He hums his quiet approval. “That’s what I thought.”
We play together, his rhythm steady while mine tries to match. Every time I falter, he corrects me with a gentle nudge of his fingers or a quiet instruction in my ear to guide me through. His thigh brushes the back of my leg when he leans in farther, and his breath fans across my neck when he talks me through a fill.
I’m not thinking about the beat anymore. I’m thinking about how close he is. How his laugh vibrates against my back when I finally nail the pattern. How his hands feel on mine—sure, warm, and endlessly patient.
“See?” he says when I land a clean loop. “Told you you’re hooked.”
I turn my head just enough to catch his eye. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He grins, unrepentant. “Can you blame me? I’ve got the hottest student in the building, and he’s actually listening to me for once.”
I snort. “Flattery won’t make me better at drums.”
“No,” he says, voice dropping a half-step, “but it might make you stay longer.”
My heart trips, and I look back at the kit, cheeks burning. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he teases, echoing the line he’s thrown at me a hundred times.
I don’t answer. I just play another bar, letting the rhythm drown out the way my pulse is suddenly racing. He stays right behind me, hands still on mine, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels almost normal again.
Almost.
Chapter 5
Softlightshinesoverthe quad, bathing the space in that forgiving way that makes everything look a little more alive. New grass glows green enough to sting the eyes, and dogwoods are beginning to bloom in pinks and whites. The air carries the faintsweetness of cut grass, and a hint of sunscreen wafts over as someone walks past.
We’ve claimed our usual spot under the big oak near the music building. It’s far enough from the main paths that no one yells at us to move, but close enough to people watch as everyone comes out of hibernation.
Eric is stretched out on the blanket I laid out, with his head resting on the edge of my thigh and one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hair is still damp from the shower he took after his morning lesson, and blond strands stick up at odd angles.
I can’t stop running my fingers through it. They comb the strands in slow, absent strokes, separating them and smoothing them back only for the breeze to muss them again. Every few passes I let my thumb brush the shell of his ear, light enough to make him shiver once and hum in protest.
He doesn’t complain or pull away, though. He never does.
I flip through the music history flashcards on my phone, keeping my voice low. “Okay. Seventeenth century. Who’s the big name in opera?”
Eric groans, but a smile tugs at his mouth. “Monteverdi. You’re killing me with the simple ones.”
“They’re onlysimpleif you’re not half-asleep.” I tug lightly on a section of hair near his temple. “Next. What year did Handel write Messiah?”
“1741.” He cracks one eye open, peering up at me. “Are you taking it easy on me?”
“Maybe,” I answer as I slide my fingers along his scalp, scratching gently behind his ear the way I know he likes. “Or maybe you’re just going to rock another quiz.” He hums again, pleased, and shifts so his cheek presses more firmly against my thigh. The small adjustment brings his forehead against my stomach, and I feel the warmth of his breath through my shirt.
I’d give anything for it to always be this way.
The two of us on the grass, with no stressful deadlines crowding in, no one else pulling us in different directions, and no questions we’re both too scared to voice.
Just this.
His head in my lap, my fingers in his hair, the sun warm on my shoulders, and his hand finding mine every few minutes like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I pull away to shift my weight, and he reaches up blindly to keep me there, fingers curling around my wrist. His thumb brushes the pulse point inside, then he lets go as if nothing happened. I resume petting him with a breathy laugh.
I shouldn’t let myself fall into this. Shouldn’t enjoy it quite so much.
Eric’s lashes rest against his cheeks, and the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose are visible again now that he’s caught some sun. His mouth is soft, relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake and thinking too hard. My chest carries that familiar, quiet ache… one that’s been there so long I almost stop noticing it.
I’d freeze this moment if I could. Bottle it and keep it forever.
