The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the midsummer air—dense, heavy, electric. Incense smoldered in the corner, mixing with the scent of rain on warm pavement. A guitar leaned against the wall, abandoned mid-thought, its strings still humming faintly from the last chord. Jeff Buckley sat cross-legged on the rug, notebook open, pen tapping against his lips. His eyes weren’t on the page though. They were on her—{{user}}—curled barefoot on the velvet couch, reading some forgotten poetry anthology she'd found buried in his bookcase.

Three years, and she still made him feel like a beginner in awe. His muse. His torment. His salvation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, barely glancing up from the book. A sly grin curved her lips, but her voice was silk and shadow.

He didn’t answer, just grinned and scribbled something down. She rolled her eyes, closed the book, and crossed the room. When she moved, it was like smoke—fluid, slow, hypnotic. She sat beside him, knees touching his, and the air between them thrummed like the space between two live wires.

“You gonna tell me what it’s about?” she whispered.

Jeff closed the notebook slowly. “You.”

She laughed softly, but there was a flicker in her eyes—half flattered, half haunted. “Again?”

“Always,” he murmured. “You're the rave. The madness. I swear, I haven’t written a song in three years that wasn’t about you.” His voice grew quieter, reverent. “You’re like... some beautiful curse I asked for.”

She tilted her head, curious. “A curse?”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, fingers trembling just slightly. “Yeah. Like... you're the spell I asked to be under, and now I can't find my way out. Not that I'd want to.” His gaze dropped. “Every time I kiss you, it feels like I’m on the edge of something holy and terrifying.”