Chapter eight
553 Words
It was raining. Not the soft, poetic kind that matched a broody playlist—but a sudden, summer storm, loud and reckless and full of warning.
Fitting.
Because that’s how I felt.
Like something inside me had cracked open and I didn’t know how to close it again.
I sat in the empty music room, lights dimmed, the piano beneath my fingers the only thing grounding me to the moment. The keys were familiar. Safe. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t whisper Dante’s name into the silence.
But my mind did.
Again and again.
That one-on-one game had been weeks ago. And yet, I still felt the echo of his arms around me. The way his hands hovered like he didn’t trust himself to hold me any tighter. The look in his eyes before he let go—like he almost didn’t want to.
I didn’t tell anyone what happened. Not Skye. Not even myself, not really.
Because if I said it out loud… it would become real.
The door creaked open behind me.
I froze.
No one was supposed to be here. Not this late. Not in the rain. And especially not—
“You play when you can’t sleep?”
His voice.
I turned slowly, heart stuttering.
Dante stood at the door, soaked from the rain, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was darker when wet, his usual sharpness softened.
My breath caught.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Couldn’t sleep either.”
He stepped closer.
I wanted to step back.
I didn’t.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let his gaze drift to the piano, then to me.
“What were you playing?”
“Something messy,” I admitted. “Didn’t really have a plan.”
“Sometimes messy’s the most honest.”
He sat beside me.
Not close.
Not touching.
But close enough that the air between us shifted.
“You remember the gym?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He turned slowly. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t say anything after.”
“Because I didn’t trust what I’d say.”
My throat tightened.
“It meant something to me,” I whispered. “And that’s terrifying.”
Dante’s voice was rough when he answered.
“You’re not the only one terrified, Em.”
I blinked.
He never called me that before.
Em.
It felt too intimate. Like he knew things I hadn’t said aloud. Like he saw the versions of me I kept buried.
“I’m not good at this,” he said. “The whole… feeling thing. It’s easier to keep people at arm’s length. To play a role.”
“Then why let me in?”
A pause.
“Because when you play,” he murmured, “you don’t pretend. And that makes me want to stop pretending too.”
Lightning flashed behind the windows, but neither of us moved.
“This is dangerous,” I said quietly.
“I know.”
He reached forward slowly—giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
His fingers brushed mine on the keys.
Not possessive. Not forceful.
Just… there.
Warm.
Real.
And everything inside me unraveled.
Not because I was weak.
But because for the first time, someone held me like I wasn’t.
- Writer
