Better.She kept going, the words coming faster now, messy and half-formed, the way they always did when she was trying to outrun her own head.
He doesn’t ask me to stay, but he makes me want to
Leaves fingerprints on my skin like he’s writing something true
I kicked him out at dawn, said I don’t do mornings
But the bed still smells like cedarwood and warnings
Bonnie let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob.She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.
This was dangerous.
She could still picture the way he’d looked at her when she told him to leave.That careful, steady expression—like he’d been expecting it but hoping she wouldn’t.Like he saw straight through the walls she’d spent years building and still wanted to stay anyway.
She wrote another scrap, the pen moving almost angrily now.
I built these walls brick by brick, calloused hands and pride
Swore no man would ever get inside
But he played like he belonged there
Like the rhythm was ours to share
She dropped the pen and shoved the notebook away.Stood up.Paced the small living room once, twice, then grabbed her acoustic from its stand.She sat on the edge of the couch, guitar across her lap, and started picking out a slow, minor progression.The same four chords she’d been circling for weeks, trying to find the right words.
Her voice came out low and rough when she sang the first attempt.
“Thunder in the pocket...steady when I break...”
She stopped.Shook her head.Tried again, softer.
“He doesn’t ask me to stay...but he makes me want to...”
The words cracked on the last syllable.She swallowed hard and kept playing, letting the chords roll under her fingers while her mind spun.
She’d spent years convincing herself she didn’t need anyone.Her mother’s disappointment with her divorce had taught her early that the only person you could count on was yourself.Every boyfriend who got tired of her late nights and sharp edges had only reinforced the lesson.She was better alone.Safer.Stronger.
But last night—onstage with Vic—she hadn’t felt alone.She’d feltseen.Matched.Challenged in a way that made the music feel brand-new again.And afterward, tangled up in her sheets with his heartbeat steady under her ear, she’d felt something even scarier.
Wanted.
Not just wanted for sex or for the way she could make a crowd lose their minds.Wanted forher.The messy, guarded, workaholic version.The one who wrote songs at four in the morning and still couldn’t fix the muffler on her van.The one who pushed everyone away before they could leave first.
Bonnie’s fingers stilled on the strings.
She picked up the pen again and scrawled another fragment across the top of a fresh page.
Grace in the chaos, power in the fall
He plays like he knows I’m terrified of it all
She stared at the words until they blurred.
That was the part she couldn’t get past.Vic didn’t just play well.He played withgrace—even when he was slamming the kit so hard the stage vibrated.There was control in it.Care.The same control he’d shown when he let her set the pace in bed, then took over exactly when she needed him to.The same care when he’d brushed her hair off her face afterward and looked at her like she was something worth protecting.
She hated how much she liked the thought.
