But Phil doesn’t look up at the sheet music.
He looks at me.
Not intensely. Not in a way that demands anything. Just present. Steady. His hands move across the keys with careful attention, adjusting instinctively when my timing falters, slowing slightly to meet me where I am instead of forcing me forward.
He’s not leading.
He’s supporting.
The realisation settles somewhere deep in my chest.
I close my eyes.
The next line comes easier.
My voice strengthens, filling the small space between us. I feel the vibration of it in my ribs, in my throat, in the air itself. The years fall away, muscle memory returning in pieces. Confidence rebuilding itself not all at once, but in layers.
He plays softer.
Giving me more room.
The restraint in it is almost unbearable.
I open my eyes.
He’s still watching me.
Not the way men usually look at women when they sing. Not with calculation or evaluation or thinly disguised distraction.
With wonder.
His gaze flicks briefly to my mouth when I shape the next word, then back to my eyes when I notice.
I nearly miss the next cue.
He compensates immediately, stretching the chord just long enough for me to catch it.
Our eyes meet.
He gives the smallest nod.
You’re okay.
I am.
By the time we reach the chorus, I’m no longer thinking about the audition. Or any of the doubts that followed me here.
There’s only this room.
This moment.
His hands.
My voice.
The way the air between us feels charged with something fragile and growing.
When the final note fades, the silence that follows feels louder than the music did.