Page 179 of Love at First Fright

We stayed like that—tangled together, neither willing to be the first to let go. Outside, the wind had died down, leaving only silence and light that very slowly faded.

Forever’s just a word until you find

Someone worth leaving the whole world behind

The lyrics echoed in my mind, and I finally understood what I’d been trying to say all those years ago. Forever wasn’t about time. It was about moments like this—so perfect, so complete, that they existed outside of everything else. Untouchable. Eternal.

Even if we only got this one afternoon.

Charlie’s breathing had evened out against my chest, his tears finally spent. I felt my form beginning to thin, energy depleted, but I held on for one more minute. Just one more.

“Bat?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” He pressed a kiss over my heart—the place where a heartbeat should be. “For this. For… everything.”

I couldn’t speak. Could only hold him tighter as the very last of my energy drained away, and I lost him—lost the heat of his body, the silk of his hair, every tangible piece of him.

Nothing lasts forever.

But god, what we had was worth it.

twenty-five

Charlie

The thundering of footsteps downstairs jolted me awake.

For a disoriented moment, I had no idea where I was. Then the rafters came into focus above me, draped in cobwebs that swayed gently in some phantom breeze. The attic. Right.

Pale morning light streamed through the small window, painting everything in shades of grey. My neck ached from the awkward angle I’d been sleeping at, and my arm had gone completely numb under Bat’s weight.

Bat, who was pressed against me, solid and cool and—

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

Fuck.

We’d stayed up here all of yesterday, hiding from Brad and the inevitable. I’d snuck downstairs to grab Bat’s guitar.

“Play something,” he’d said.

So I did. Started with the songs he’d requested, even having a crack at a Bush track he’d been obsessed with. My fingers fumbled at first, but he didn’t care. Bat had closed his eyes, swaying slightly, mouthing along to lyrics he’d never get to hear performed live again.

Then he’d asked me to play my own stuff.

“I don’t really… I haven’t written anything in ages.”

“Liar.” He’d nudged my knee with his. “I know you’ve got stuff in there.”

He wasn’t wrong. So I’d played him a half-finished thing I’d tinkered around with in my twenties, feeling exposed and ridiculous, but Bat had leaned forward, utterly focused. When I’d stumbled over a chord progression, he’d hummed a melody that fit perfectly—something with an alternative edge that shouldn’t have worked but did.

We’d spent hours like that. Me playing, him singing bits and pieces, both of us riffing off each other. At one point he’d taken his guitar and played me something fun and upbeat. Raw, unpolished but good, the sort of thing that would’ve found an audience if he’d just had more time. His voice had cracked on the high notes, rusty from disuse maybe, but I couldn’t look away.

The way he’d looked at me then—like maybe he’d found the point of music again, just for a moment—had stolen the air from my lungs. Had stolen my heart.

After that, we’d curled up together and I’d spent a good long while trying to explain things Bat had missed—short form video had broken his brain entirely (“So people just… watch strangers do dances? For hours? And this is entertainment?”), and he’d been genuinely distressed to learn about the decline of physical music media (“What do you mean people don’t own their music? What if the internet gets hacked and everything gets deleted?!”).