Nope.
No nostalgia.
No warm fuzzies.
Just fixing this damn song.
And yet, as I shift my grip and adjust the chord, something familiar slides into place.
Like a missing piece.
Like it belongs.
Joel exhales, almost softly.
The sound settles into the space between us.
I hate it.
I hate how easy this is.
Hownatural.
How good it feels.
I grit my teeth and ignore the flicker of warmth in my chest.
I clear my throat, shifting my grip on the guitar, my fingers pressing into the strings, adjusting the chord progression again.
“Try it like this,” I mutter, playing through the new transition, smoothing it out where it had been a little clunky before.
Joel watches my hands carefully, his expression serious for once.Focused.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.“That works much better.”He reaches out, tapping a spot on the fretboard.“But if you move this finger here, I wonder if it’ll give it a little more tension before the resolve.”
My pulse does something stupid, but I ignore it, shifting my fingers the way he suggests.
I play the sequence again, and?—
Damn it.
It’s better.
It’s so much better.
I shoot him a begrudging look, but he just smirks, his fingers twitching like he wants the guitar back.
I roll my eyes and shove it toward him.
“Fine.Your turn.”
Joel takes the guitar, and without hesitation, he picks up where I left off, his fingers finding the notes like he already knew them.Like we were always going to end up here.
He plays through the whole section, adjusting where necessary, and I hate—hate—how easy this feels.
How natural.
How we fall into the same rhythm we used to have, like no time has passed at all.