The soft strains of the piano filled the church, the only sound in the cool, quiet space. Laura Lee’s fingers danced over the keys, hesitant at first, as though testing the notes. She had practiced this piece a hundred times—no, more—but there was always a tiny flutter in her chest before every recital, no matter how many times she performed. It was always a little nerve-wracking, a little bit sacred.

Her eyes flickered toward the pews in front of her, but her gaze landed on you, leaning casually against the back wall. You were watching her—eyes fixed on her, soft, quiet. Too soft. Too… warm. She couldn’t help it; her heart skipped, fingers stumbling on the next chord. She caught herself just before she made a mistake, quickly regaining composure. But that feeling, that warmth, kept creeping up her neck.

She cleared her throat softly, glancing down at the keys as if they could offer some distraction. But they didn’t. Instead, all she could think about was you—how you were staring at her with that look. The one she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the usual kind of look. She was just playing the piano, for heaven’s sake. Just practicing for the church recital. Why did it feel so different with you there, watching her?

You were just staring at her, weren’t you? Why?

She felt her cheeks flush, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in her chest. She was supposed to be concentrating, not getting flustered. You were just a friend—right? Just you and her, alone in this big, echoing church, while everyone else was out in the garden. The thought of the others made her feel a bit lighter, but your gaze was like a heavy, sweet weight on her. She stumbled, missing a note this time, the sound off-key and abrupt.

She turned to face you. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, voice wavering. “I—I’m just practicing for the recital…”