Chapter eleven
609 Words
Skye was waiting.
Not just in the dorm, but inside the room, curled up like a cat on my bed, face lit with the kind of smile people only get when they know gossip is about to fall in their lap.
I didn’t even have time to shut the door before she pounced.
“You were gone for three hours.”
“The door was locked.”
“Sure it was.”
“Seriously, Skye.”
“Uh-huh. And the first place you thought to hide from the rain was in a locked room?” She wiggled her brows. “Thought you hated the piano room tho”
I tossed my damp jacket on the chair, trying not to look like my brain was still floating somewhere in that room—with him.
“I don’t hate it.”
“Girl, you hate that place, you be looking at it like it owes you money.”
I sighed, falling onto my bed.
Skye watched me for a beat, then leaned in.
“He kissed you.”
I didn’t respond.
“Oh my God. You did kiss! Didn’t you?”
I covered my face with a pillow and groaned. “Girl, please stop reading through me”
“Too late. Your entire body is screaming Dante Valtieri touched me and now I don’t know how to function.”
I peeked out. “I’m not… freaking out.”
“I never said you were freaking out.” she smirks at me "but girl you are glowing, glowing"
She was right. I could still feel him. The press of his hand at my waist. The weight of his gaze when he wasn’t looking away. The way his voice softened when he said my name like it meant something.
God.
It meant something.
“He said this was always a thing,” I whispered.
Skye blinked. “He said that?”
I nodded.
She sat back slowly, suddenly serious. “Okay. If that boy starts writing poetry, I’m going to scream.”
I laughed.
But underneath it, I was nervous. Because this wasn’t a crush. Not anymore.
This was dangerous.
And beautiful.
And real.
The next morning, I found a note inside my locker.
Not a text. Not a snap. A note.
Meet me. 8pm. Piano room.
No name.
He didn’t need to sign it.
I felt the smile before I knew I was smiling.
The day passed in a blur. I couldn’t focus. I barely remembered lunch. Even Skye gave up trying to tease me when I poured orange juice on my cereal instead of milk.
“You’re hopeless,” she said.
“I’m distracted,” I corrected.
“Same thing.”
When I stepped into the piano room at exactly 8pm, he was already there—leaning against the wall in a hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, fingers fiddling with a piece of folded paper.
He looked up.
And just like that, the air changed.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
We just stood there for a second.
Then he held out the paper.
“I was going to text. But this felt… better.”
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a sketch.
Me. Sitting at the piano. Head tilted, eyes closed, fingers stretched across keys.
Drawn like he’d memorized every angle.
“You draw?”
“Only when something won’t leave my head.”
My throat tightened.
“You’re making this really hard.”
“Making what hard?”
“Pretending I don’t care,” I whispered.
He stepped closer. “Then stop pretending.”
His hand brushed mine.
And this time?
I didn’t pull away.
- Writer
