If looks could kill, I would have been in the dock for fratricide.
Theo passed the guitar over, an unspoken challenge. “Sing something for me.”
I hesitated before awkwardly strumming the opening bars of a song, Taylor Swift’s ‘Lover’, something familiar and easy, then began to sing under my breath.
Halfway through the chorus, Theo joined in, his low, rich harmony wrapping around my melody like warmth.
Yes, Theo was good, but it was more than that. It was the way he listened, leaning in slightly, his head tilted, his eyes fixed on me as though the rest of the room had dissolved.
By the time the last note faded, my hands were shaking.
“Not bad,” Theo said softly. “You’ve got good tone. You actually listen.”
It was the smallest compliment, but it felt like a revelation.
The next few days had blurred into small, electric moments.
Theo making coffee in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up.
Theo leaning over the table, explaining chord progressions with a patience that felt personal.
Theo sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eyes closing when he hummed through a difficult phrase, and something in my chest twisting at the sound.
I’d seen attractive people before. Girls. Boys. Faces that made my stomach flip.
Noneof them had pulled focus like this.
I started watching Theo the way an artist studies light. I became obsessed. The attraction wasn’t sexual, not then. It was awe threaded with yearning.
I wanted Theo toseeme.
I wanted to matter to someone who never seemed to need anyone.
One afternoon, Gary went out to meet a friend. I stayed behind, sketching at the table. Theo was at the piano, working through an arrangement. He played the same line over and over, quiet, precise, adjusting something only he could hear.
“Are you always this driven?” I asked with a smile.
Theo glanced up. “Perfection’s a habit.”
“Then perfection sounds exhausting.”
Theo’s laugh tugged at my ribs. “It’s safer than chaos.”
I didn’t understand what the words meant, but it sounded as if there was a story under the words I wasn’t supposed to ask about.
Theo played another chord, then turned toward me. “You’ve got a good ear. Come here.” I stood and walked over to where Theo shifted on the piano bench, making space for me. “Sit.”
I complied and our shoulders brushed, the briefest connection but it felt like touching a live wire.
Theo hit a note. “Sing that.”
I did.
“Now this one.” Another note, lower.
We went back and forth—call and response, unspoken rhythm—until the air between us felt dense, charged.
When Theo finally stopped, I realised I’d been tense the whole time.