Like we’d built our own little world and forgot to invite anyone else.
After dinner, every night, I grabbed the guitar.
Didn’t even think about it.
It just became routine.
Her curled up against the cabin wall with a blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. Legs tucked under mine. Watching me like I was about to perform some magic trick.
The stars overhead.
The water black and endless.
My fingers finding the strings.
Soft songs. Old songs. Half-forgotten love ballads.
Stuff my mom used to play around the house when I was a kid.
Stuff that felt too honest to sing anywhere else.
Out there, it felt safe.
My voice low.
Just for her.
Sometimes she’d close her eyes and just listen.
Sometimes she’d stare at me like I was the only person on earth.
And that look?—
That look was a head rush.
Like jumping off something high and not knowing if you’d land.
Someone like her shouldn’t want someone like me.
She was too sharp. Too beautiful. Too everything.
But every time I glanced up, she was already looking at me like she’d chosen me.
Like it wasn’t even a question.
By the time the last chord faded, she was always close.
Closer than before.
Her hand sliding up my arm. Fingers curling into my shirt. That quiet, hungry look in her eyes like the whole world had narrowed down to just us.
The guitar would end up forgotten on the bench.
My back against the cabin door.
Her laugh turning breathless when I pulled her in.
Kisses slow at first.
