Page 128 of The Sound Between Us

We spend the next five minutes making ourselves presentable enough to return to civilised company. Her lipstick is smeared, my hair is a disaster, and we both look thoroughly debauched.

“Very professional,” she says, trying to fix her dress in the tiny mirror.

“I’ve never been less professional in my life,” I reply, and mean it as the highest compliment.

When we return to the main room, the crew pretends not to notice our obvious post-bathroom glow, though Dex raises his beer in what might be a salute or might be acknowledgment that subtlety has never been my strong suit. Which is ironic coming from him.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of terrible singing and excellent company. By the time we stumble back to the hotel, I’m drunk on more than alcohol—drunk on the way Seren fits into my world, the way my crew has adopted her, the way everything feels possible when she’s next to me.

“You know,” I say as we’re falling into bed, her fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt, “you should open for us tomorrow night.”

She freezes. “What?”

“Open for us. At the Tokyo Dome. Your voice tonight...” I trail my fingers down her spine, feeling her shiver. “Everyone should hear it.”

“Harry, I can’t⁠—”

“Just one song. That melody you were humming in the shower this morning? The one about second chances?” I kiss the hollow of her throat, tasting sake and possibility. “Put it out there. Let the world hear it.”

Her breathing catches. “What if they hate it?”

“They won’t.” I pull back to look at her properly, push a strand of hair behind her ear. “And even if they did, so what? You’d survive it. You’ve survived worse.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can practically hear her brain working, weighing the fear against the want. Finally, she nods.

“One song.”

“One song,” I agree, “Or two, or three.”

The next evening, I watch from the wings as Seren takes the stage. Fifty thousand seats stretch up into darkness, but she commands them all.

Her voice fills the space without effort, clear and honest, cutting through the pre-show chatter. The crowd, who came to see Elementary, finds themselves leaning forward, actually listening instead of just waiting for the main event.

She’s performing that melody I’ve heard her sing in the shower, transformed now into something powerful and aching. About taking chances and choosing love over safety. She doesn’t look at me while she sings, but every word feels personal.

Every note feels like home.

My chest swells and tightens all at once. This woman, who not even two months ago was hiding behind a record shop counter, is holding fifty thousand people in the palm of her hand. And she chose me.

The song builds, and Seren’s voice soars. The crowd goes silent, absorbed. When she finishes, the applause is immediate and thunderous.

I’m moving before I’ve decided to do it, but I feel it in my gut—I can’t let one more moment pass without everyone knowing exactly what this is. Who this is. To me. I’m grabbing a microphone from the sound tech and walking onto the stage. The crowd shifts from appreciation to confusion to excitement.

Seren turns. Her eyes go wide, mouth slightly parted.

“Tokyo,” I say into the microphone, and fifty thousand people cheer. “How are we doing tonight?”

More cheering, but I’m looking at Seren, standing there in the stage lights looking beautiful and bewildered.

“I need to tell you something.” The crowd settles. “This woman—” I gesture to Seren “—changed my life.”

The response crashes over me. My throat tightens.

“A few months ago, I was going through the motions, performing songs that didn’t mean anything. Then she covered me in strawberry milkshake—” the crowd laughs “—and reminded me what real music sounds like.”

Seren’s eyes are wide. I can see her fighting between embarrassment and joy.

“Seren Rogers,” I take her hand, “I love you.”