Page 57 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Tell me about them,” I say softly. “You know all about me and I really don’t know anything about you.”

“There’s not much to say.” He shrugs.

“Tell me about your father. Did you guys ever get along?”

“He wasn’t always bad. I mean, I guess that depends on how you define bad. He was strict. He really hates this music thing.”

I turn toward him, tucking my leg under me. I don’t say anything yet. I can tell he’s not done.

“When I started playing music, he said it was a phase. Said it was a waste of time. He told me real men don’t sit around strumming guitars, they work hard, they build something. It felt like everyone in town agreed with him. Small town, small minds. If you don’t fit their mold, you’re weird. Weak. A disappointment.”

I feel my heart crack for him. I run my hand over the back of his head, my fingers trailing over his neck.

“And then there was the thing with my first performance,” he continues. “School talent show. I was fourteen. I thought I killed it. I was so proud. But afterward, my dad didn’t say anything. Just gave me this look like I’d embarrassed him. Then the rumors started. Dumb crap like I was doing it to get attention. Like liking music made me less of a man. The kids at school made fun of the way I moved on stage. The way I sang. Everything.”

“Jack...” I whisper.

“I stopped playing in public for years after that. I told myself I didn’t care, but I did. I cared a lot. And the worst part is, even now, when I get on stage, a little part of me still hears their voices. Still wonders if they’re watching and laughing.”

There’s a lump forming in my throat. I squeeze his hand. “I’m so sorry they made you feel like that. But, Jack, you’re so damn talented. And brave. You’re doing what you love, even after all that. That matters.”

He looks at me. “I want to believe that. I really do. But part of me still wants to shove it in their faces. To prove I made it. To show them I wasn’t the joke they thought I was.”

I smile. “I get that. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, if it gives you the fire to keep going. But I hope someday you make music just because you love it. Because it makes you feel alive. Not to prove anything. Just because it’s yours.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Then his hand slides up to cradle my cheek.

“You always say the exact thing I need to hear,” he murmurs.

I smile, a little shy now under his gaze. “That’s because I mean it.”

And then he’s kissing me.

Soft at first. Slow. Like he’s savoring it. Like he needs it. It’s been over a week since we’ve been together. I thought I was ravenous for him, but this is different. This is special.

I melt into him, threading my fingers through his hair. The heat between us builds quickly. I can’t help but think how different it feels from every time before.

Because this isn’t just about attraction. It’s not just about the fire or the need.

It’s about trust. It’s about connection. It’s about something so much more. And so real.

“My bed,” I murmur against his lips. “This couch is too small.”

He laughs softly, pulling away just enough to look down at me. “Always so direct, Jinnie.”

“Not always,” I tease, running my hands over his chest. It’s been too long since I felt this skin under my fingertips.

“Not fair,” he breathes out before lowering his head to kiss me again.

We walk the short distance to my bed. His lips trace my jawline, my neck, before he meets my eyes once more. He pulls me closer, his body against mine as we sink onto the bed together.

We don’t need to hurry; there’s no one waiting for us and nowhere to be. It feels like we have all the time in the world.

My breath hitches when he pulls my blouse off and tosses it aside. I can feel his warm breath fanning across my collarbone before he gently nibbles on it—gently enough to make me shiver but not leave a mark. He smirks at my reaction before moving lower still, kissing his way down toward my stomach until he reaches my bra clasped between us. He undoes that too with ease, his lips lingering on each loop before parting them entirely and exposing my breasts to cool air for a moment before his mouth finds one, then the other, teasing and tasting until I’m arching into him, my hands fisting in his hair. His name escapes my lips in a breathy whisper.

He pulls back just enough to tug off his shirt. I take the opportunity to run my hands over the defined planes of his chest and abs. He’s all hard muscle and smooth skin. I can’t resist leaning in to kiss along his collarbone, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my lips.

“Jinnie,” he murmurs, his voice rough with need as he reaches for the button of my jeans. I lift my hips to help him slide them off, along with my underwear, leaving me bare before him.