My breath catches, and I look at him, really look at him. And I realize I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
“Keane,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper, but he turns to me, and the look in his eyes steals the rest of my words. There’s something raw there, something unguarded and electric that makes my breath hitch. It’s like he’s laying everything bare, silently asking me to meet him in this moment, no hesitation, no fear.
He leans in slowly, his movements deliberate, giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The world narrows until it’s just him—his scent, his warmth, the soft exhale of his breath mingling with mine.
His lips brush against mine, tentative at first, like a question he’s too afraid to voice. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, and my eyes flutter shut as he deepens the kiss, his hand rising to cup my face. His thumb grazes my cheek in the gentlest of touches, and it feels like he’s memorizing me, like he’s pouring everything he can’t articulate, every buried emotion, into this moment.
And then the kiss changes. It’s no longer hesitant but full of purpose, his lips moving against mine like he’s trying to tell me something—something big and uncontainable that words could never convey. My hands find their way to his shoulders, clinging to him, grounding myself in the intensity of it all.
It’s not just a kiss. It’s a thousand emotions tangled together—hope, fear, longing, love—all colliding in this one, breathtaking instant. I feel it in the way he pulls me closer, in the way his fingers tremble slightly against my skin, in the way his lips linger as if he’s afraid to let go.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and I realize we’re both breathing harder than before. Our breaths mingle in the small space between us, and I keep my eyes closed, not ready to let the moment slip away. His hand stays on my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek again, softer this time, like he’s grounding himself too.
“Philly,” he murmurs, his voice rough and full of something I can’t quite name. My heart stutters at the sound of it, and I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. There’s no hesitation there now, only a quiet certainty that wraps around me like a promise. “Was that okay?”
“It was perfect,” I answer, still feeling his lips on mine—seared maybe forever.
Chapter Forty-One
Ophelia
Present time. . .
The song ends, pulling me back into the room, back to reality. Keane is still in his chair, his eyes on me, and for a moment, I wonder if he remembers. If that flicker I saw earlier was more than just wishful thinking.
“This . . . you composed it after our first kiss. Do you remember it?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
He stares at me for a long time before saying, “Maybe.”
That’s a strange answer of course. Very strange because you either remember or you don’t, but I don’t push.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through folders until I find the pictures from that day. They’re stored safely in the cloud, a tiny part of me hoping they might spark something. Anything.
Kneeling next to him, I hold the phone out and swipe through the images. Each photo feels like a time capsule, a glimpse into a life that now feels worlds away. “Look,” I say softly, trying to keep my tone light. “Here you are. With your guitar.”
The first few pictures are of him immersed in the music, his fingers gliding over the strings, his head angled slightly as if the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only the melody. As I swipe to the next one, his breathing changes. At first, it’s barely noticeable—a catch, a hesitation—but then it grows uneven, unsteady, like the rise of a wave he can’t stop.
Bingo. The realization slams into me. It’s not the lost memories pulling him under, not even the missing pieces of us. It’s the music. The one constant that defined him, the thing that was always there when everything else wasn’t.
Music wasn’t just part of his life—it was his essence, his escape, the thing that made him who he is. It was his first love and not that I ever tried to compete against it, but I could never be on the same level.
Obviously now that it’s out of reach, he’s losing his everloving mind. If he can’t have it back, a way to play it, to bleed his emotions and deal with his demons. What’s left for him?
I want to say “Me,” but do I want to be back in this kind of relationship again?
Chapter Forty-Two
Haydn
The soundof skates slicing across the ice echoes in the arena, a crisp, familiar rhythm that usually locks me into focus. But today? Today, it feels like background noise, like it’s happening to someone else. I flex my gloves, watching as Mason winds up for a slapshot at the far end of the rink. The puck streaks past the goalie’s outstretched glove and slams into the net with a hollowclang. Sticks tap against the ice in approval, voices cheering, but the energy doesn’t reach me.
It’s like I’m here, but not here.
I press my stick against the ice, forcing myself to take a breath, to tune in. The cold bites at my face through the cage of my mask, a feeling that usually steadies me. But instead of pulling me into the game, it just reminds me of everything else.
My net keeps getting hit with pucks. It’s like I can’t stop anything today. This is the one place on earth I’ve always felt invincible. Unstoppable. But lately, it’s like there’s this invisible wall between me and the game. My instincts feel off. My focus keeps drifting.
“Wesford.” Coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. I turn, already bracing myself for whatever he’s about to lay into me about.
