Heath exhaled, slow and measured, the playful ease in his expression faltering just slightly.
He did not answer right away, but when he did, his voice was quieter, edged with something tangible.
“No. I was just remembering.”
She stepped closer, hesitant at first, until she stood just beside him, her fingers trailing lightly over the polished edge of the piano.
“It is a beautiful melody.” Her voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “Did you compose it?”
Heath exhaled, allowing his fingers to hover above the keys, as though debating whether to play another note.
“Not entirely.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but there was no true amusement in it. “My father did, for my mother. He would compose for her whenever words failed him.”
Blanche tilted her head, surprised by the tenderness woven into his words. “That is quite romantic.”
Heath chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It was merely how they were. I would listen to them at night, my father lost in composition, my mother humming along. Over time, he let me sit beside him, taught me the notes, let me add my own variations…”
Blanche smiled, warmth pooling in her chest. “You must miss them terribly.”
For a moment, Heath did not answer. Instead, his fingers pressed gently into the keys, coaxing a single, mournful note into the silence. Then, just as softly—almost too softly—he spoke.
“I do.”
Blanche felt something tighten inside her, a quiet ache for the man before her, for the weight he carried and the grief he seldom acknowledged.
Slowly, almost without thinking, she reached for him, her fingertips grazing the back of his hand in quiet reassurance.
Heath stilled for a moment, and then, without a word, he turned his palm upward, catching her fingers in his own before bringing them gently to his lips.
His kiss was warm, reverent—nothing like the teasing gestures he had so often indulged in before. It was a confession in itself.
A silent admission that, for all his charm and bravado, he had known loneliness far too intimately. Blanche swallowed, her pulse betraying her as it quickened under the quiet weight of the moment.
“You deserve more credit, you know?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “For everything you have built. For everything you have endured…”
Heath let out a breath of quiet amusement, his thumb brushing absently over the back of her hand before releasing it. “And here I thought you would forever delight in tormenting me.”
Blanche smirked. “Oh, I do. But even rakes must hear the truth now and then.”
Heath huffed a chuckle, shaking his head, but the weight behind his gaze remained—unspoken, steady. Then, impulsively, Blanche extended her hand, pressing the tips of her fingers lightly against the keys. A single, hesitant note rang out, delicate against the silence.
Heath raised an eyebrow. “Are you attempting to outplay me, Wildcat?”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Hardly. I can hardly call what I just did ‘playing.’”
“Ah,” Heath hummed, shifting slightly, his fingers brushing against hers as he guided her hand to another key. “Then let me teach you…”
Slowly, deliberately, he pressed down, coaxing a richer, warmer sound from the piano. Blanche watched him, studying the way his movements carried a quiet elegance, a familiarity rooted in years of practice.
She followed his lead, tentatively at first, but under his guidance, the melody began to take shape. It was nothing structured,nothing defined—only scattered notes weaving together into something soft, something unformed.
Something new.
“See?” Heath murmured. “Not so hopeless after all.”
Blanche huffed a quiet laugh. “I suppose I must thank you for sparing me the embarrassment.”
Heath’s smirk softened, his gaze drifting toward the keys as the melody lingered between them.
