“Bossy,” I repeat.
“Play.”
I look at Tilda.
She lifts one brow.
“Don’t look at me. You created this situation.”
I sigh dramatically.
“Fine.”
I adjust my grip and start playing again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Not trying to impress.
Not trying to perform.
Just—
Playing.
The notes come easier now.
Smoother.
Less forced.
Jesse leans back against my chest, listening, his small body warm and solid.
“What’s that?” Tilda asks quietly.
I hesitate.
“Nothing yet.”
“It sounds like something.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It might be.”
She steps closer, watching my hands as they move over the strings.
“You’re writing,” she says.
I shrug.
“Maybe.”
“You are.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It already is.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know if I want to go back to that.”
