His hands remain at my waist, warm and steady. His thumb shifts slightly, a small unconscious movement that sends another wave of awareness through me.
For once, I don’t need to tease him. Don’t need to push or provoke or fill the silence with noise.
He’s here.
With me.
Eventually, he steps back.
He takes my hand gently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and leads me inside.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral, as though the last thirty seconds didn’t set off a million butterflies in my stomach.
“Water would be good.”
He nods and disappears briefly into the kitchen while I move toward the piano.
It dominates the room, slightly too large for the space and yet entirely at home in it. Like it has always belonged here.
I take the music sheets from my bag and place them carefully on the stand, smoothing the edges even though they don’t need smoothing.
He returns and places the glass beside me, making sure it rests on a coaster.
“What first?” he asks.
“Living on a Prayer.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Not exactly written for piano.”
“The Crazy Dogs would be deeply offended if I turned up with Mozart.”
He sits on the stool and studies the sheet music for a moment, his fingers hovering above the keys.
Then he begins.
The first notes are tentative, careful, but the muscle memory returns quickly. His hands move with growing confidence, finding their rhythm.
He looks up at me and nods.
I lift my copy of the lyrics, even though I don’t need them. The paper gives my hands something to do. Something to hold on to.
He starts again.
The opening chords are quieter this time, more deliberate. Not performing. Listening.
Waiting for me.
I draw in a breath and begin.
The first words leave me cautiously, like stepping onto ice without knowing how thick it is. My voice is softer than I remember. Smaller.
For a second, panic flickers.
What if I’ve lost it.
What if this is all that’s left.