Page 40 of The Sound Between Us

9

in the midnight hour

Seren

He fills my kitchen.

That’s the first thing that hits me as I watch him navigate my pristine white space. He’s too much colour, too much energy, too much presence for these careful neutral walls. The green of his T-shirt practically glows against my marble countertops. Everything about him is saturated, vivid, alive in a way that makes my monochrome flat feel like a museum exhibit.

Under the warm kitchen lighting, everything about him is saturated, vivid, alive in a way that makes my monochrome flat more museum exhibit than a home.

I can smell him from here—clean cotton mixed with something warmer, more complex. Sandalwood maybe. Or cedar. It shouldn’t work with the clinical scent of my kitchen, all bleach and empty surfaces, but somehow it does. Somehow it makes the space feel less like a showroom and more like... home.

“Where do these go?”

He’s holding the eggs as though they’re foreign objects. I laugh as I splash milk into two mugs, the sound escaping before I can smother it.

“What’s funny?”

I turn back towards him, and for a second my brain malfunctions. The green of his T-shirt makes his eyes glow. Not in some subtle poetic way. In a full, radiant, biblical way. Droplets of sun floating in dark honey.

Apparently I’m writing sonnets now. Fabulous. Someone get me a lobotomy.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“The great Harrison Carter is asking where my eggs are kept?”

“I thought I wasn’t that great to you.”

“It’s true. But think how many girls have daydreamed about you asking where their eggs are.”

He squints. “Pretty sure they weren’t talking about the kind you crack into a bowl and whisk.”

“Gross. Do you mind?” My brain takes a dark detour. Sobering, really. “Just leave them on the counter.”

He does, and I watch the way his muscles shift beneath his T-shirt. The fabric clings in some places, loose in others, and I hate that I notice.

His presence fills every corner, bounces off every surface. Even when he’s still, there’s energy radiating from him—restless, electric, impossible to ignore. It’s like trying to pretend there isn’t a bonfire burning in your sitting room.

“Your bandmates. What did they say when you didn’t get on the plane to LA?” I pass him a mug, clutch mine as though it’s a protective charm. Steam curls over my face, soft and concealing.

“Truth?”

“This is a truth zone.”

It is. Which makes it dangerous. We’ve crossed into stupid territory now, with no map, no exit, no brakes.

“I didn’t say anything. I just didn’t get out of the car.”

My mouth pulls into a grimace. “That’s... not good behaviour.”

“It’s not that straightforward.”

I shake my head. “And that sounds exactly like what my dad would’ve said.”

That gets his attention. He watches me carefully. “How much do you remember of those days?”

“Everything.” I say it without thinking. “Every excuse; every phone call. Every morning after; every shouted word.”