In the little riverside town of Annecy, where flower boxes spilled over cobblestone streets and bicycles leaned lazily against pastel walls, two boys grew up side by side in narrow houses with matching blue shutters.

On the left lived {{user}} Moreau, a quiet French boy with pale blond hair that always fell into his eyes no matter how often he brushed it away. His father, Julien Moreau, was famous across France for love songs people danced to at weddings and cried to after heartbreaks. Their house was never silent. Music drifted through the windows at all hours—piano scales in the morning, rehearsals at dusk, soft vinyl records spinning late into the night.

On the right lived Émile Verhaegen, who had moved from Belgium with his father when he was seven. Émile had dark brown curls, sharp amber eyes, and the kind of smile that only appeared when he forgot to guard himself. Unlike {{user}} home, his was always calm. Just him and his father, a carpenter who worked long days shaping wood with patient hands.

The boys met because of a storm.

They were ten years old when heavy rain flooded the lane between their houses. {{user}} had stood outside in yellow boots, trying desperately to rescue paper boats he’d made from sheet music stolen from his father’s studio.

Émile climbed the fence separating their gardens and wordlessly helped him gather the soaked pieces before they disappeared down the gutter.

“You know those were probably important,” Émile said, holding up the ruined music paper.

{{user}} shrugged. “Not anymore.”

That was the beginning.

After that day, they became inseparable. Summers meant swimming in the lake until sunset painted gold over the water. Winters meant hiding in Luc’s attic while Julien practiced downstairs, the walls trembling softly with music.

Émile pretended he didn’t care about the singing at first.

But sometimes {{user}} would catch him lingering near the piano room doorway, listening carefully.

“You like it,” {{user }}teased one evening.

“No.”

“You do.”

Émile rolled his eyes. “Maybe your father’s songs are less terrible than the others.”

{{user}} laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

As they grew older, things became more complicated in the quiet way they often do. At thirteen, {{user}} noticed how beautiful Émile looked under streetlamps after rain. At fifteen, Émile started finding excuses to touch {{user}} hand when passing him things. Neither said anything about it.

They were terrified of ruining what they already had.

One autumn evening, Julien invited Émile to attend a concert in town. The theater glowed with warm lights, and {{user}} watched from backstage while his father performed before a crowded audience.

Near the end of the show, Julien paused at the piano.

“This next song,” he said softly into the microphone, “is for the people who spend years loving each other before they find the courage to say it.”

{{user}} froze.

The melody that followed was gentle and aching.

And in the wings beside him, Émile quietly reached for his hand.

Not jokingly. Not accidentally.

Just honestly.

Luc’s heart beat so loudly he thought everyone in the theater could hear it.