“Let’s talk it over with Izzy and your lawyer before making any decisions, but I’ll do whatever you want. You’re in control here,” I tell her, reaching out and squeezing her hand in comfort.
She nods her head, lost in thought, not giving me an answer.
After a beat, my gentle strumming continues as the air around us becomes charged with the unspoken bond we’ve always shared. My fingers play song after song until I reach one I’ve been working on lately.
Raina hums softly along with my melody, our creative connection sparking anew, igniting a flicker of excitement deep within me. With our shoulders brushing, the chords wash over us like a lullaby, enveloping us in warmth as I steal glances at her, seeing the way the music brightens her face.
She reaches for her notebook and quickly finds a clean page. There’s a shift in her demeanor, a spark of creative energy pulsing in the air as I continue to play.
The light scratch of her pencil adds a layer to the melody she hums. I glance over, catching the way her brow furrows in concentration, and that intimate connection weaves tighter around us. “What are you writing?”
“It’s about forgiveness,” she replies, biting her lip, the intensity in her voice sending a thrill racing through me. “And second chances. I want it to be about letting go.”
Her words, heavy with meaning, settle deep in my chest. “Can I sing it with you?” I ask, my voice low, almost afraid to break the spell between us.
Her eyes brighten as she hands me the notebook, the faintest smile curving her lips. “I actually wrote it as a duet,” she says, voice soft but sure. That single confession hits me harder than any chord I’ve ever played.
I glance down at the guitar in my lap, fingers finding the chords I’d written days ago. The melody comes easily, like it’s been waiting for her words all along.
“Let it go,” I sing, testing the words, letting them unfurl into the quiet air. The sound feels raw, like a confession I didn’t realize I’d been holding back.
Raina’s gaze lifts to meet mine, and then, without hesitation, she answers, her voice fragile but clear. “Take it back.”
The words tremble out of her, breathy but sure, and it nearly undoes me. It’s not the first time I’ve heard her sing since the attack, but it’s the first time it feels like she’s singingtome.
I strum lighter, afraid to overpower her, letting the music cradle her voice as she finds her footing. “Find your voice,” we croon, the sound of my voice blends with hers, our tones intertwining like the edges of a wound finally closing.
She swallows hard, tears shining in her eyes, and then she starts to hum, a thread of sound, but enough to draw me in closer.
The melody swells, delicate but alive. A song reborn, shaped by everything we’ve endured—by loss, forgiveness, and the stubborn hope that refuses to fade.
For the first time in forever, I’m not solely hearing her voice. I’m hearingus.
“I think we’ve found something,” I say softly, the words barely a whisper as our voices fade into silence.
Her fingers brush against mine, tentative yet inviting. The world becomes a blur of emotion as our palms meet, intertwining gently. I barely have the forethought to place my guitar on the couch next to me as I lean in, asking for permission with my eyes. “Can I?”
She nods, our breaths mingling as I close the distance between us. Our lips meet, and time slows. It’s a kiss full of promise, a sweet connection laced with every moment we’ve shared, every lingering regret. I lose myself in the warmth of her, the lingering tension that’s unfurling into something wholly new.
The kiss swells between us, igniting an electricity that makes my heart race. Every brush of our lips sends waves of warmth surging through me. She lets out a shuddering, half-laughing breath into my mouth as I pull her onto my lap. The lanterns cast a honeyed glow, lighting the trembling arc of her neck, the freckled edge of her cheek, the blue-black line of her eyelashes as she blinks against the rush of sensation.
Our lips meet again, deeper this time. Her hands clutch at my hair, desperate, as if she’s still not sure I’m real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” I confess between kisses, my voice rough with the weight of desire. I can barely process the emotions coursing through me—the need, the hunger—but I know I’m not talking about being physical. It’s the forgiveness I’ve needed. And because I have it, I don’t hold back. This moment belongs to us.
We break for air. Our foreheads lean together, noses bumping, breath mingling in little gasps that are more laughter than need. I can’t help but grin; I feel high, reckless, terrified that if I move too fast, she’ll vanish and I’ll be left clutching nothing.
Her hands slip under my shirt, nails grazing the skin right above my waistband, and I shiver at her touch. I lift my arms, surrendering, and she yanks the fabric up and over my head, leaving my chest bare to her scrutiny. She traces the tattoos—one, two, three—fingers skating over the black ink and scars like she’s trying to memorize a language she hasn’t spoken in years.
She sucks in a breath, and I follow her line of sight. Her fingers trace the tattoo I have of her name. Silence stretches between us, neither of us speaking a word about it.
Her hands move up my chest, and I close my eyes. Her palms are rough in the way that only comes from a lifetime of picking up the pieces. She leans in, pressing a kiss to my shoulder, then my jaw, then the hollow behind my ear. Every nerve ending is singing; I’m so hard it’s almost painful, but I don’t dare rush her. Not this time.
“Raina…” I breathe, eyes heavy-lidded with passion. She pauses, a flicker of apprehension dancing behind those stunning blue eyes. “What do I need to avoid?”
“What?” she asks in confusion.
“The last time we were in a similar position, I triggered you,” I tell her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as I study her gaze, wanting her to understand how serious I am. “I don’t want it to happen again.”
“Oh,” she breathes out.
