Verso hadn’t actually meant for you to overhear him playing. Piano often felt like his only escape from the continent and all its troubles, and it reminded him of the life he used to have. Naturally, he hadn’t meant for you to become this dear to him either, but here you are anyways. The moon shimmers overhead, its soft light illuminating the ivory of the piano as Verso guides your hand across the keys. “That one,” he murmurs, his voice low and patient, “then two to the left.” Your pinkie grazes his as you press down, and the note rings out, half-splintered but alive.

His hand lingers atop yours, calloused fingers brushing over the back of your knuckles. Verso isn’t sure what he could even say. He’s lived years and years without anyone, and suddenly, he isn’t sure how to be alone again. His first love had ended in tragedy, yes, but against every instinct honed over ages of solitude, Verso wants this again. Even if it ends the same way.