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)
“Darian.” Just my name, but the way she says it pulls me toward her like gravity.
“We should finish the—”
She sets her notebook aside carefully, deliberately, then turns to face me fully. “The song is finished.”
“There’s still the bridge to polish.”
“The bridge is perfect.” Her hand finds my chest, palm flat against my heartbeat through the henley. “Stop looking for excuses.”
“I’m not. I just—” The words die as she leans closer, her other hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. “Rye, are you sure?”
“I asked you to stay.”
“To play music.”
“Did you really think that’s all I meant?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize I’ve been so careful about not pushing, not assuming, that I missed what she’s been trying to tell me. She asked me to stay. Not just for tonight. Not just for music.
“I wanted to be sure,” I admit.
“Be sure now.” She shifts closer on the bench, our knees pressing together more insistently. “Be very sure.”
I set my guitar aside carefully, leaning it against the piano, then turn back to her. My hands find her waist, steadying her, steadying myself. “Rye—”
She kisses me, deeper than before, with intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding. When she presses closer, eliminating what little space remained between us, I groan into her mouth, hands tightening on her hips.
“Not here,” she says against my lips. “Not on this bench where anyone could walk in.”
“Where?”
“The green room. There’s a couch.”
She stands, taking my hand, and we move through the darkened venue like we’re in a dream. Past the bar where our story started, past the stage where I played my broken songs, to the green room I’ve only glimpsed before.
She flicks on a small lamp, casting everything in warm gold. The couch is there as promised, worn leather that’s probably seen too much history. But I’m not thinking about that as Rye turns to face me, backlit like something holy.
“If we do this,” she starts.
“We’re already doing this,” I remind her. “We’ve been doing this since you warned me not to kiss you unless I meant it.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
She steps closer, fingers finding the hem of my henley. “This changes everything.”
“Everything’s already changed.”
“Not like this.” Her voice catches slightly. “After this, there’s no going back to being strangers who write songs.”
I know what she means. This is the line between possibility and actuality, between maybe and yes. Once we cross it, everything shifts.
“Look at me,” I ask softly.
Her eyes meet mine, and the vulnerability there takes my breath away.
“I see you,” I tell her. “All of you. The manager, the mother, the musician who’s afraid to sing. The woman who builds walls with careful hands. I see you, and I’m still here.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
She processes this, fingers still on my shirt but not moving. Then, decision made, she pulls it up and over my head in one motion. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’m trusting you with this. With me. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” I catch her hands, bring them to my lips. “I promise I won’t.”
Her hands explore my chest with the same careful attention she gives to lyrics, to melodies, to things that matter. When she leans in to press kisses along my collarbone, I have to close my eyes against the intensity of it.
“Your turn,” she murmurs.
I find the hem of her sweater, pull it up and over slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn’t. Instead, she helps, tossing it aside with a confidence that makes my chest tight. In the lamplight, she’s all golden skin and delicate strength.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because she is, because she needs to hear it, because it’s true in ways that have nothing to do with how she looks.
She kisses me in response, and we move together toward the couch, clothes disappearing with careful reverence. When skin meets skin, we both pause, breathing hard, taking in the magnitude of this moment.
“Wait,” I say, pulling back slightly. “Are you sure about this? After last time—”
“Last time was different,” she admits quietly. “That was running away from something. This is choosing something.”
The distinction matters. What happened at my apartment was desperation and anger, two people colliding in the wreckage of their defenses. This is deliberate, conscious, a decision we’re both making with eyes wide open. I frame her face with both hands, making sure she can see my eyes. “We can stop. We can slow down. Whatever you need.”
“What I need,” she says, voice stronger now, “is to stop being afraid of wanting things. What I need is to remember what it feels like to be touched by someone who actually sees me. What I need is you.”
The words undo something in me. I kiss her then, pouring everything I can’t say into the contact. She responds with equal fervor, and soon we’re lost in each other, in the slide of skin and the catch of breath and the perfect imperfection of two people learning each other for the first time.