Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
His fingers rest lightly on the keys, no longer playing but not pulling away either, like breaking contact would end something neither of us is ready to lose.
“You have an amazing voice,” he says.
The words settle into me more deeply than any applause ever has.
I smile, suddenly shy.
“Thank you.”
He hesitates.
I can see the thought forming before he speaks.
“Do you trust me?”
The question is simple.
But it isn’t.
He isn’t asking about the music.
He’s asking about him.
“Yes,” I say.
He begins again.
Slower this time.
The familiar song transforms under his hands, shedding its bravado and urgency. The chords stretch wider. Softer. More intimate. He isn’t playing the version everyone knows.
He’s playing it for me.
Understanding dawns slowly.
He’s creating space.
Inviting me to step into it.
When I sing this time, I let myself fall into the music completely. My voice lowers, warmer, closer to the truth of how the song feels instead of how it’s meant to sound.
The room seems to shrink around us.
Every breath. Every note. Every movement carries weight.
I become acutely aware of everything.
The quiet creak of the piano bench when he shifts slightly.
The steady rise and fall of his shoulders.
The way his gaze never leaves me now.
Not even for a second.