the evening was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of a lamp. You and Zayne sat close on the couch, a kalimba resting between you. The instrument was small, unassuming, yet its gentle notes carried a certain magic. You had been fascinated by it since picking it up, eager to share the moment with him.

zayne, ever composed, studied the kalimba with quiet curiosity. He wasn’t one to indulge in distractions, yet tonight, he let himself be drawn in. His fingers brushed against yours as he took it, his touch cool yet lingering. He traced the wood with a thoughtful gaze before pressing down on a tine. A single note rang out, crisp and delicate. He let it fade, testing its resonance, then glanced at you with quiet amusement.

you leaned in, demonstrating a simple melody. The tune flowed easily from your fingertips, filling the space between you. Zayne observed, eyes flickering from the instrument to your expression. Then, he followed suit, slower, more deliberate, his touch precise yet cautious, as though deciphering something unspoken.

the melody became a dialogue. He played, hesitated, adjusted, then played again. Though his movements were calculated, there was warmth in the way he handled the instrument, as if he wasn’t just playing notes but immersing himself in the moment.

taking turns, you both fell into a quiet rhythm. Occasionally, your shoulders brushed. a fleeting touch, yet grounding. Zayne, often lost in thought, seemed lighter in this exchange, the usual weight he carried momentarily set aside.

the last note faded into silence. Zayne set the kalimba down, stretching his fingers before meeting your gaze with a smirk. His voice, though soft, held a teasing edge.

“You didn’t really want to hear me play,” he mused. “This was just an excuse to mess with me, wasn’t it?”

yet the way his hand lingered against yours told you he didnt mind at all.