. “How about promises we can?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ll be here tomorrow. Like I won’t take anything you’re not willing to give. Like this matters to me more than I know how to explain.”
The words sit between us, heavy with meaning. I think about all the reasons this is dangerous, all the ways it could implode, all the damage we could do to each other. Then I think about the note in my pocket, those seven words that started this. Not just “Let’s finish it,” but the acknowledgment before it. “It’s a good song.” Like he sees the value in what we’re creating. Like he respects it. Like he respects me.
“Let’s finish it,” I say.
“The song?”
“Everything. The song, this conversation, whatever’s been building since you walked into my venue.” I pull back enough to see his whole face. “But Darian?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ghost me after this, I will hunt you down.”
His laugh is quiet, real. “Noted.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere, Rye. Not unless you tell me to.”
Something in my chest loosens at the words, a knot I didn’t realize had been pulled so tight. We sit there in the candlelight, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, while the unfinished song waits on the piano and the finished bourbon sits in our glasses.
“We should work on the bridge,” I say eventually.
“We should,” he agrees, but neither of us moves.
“This is going to complicate everything.”
“Everything’s already complicated.”
He’s right. He has been since that first night when he played like he was trying to exercise demons and I stood there like I could save him. Or like he could save me. Or like maybe we could save each other.
“Play it again,” I tell him. “From the beginning.”
He picks up his guitar, fingers finding position. This time when he plays, I don’t hold back the harmony. I let it exist fully, the way it wants to, the way it’s been trying to since we started. Our voices find each other in the space between notes, creating something neither of us could make alone.
The song builds and breathes and becomes. Just like whatever this is between us. Dangerous and necessary and too late to stop now.
When we finish the last verse, he sets down his guitar and looks at me. “Again?”
I nod. “Again.”
We play it through three more times, each iteration revealing new layers, new truths. By the time the candles dim, we have something complete. Something whole. Something ours.
“You were right,” I tell him quietly.
“About what?”
“It’s a good song. Better than good now.”
“Rye?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For trusting me with this.”
I know he means more than just the song. I know he understands what this costs me, letting him in even an inch. I know because it’s costing him something too, this careful offering of himself without defense or pretense.
“Don’t make me regret it,” I whisper.
“I’ll try not to.”
It’s not a guarantee. Can’t be. We’re both too scared for guarantees, too aware of how easily things break. But it’s honest, and right now, that’s enough.
The candles flicker, casting shadows that dance across his face. I know the complications are waiting. The doubts, the reasons this can’t work, they’re all still there. Right now though, there’s just music and possibility and two people choosing to stop running from something that feels inevitable.
“Stay,” I hear myself say.
“Here?”
“Just to play. We could work on another song. Or finish polishing this one. Or—”
He kisses me quiet, and I let him. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll stay. We’ll play. See what happens.”
See what happens. Such a simple phrase for something that feels like jumping off a cliff in the dark. But his hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and suddenly the fall doesn’t seem so far.
We reach for the instruments again, for the music that brought us here, for the connection neither of us quite knows how to name. The venue holds us in its quiet darkness, protective and patient, while we create something new from all our broken pieces.
The song is finished, but we’re just beginning.
darian
. . .
Rye’s fingers hover over her notebook instead of picking it up, and I can’t focus on the guitar strings when she’s this close, when I can still taste bourbon and possibility on my lips.
“Play it once more,” she says, but her voice carries a different quality now. Rougher. Like she’s holding something back.
I position my hands on the guitar, but when I glance at her, she’s watching me with an intensity that has nothing to do with music. The candlelight catches in her eyes, turning them to amber, and I forget what chord comes next.
“You’re not playing,” she observes.
“You’re not writing.”
Her notebook lies forgotten on the piano bench beside us. We sit there in the soft light, the space between us charged with everything we just admitted, everything we just promised. The venue feels smaller somehow, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier.