Page 118 of The Sound Between Us

29

all the things she didn’t know she wanted

Seren

Leading Harrison down the narrow stairs to my basement flat feels different this time. Less exposing secrets, more coming home with someone who already knows where I keep my vulnerabilities. These walls have seen me at my worst, but now I’m bringing someone into this space who’s already seen me break apart and somehow still chose to fly across continents to stand in the rain for me.

“Come in,” I push open the door to my white-walled sanctuary. “Ignore any bras lying around.”

But Harrison isn’t looking at the mess. His eyes go straight to the piano, sitting in the same spot where we created something magical months ago.

“That’s where we started.” He moves toward it, drawn by gravity.

He sits on the bench, his fingers finding the opening notes of our song. The melody fills the small space, and suddenly I’m back in that night when everything felt possible and terrifying.

“I’ve been thinking about this room every day since I left. About how it felt to create something real with you.”

The vulnerability in his voice does something to my chest, makes it tight and warm and dangerous. I move behind him, my hands settling on his shoulders.

“Harry,” I whisper, and he turns on the bench, his amber eyes dark with something that makes my stomach flip.

His hands find my waist, pulling me between his knees, and suddenly we’re kissing again. Not the desperate reunion from upstairs, but something slower, more intentional. His mouth is warm and soft, tasting of wine from dinner and something that’s purely him. When his tongue traces my lower lip, I open for him with a sound that’s half sigh, half surrender. The kiss deepens, and I can feel myself melting into him despite every rational thought screaming that this is insane.

“I missed you. I don’t know how it’s possible to miss something you never really had, but I did.”

Instead of answering with words, I push him back slightly, just enough space to climb onto the piano bench with him, straddling his lap. The keys protest under my weight, a random chorus of notes that should be jarring but somehow feels perfect for whatever madness has taken hold of us.

His hands slide up my back, under my jumper, warm against my skin. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t ask me to think. I’ve been thinking for months. I’m tired of thinking.”

This time when we kiss, it’s with the kind of desperate hunger that comes from finally admitting you want something you’ve been denying yourself. His hands map the planes of my body, and when he lifts me slightly, the piano keys sing a discordant song beneath us.

“This is completely mental,” I laugh breathlessly as he kisses his way down my throat.

“Completely. Do you care?”

I answer by kissing him harder, teeth catching his bottom lip, hands fisting in his hoodie. We’re all urgent breath and clumsy movements, my jumper disappearing somewhere between one kiss and the next. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, and I arch against him, gasping when his teeth graze the sensitive spot just below my ear.

He lifts me onto his lap properly, and I wrap my legs around his waist, the piano bench creaking under our combined weight. My hands tangle in his hair as he kisses down my throat, and when I rock against him, the keys beneath us crash out a discordant chord. We laugh breathlessly against each other’s mouths, but neither of us stops moving. His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me slightly, and another cascade of notes spills from the piano. The sound should be jarring, but right now it feels the perfect soundtrack to losing our minds together.

When release comes, it’s with his name on my lips and the sound of ivory keys singing around us.

Afterward, I stay collapsed against his chest, my legs still wrapped around his waist, both of us breathing we’ve run a marathon. His fingers trace lazy circles on my bare back while I try to remember how to form words. There’s a piano key digging into my shin and my neck has a crick from the angle, but I can’t bring myself to move. His heart pounds against my cheek, and when I finally lift my head to look at him, his hair is completely wrecked and there are nail marks on his shoulders.

“Your neighbours are going to think you’re torturing a piano.”

“My neighbours think I’m torturing everything. They complained about my ‘aggressive dishwashing’ last month.”

He laughs, the sound rich and genuine in a way that makes me want to climb back onto his lap and forget about things such as clothing and rational conversation.

Instead, I take his hand and lead him to my bed, because if we’re going to have the talk I can see brewing behind his eyes, I want to be horizontal for it.

My bedroom is as white and minimalist as the rest of the flat, but it feels different with Harrison in it. More alive somehow, his presence adding colour to spaces I didn’t even realise were grey.

He settles beside me on the bed, his arm sliding under my shoulders and pulling me against his chest. I let myself sink into the warmth of him, my head finding the hollow of his shoulder where it fits perfectly.

His fingers find mine, threading together on top of the duvet. For a while we just lie there, listening to each other breathe.