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)
When we finally come together on that old leather couch, everything slows down. Time stretches, and all that exists is her weight above me, the way her hair falls forward like a curtain around us, the soft sounds she makes that I want to memorize forever. I let her set the pace, let her take what she needs, amazed by the trust it takes for her to be this open, this unguarded.
“God, Darian,” she breathes, and my name in her voice like that becomes my new favorite song.
I map her responses, learning what makes her arch, what makes her gasp, what makes her fingers dig into my shoulders. She’s music in motion, and I’m just trying to keep up, to be worthy of this trust she’s placed in me.
“Look at me,” I ask again, needing to see her, needing her to see me.
Her eyes open, lock on mine, and the connection is almost too much. This isn’t just bodies finding pleasure. This is recognition. This is two people choosing each other despite every reason not to.
When she comes apart with my name on her lips, I follow her over, lost in the perfection of this moment. We collapse together, breathing hard, skin damp with exertion. The lamp casts us in amber, and I think I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Rye Hayes learning to trust again.
“So,” she says after a moment, laughter creeping into her voice. “That happened.”
“That very much happened.”
“On the green room couch.”
“The historically questionable green room couch.”
She laughs fully then, the sound filling the space like music. “Oh god, we’re never going to be able to look at this couch the same way.”
“Worth it,” I murmur against her neck.
“Yeah,” she agrees softly. “Worth it.”
We lie there tangled together, the too-small couch forcing us closer. Through the thin walls, I swear I can still hear the ghost of our song, those notes we played hanging in the air like a blessing.
“We still need to record it,” she says drowsily.
“The song?”
“Mm-hmm. Before I lose my nerve. Before I start second-guessing every note.”
“Tomorrow,” I promise, running my fingers through her hair. “We’ll record it tomorrow.”
“And then?”
It’s the question neither of us has wanted to ask. What comes after the song is complete? What happens when there’s no excuse to meet in dark venues with whiskey and notebooks?
“Then we write another one,” I say simply. “And another. As many as you want.”
She props herself up on an elbow to study my face. “You make it sound easy.”
“Not easy. But simple. We make music. We make this.” I gesture at the space between us. “We make it work.”
“Despite all the reasons it shouldn’t?”
“Because of all the reasons it should.”
She considers this, tracing patterns on my chest. “I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“But you’re staying anyway.”
“So are you.”
The acknowledgment settles between us like a vow. Whatever comes next, we’re choosing it together.
“Sing me something,” she requests, settling back against my chest.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Something true. Something yours.”
I think for a moment, then start humming low and soft. Not one of my old songs or our new one, but something forming at this moment. A melody that tastes like bourbon and possibility, that sounds like walls coming down brick by careful brick.
She hums along, finding harmony even half-asleep, and I marvel at how natural this feels. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
Her breathing evens out, and I know she’s drifting off. But I keep humming, letting the melody carry us both. The building’s old pipes tick and settle in the walls. The lamp buzzes faintly. Normal sounds that feel different now, with her weight against my chest.
I shift carefully, pulling the old quilt from the back of the couch to cover us. Rye murmurs something in her sleep, burrowing closer, and the trust in that unconscious movement makes my chest ache.
“I’ll be here,” I whisper into her hair. “Tomorrow and the day after. As long as you’ll let me.”
The promise hangs in the air like the last note of a perfect song. And as sleep finally claims me too, I think about how Zara was right—hiding isn’t living. How Levi knew music wasn’t my problem. How sometimes the biggest risk is the only one worth taking.
Rye sighs in her sleep, her hand finding mine even unconscious, fingers interlacing like they belong that way. And maybe they do. Maybe this is what it feels like when running finally stops making sense. When standing still becomes the bravest thing you can do.
The lamp casts long shadows across the wall, and I can feel myself starting to drift too. Soon there’ll be questions and complications, reality intruding on this perfect bubble we’ve created. But right now, there’s just Rye warm and trusting in my arms, our song complete, our story just beginning.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, that’s enough. More than enough.