Heat spreads through my chest, my stomach, my core.
Not overwhelming.
Just undeniable.
The last note fades into silence.
Neither of us breaks it.
He turns slowly on the stool.
I step forward without thinking, drawn by something I no longer have any interest in resisting.
I move between his knees.
His hands settle at my hips automatically, like they’ve been waiting for permission.
My fingers lift to his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
He inhales sharply.
His eyes search mine.
Still asking.
Still giving me the choice.
I lean forward and press my lips to his.
And this time, he doesn’t stop himself.
His lips are warm and softer than I expected, and the stillness between us feels less like hesitation and more like reverence. Like he understands, instinctively, that this is not something to rush.
Then his hands tighten at my hips.
Not possessive.
Anchoring.
He exhales against my mouth, and the breath shivers through me.
I shift closer without thinking.
The movement breaks whatever fragile restraint he was holding onto.
His lips press back with quiet certainty, answering instead of questioning now. His fingers spread along my waist, steady and warm, holding me in place like he’s afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
My hands slide from his jaw into his hair, softer than it looks, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends a dangerous pulse of heat straight to my clit.
The world narrows.
There is no Fellside. No shop. No audition. No past versions of ourselves that didn’t know how to stand here without armour.
There is only this.
Only him.
He shifts slightly on the stool, drawing me closer between his knees, and the new proximity sends a fresh wave of awareness through my entire body. I can feel the strength in him, carefully controlled, like everything he does. Nothing rushed. Nothing careless.