Tell me I'm wrong

Chapter nine

She didn’t pull away.

That should’ve been the moment I walked out. Called it a night. Told myself I was imagining things, that what I felt wasn’t real.

But her hand stayed under mine.

And the storm outside wasn’t the loudest thing anymore.

It was my heartbeat.

I looked at her—really looked. Not just at the softness of her skin or the curve of her lips, but the defiance in her stillness. The quiet way she was letting herself feel this too, even if it terrified her.

“Emily,” I whispered.

She turned to me slowly. “Yeah?”

I hesitated.

This wasn’t who I was. I didn’t sit in dark rooms and bare my soul to girls with midnight eyes and music in their veins. I didn’t stay. I didn’t let people touch the parts of me I kept locked away.

But she was already touching them.

And somehow, I didn’t want to stop her.

“That game,” I said quietly. “When I held you. I wasn’t trying to win. I just wanted to know what it felt like to be near you without all the noise.”

Her eyes softened. “And?”

“It was quiet. Like now.”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just watched me, like she was searching for a lie that didn’t exist.

Then—

“I’m not good at this either,” she said, almost to herself. “Most people think I am, because I smile and keep it together. But it’s just armor. Music’s the only place I don’t have to lie.”

I leaned in, just slightly. “Then play for me again.”

“Now?”

“Now. Tomorrow. Whenever it hurts too much to keep it inside.”

She looked at me, and there was a flicker in her expression. Something vulnerable. Something fierce.

“And what if it’s not the music that hurts?”

“Then I’ll stay until it stops.”

Her breath caught again.

And this time, I didn’t hold back.

I reached up, gently brushing her damp hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm, flushed, and trembling just slightly beneath my touch.

“I don’t do this,” she whispered. “I don’t let people in.”

“Then don’t let me in,” I said. “Let me stay outside, just… close enough to hear the music.”

Her laugh was soft. Fragile.

And then she leaned in—just a little.

So I closed the space.

Our foreheads touched. Just that. No kiss. No promises.

Just breath and warmth and the knowledge that we were both breaking rules we’d written for ourselves.

“You scare me,” she said.

“You undo me,” I replied.

We stayed like that for what felt like forever.

Outside, the storm finally began to fade.

Inside, something new was just beginning.