You’d never felt nervous playing music before. Not at award shows, not in front of critics, not even the first time you ever hit a stage with your heart in your throat and your hat too low on your eyes.

But sitting on that piano bench beside Christian?

Hands trembling. Voice unsure.

That was a whole different story.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush you. Just sat there, boba tea long forgotten, his hand still ghosting over yours like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.

You adjusted the mic you’d been using for recordings, cleared your throat once.

And started playing.

The keys were warm. Familiar. They moved like water under your fingers, smooth and slow, exactly how they should. Your foot pressed down on the pedal, softening every chord.

Then came your voice.

“You laugh like it’s easy, like you’ve never been burned. And every time you smile, I forget I ever hurt…”

You kept your eyes on the keys. Couldn’t look at him. Not yet.

“I ain’t the type to write no love song, but damn… Boy, you made a liar outta me.”

You swore you heard his breath catch.

By the second verse, your voice steadied. You didn’t even realize it, but you were leaning into the melody now, eyes half-closed, letting yourself feel it.

“I used to spit bars like I didn’t have a heart. Now I’m out here rhyming like your smile’s a piece of art…”

You let your hands drift into the higher chords. The sound swelled gently, wrapping the two of you in it.

“If this is soft, then let it break me. If this is weak, then don’t save me. I’d rather be a fool for you… Than ever spit a bar that ain’t true.”

By the time the final chord faded, the room was still. Breathless.

You finally turned your head.

Christian was staring at you.

No words.

Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Like he’d just watched something sacred.

You opened your mouth, tried to explain. Tried to say it didn’t mean everything it sounded like.

But he beat you to it.

“I love you...”

Just like that.

Simple. Soft. Certain.

You blinked. “What?”

“I love you.” He repeated. “I knew it before. But now I’m so sure it hurts.”

You laughed. It came out shaky and half-broken. “You weren’t supposed to hear that song yet.”

“I know.” He said. “But I’m glad I did.”

He reached out, hands warm, fingers calloused from holding scripts and guitar strings. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then leaned in just a little.

“This is the part where I kiss you, right?”

You nodded. “If you don’t, I’m never writing another song again.”

He laughed.

And then he kissed you.

Right there on the piano bench.

With the open notebook still on the keys, your messy lyrics out for the world to see, and your acoustic guitar leaning against your knee.

Later that night, he wouldn’t stop humming the melody under his breath. You caught him trying to memorize it.

When you told him you weren’t planning to release it, that it was just for him, he said.

“Then it’s mine forever.”

“Guess so.” You mumbled.

“Cool. I’ll play it at our wedding.”

You choked on your water.

He just winked.