Chapter 41 Please
The air in the office feels vacuum-sealed. I watch him close his eyes. My lips part, ready to fire something back, something sharp about how I’m not his personal jukebox...something that’ll knock that calm right off his face. A threat, maybe. I’m not even sure what kind, just something to push back, to regain some ground.
Nothing comes out.
Because he doesn’t look like himself. Not the controlled and arrogant version of him I’ve come to expect. This might actually be the most earnest I’ve ever seen him, and it makes my own anger feel suddenly, inconveniently shallow. He presses his thumbs to his eyes like he’s trying to physically hold something in place behind them.
His chest rises, then falls with a deep breath that sounds heavier than it should. When he turns his head away from me, it’s almost careful. Like even that takes effort. My gaze drops to the case still in my hand. Then back to him.
I swallow, trying to figure out why the hell I’m not already kicking the door down or calling his bluff or doing literally anything other than just standing here...considering it. My eyes flick toward the locked door.
“Please.”
It’s quiet. And it cuts right through whatever I was about to say. I still, my gaze snaps back to him. He hasn’t moved much. Still laid back, head tilted slightly away, eyes closed.
“I need something else to focus on for a few minutes.” He exhales slowly, like even forming the sentence is too much. “Before I lose my damn mind.”
The words hang there. Vague as hell, useless even. If anything, they raise more questions than they answer. But it’s the tone that gets me. There's something genuine about it. I drag a hand down my face, muttering a quiet curse under my breath. This is a terrible idea, I know it is. Everything about this...him, us...it’s all wrong. And yet...
“One song,” I say.
The words leave before I can stop them. His only response is the smallest nod. Like that’s all he had left to give. I exhale, steadying myself as I drop down into a crouch. I set the case down and flip it open. My fingers wrap around the neck of the violin, lifting it out carefully. I stand again, settling it into place against my shoulder. And for a second, I just look at him.
“Same piece as last time,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “Or do you want something longer?”
He turns his head, opens his eyes. And maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the angle. Or maybe I’m just seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. But he looks like the type of tired you can't fix with a nap or a drink. His gaze drags over my face again, like he’s checking something. And I feel seen in a way I don’t like.
“Something longer,” he says, voice soft.
I nod once. Then I stop thinking about him. Or at least, I try to. I lift the bow, set it against the strings, and let everything else fall away. The first note cuts through the room cleanly. It vibrates through the quiet like it belongs there.
My breathing steadies, my grip adjusts. And just like that, I slip into it. The space between notes stretches, bends, fills with something heavier than sound. Something that pulls instead of pushes.
The kind of melody that settles into your chest and stays there. I don’t look at him. I focus on the strings, the pressure, the rhythm...on getting it right, on letting the music take over the part of me that won’t shut up. But eventually I feel that pull. My gaze lifts, and he’s watching me. Focused...locked in.
Like the music has him just as much as it has me. It keeps going longer than I expect. Longer than I’ve ever played for anyone who wasn’t a mirror or an empty room. The notes stretch, deepen, settle into something that lingers in the air even as I start to feel it in my arms, in my fingers. And then, finally, I let the last note fade.
Silence rushes in to take its place. My arm is still raised, the bow hovering an inch above the strings, and my eyes are closed. I don’t even remember shutting them. When I finally pull myself back to reality, my gaze to him. And I frown.
His breathing is even, features softer than I’ve ever seen them. For a second, I think he’s actually fallen asleep, that I’ve somehow played him into a trance. My heart gives a strange, traitorous little thud.
This is a trick. I’ve seen him operate, the man doesn’t have a "vulnerable" setting that isn't a trap. I shake my head, a short, disbelieving huff leaving me.
I carefully set the violin back into its case, making sure it’s secure before closing it. My fingers linger on it, then I pick it up and move closer to the couch.
“Key,” I say. My voice comes out softer than I intend. I notice it immediately. Hate it immediately.
For a split second my mind jumps to the outside. If anyone heard the music...I shut that thought down just as fast. I’m about to tell him to cut the act, to stop playing games, but then he moves. His hand slips into his pocket, pulls out the key. His eyes open. And they land on me like he’s been awake the whole time.
I reach out, palm up, expecting him to drop it into my hand. Instead, he looks at it, then at me. And sits up before rising to his feet.
“I’ll get it,” he says.
My heart kicks like it missed a step. Before I can respond, he’s already moving, brushing past me. He walks to the door, slots the key in, pauses. Then glances back over his shoulder, brow arching slightly.
"Unless you’d prefer to stay?". There’s something in his voice, a genuine hopefulness that's so out of character it makes my throat feel tight. "You could keep playing. I wouldn't mind."
I scoff. “Yeah, not happening.”
I close the distance between us, stopping just behind him, close enough that I can see the subtle shift in his shoulders as I approach. He turns the key, the lock clicks. My lungs loosen just a fraction at the sound. He pulls the key out but doesn’t open the door yet. Just rests his hand on the handle, then turns to face me fully.
“Thanks,” he says. And for some reason, that’s worse than anything else he’s said all day.
It throws me off just enough that I end up shrugging, muttering, “Don't get used to it. I didn't appreciate the hostage situation.”
I gesture lightly toward the handle, needing out. “Door.”
He lets go of it. But instead of stepping aside, he steps closer. My instinct is to move back, to create space, but I don’t get the chance. His hand fists into the front of my shirt, not pulling, not yanking...just holding me there. My breath catches as he steps in again. Close enough that I can feel the quiet tension in the space between us snapping tight.
His intentions are clear, but I don’t stop him. If anything, I’m pretty sure I lean in. I’m pretty sure I’m inviting the disaster. He closes the distance, the kiss isn’t rough. It isn’t rushed. It's like he’s testing something, mapping it out, learning the shape of my mouth instead of taking it. His lips meets mine with a devastating softness. It’s all-consuming....the taste of him, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers tighten in the fabric of my shirt.
The world outside that door ceases to exist. There's only the taste of his lips and the terrifying realization that I’m not just letting him do this, I’m meeting him halfway.