It’s the music room.
Smaller. Dustier. Intimate.
You’re both sitting on the floor with your backs against the old upright piano. The lid is half open, strings exposed. Late afternoon light spills through the tall windows, turning everything gold.
Rhonda sets the tape player between you.
Not touching you.
But close enough that your knees almost brush.
“I found something,” she says, too casual.
You glance at the tape. “That works?”
“Temporarily,” she mutters. “Don’t question it.”
Her posture is rigid. Hands clasped loosely in her lap like she’s waiting for a verdict.
She presses play.
Static hums.
Then piano.
Soft. Careful.
Her voice comes in, low and steady. Not theatrical. Honest.
You don’t look at the tape player.
You look at her.
She’s staring straight ahead.
Like if she meets your eyes, she’ll combust.
The lyrics unfold slowly.
About staying.
About not running when things get hard.
About someone who stepped into the worst moment of her existence and didn’t flinch.
About how terrifying it is to need someone.
Your chest tightens.
She shifts slightly beside you — like she’s preparing for you to stand up. Or pull away. Or say something polite.
The line comes.
“If I’m brave enough to want something, it’s you.”
Your breath catches.
She inhales sharply beside you.
Still not looking.
The song continues.
Soft piano.
Static humming underneath.
And you finally understand.
You turn toward her fully.
She senses it — shoulders tensing slightly.
“That was reckless,” she says quietly, eyes still forward.
You don’t answer.
Instead, you move closer.
Just a little.
Your leg brushes hers.
Her breath stutters.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she adds quickly. “I’m aware it was—”
You reach for her hand.
She goes silent.
Her fingers twitch in yours, but she doesn’t pull away.
The song keeps playing.
You scoot closer again.
Now your shoulders touch.
She finally turns her head slightly toward you.
Her composure is hanging by a thread.
“You wrote that about me,” you say softly.
“Yes.”
No defense.
No sarcasm.
Just truth.
Your heart feels like it’s swelling too big for your chest.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” you murmur.
“I was hoping you would,” she admits.
The piano swells gently in the background.
The room feels smaller.
Warmer.
You lift your free hand to her jaw.
Her breath catches instantly.
“You don’t have to be brave alone,” you whisper.
Her eyes search yours.
“You’re certain?” she asks, barely audible.
Instead of answering—
You lean in.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t retreat.
Doesn’t close the distance.
You do.
Your lips brush hers softly.
Careful.
Fingers tightening in your hand like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.
The song is still playing.
Her voice echoing faintly around you.
You pull back just enough to breathe.
Her forehead rests against yours.
“You initiated,” she murmurs, almost stunned.
“You weren’t going to.”
“…No.”
The last notes of the song hum quietly through the static.
Her hand slides to your waist now — hesitant at first, then steady.
“You realize,” she says softly, “I meant every word.”
You smile against her lips.
“I know.”
The tape clicks softly at the end.
But neither of you move away.