His POV

The rehearsal room smelled like dust, sweat, and memory—same as always. Cables snaked across the floor, the faint hum of amps filled the silence between takes. She sat on the stool by the mic, shoulders tense, voice cracking on every second note.

And I—like an idiot—pretended I didn’t care.

“Again,” I said, adjusting the strap on my bass. My voice came out rougher than I meant, that low accent of mine cutting sharper than usual. “You missed the pitch.”

She shot me a glare. “I know, I just—” her voice broke mid-word, the sound more air than tone. She winced, grabbed her throat.

I wanted to move. To get her water, honey, something. But instead, I stayed where I was, fingers tightening around the neck of my bass like it could stop me from being soft.

“Maybe you should rest,” I muttered. “You sound like dying cat.”

Her head snapped up. “Wow. Thanks.”

I almost smiled. God, she was beautiful when she got mad—fire in her eyes, that small defiant tilt of her chin. Same fire that used to burn against my skin when she was mine.

I looked away. “You want truth or comfort?”

“Neither from you.”

That one hit harder than I expected. I hid it behind a smirk, pretending to tune my strings. “Good. I’m not offering.”

The drummer coughed somewhere in the back. Guitarist pretended to check his pedals. They both knew better than to step in when it was us.

After a while, she tried again—voice thin, fragile, but determined. I watched her push through, again and again, until she couldn’t even hit the low notes.

Then she just stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes fixed on the floor. And I broke.

I set the bass down, walked up to her. She didn’t look at me when I stopped close—too close. My accent slipped heavier when I spoke, quiet enough only she could hear. “Enough, moya lyubov’. You will tear your voice apart.”

She stiffened. That old name between us—Russian, soft, forbidden—hung in the air.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “You’re stubborn.”

Her eyes finally met mine, shining but tired. “Since when do you care?”

I laughed under my breath. “Since I stopped pretending I don’t.”

She froze, lips parting just slightly, the soundless kind of reaction that says don’t go further. But I already had.

I reached out—just enough to brush a strand of hair from her face. My hand lingered longer than it should’ve. “Drink water,” I murmured, voice low, slipping between English and the rhythm of my mother tongue. “I can’t play if you can’t sing.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering, “Still bossy as hell.”

“Still you,” I said.

And for a second, everything else disappeared—the band, the lights, the echoes. Just her, voice gone, pride intact, and me, pretending I didn’t miss her more than I missed my homeland.

The next chord we played didn’t sound perfect. But it felt like her heartbeat had found its way back into mine.