Chapter 9
A FIVE STRING SERENADE
NORA
The first thing I register when I wake is the absence.
Not coldness—just the space where Nate should be.
My hand finds nothing but sheets that have already lost his warmth, and it tugs me into consciousness faster than any alarm.
Soft morning light spills through the villa’s curtains and for a moment I can’t remember what country I’m in, what day it is, or why my heartbeat feels like it’s humming in my throat.
Then last night hits me in full, dizzying clarity.
Every unspoken thing that finally found a voice.
Every barrier that fell away with a kiss.
The way it felt to touch him without fear, without history pulling us backwards. For once, the world didn’t feel like something I had to brace myself against—it felt like something opening.
I slide out of bed, tugging his crumpled shirt from the floor and pulling it over my head.
It hangs off me in that effortless way men’s clothing does, brushing the tops of my thighs.
It smells like him—soap, skin, a hint of cedar, and something I’ve never named but have always recognized.
The kind of scent an expensive brand would market as quiet longing.
Music drifts up the stairs—soft, raw, unfinished. Guitar strings coaxed into something tender. I pause at the top step, letting the sound settle into me. Nate’s always been good, but this this is someone playing without armor.
When I step into the living room, he’s sitting on the couch, shirtless, head bent, hair falling over his forehead, completely lost in the sound he’s shaping. He stops midsong to scribble something in his notebook, frustration and inspiration fighting for dominance.
“What’s that one called?”
His head snaps up like I’ve caught him dreaming. And then—fuck—the way his expression softens the instant he registers it’s me. The way his gaze drags down my body in his shirt, slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the image.
“It doesn’t have a name yet,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
He stands, almost unconsciously drawn forward.
“Nora,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the hem where his shirt hits my thighs, “don’t hide.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His thumb brushes my cheek, gentle in a way that makes my breath catch.
And then—because my body betrays me—I bite my lip.
Something dark flickers in his eyes, soft but sure, like a match quietly striking.
“Don’t do that either,” he whispers. His thumb grazes my lower lip. “Not unless you want me to lose my mind.”
I open my mouth to ask why, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
He answers with his mouth on mine—slow at first, then hungry, then absolutely gone. He kisses the exact spot I’d bitten like he’s been waiting for permission.
And then everything becomes a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter—me wrapped around him, him lifting me like gravity doesn’t apply to either of us.
He carries me upstairs, steady and certain, and the world dissolves into heat and longing and the dizzying familiarity of a body I’ve loved quietly for years.
Later, we’re tangled in sheets that smell like sweat, country side air, and whatever we’ve become. My head rests on his chest, my fingers tracing the elegant lines of his collarbone.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
He hesitates—not out of avoidance, but out of choosing the truest version of the truth.
“That we spent years building walls we thought were protecting us” he murmurs, voice roughened into something soft. “But really, they were just keeping everything real out.”
I lift my head slightly. “Is that what we were doing?”
His throat works as he swallows.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “And I think we were terrified that if we stopped fighting it, we’d have to face how much we actually mattered to each other.”
Before I can respond, my phone starts vibrating on the nightstand.
It’s Mom.
“Oh god.” Panic hits instantly. “I can’t—look at me—there’s no way—”
Nate laughs under his breath, warm and maddening. “Answer it.”
“I can’t answer looking like this.”
“Here,” he says, handing me my t-shirt.
I groan, half-dressed with my hair all over the place, fully flustered, and accept the call.
“Hey, Mom.”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BEAUTIFUL GIRL!”
I smile, trying to appear less thoroughly undone.
“Thanks, Mom. Sorry I didn’t call back, I’ve had horrible recep—wait. What is that?”
She shifts, and something bright catches the light. Nate’s hand stills on my thigh, thumb pausing mid-stroke.
Mom blushes—caught.
“Oh. Right. That.”
She lifts her left hand.
Nick leans into the frame, sheepish.
“So, uhh… I asked your mom to marry me.”
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Congratulations.”
Mom’s shoulders relax like she’s been holding the moment in for days.
“You’re not upset?”
“Why would I be?” I ask.
“It’s only been—”
“Mom,” I say softly, “you deserve to be happy. You deserve love. Dad would want that.”
Her eyes shine. Mine sting.
“Okay well, I wanted to let you know that we’re getting married this summer. In Eden.”
“Wow. This summer? As in, a few weeks' time?”
“I know, I know, it's soon, but we thought, why wait? When you know, you know, I guess.” She pauses, carefully choosing her words. “I want you there, sweetheart. I need you there.”
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Mom. Wait, how soon is this wedding happening?"
I glance at Nate. His eyes are on me—steady, unguarded in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
When you know, you know.
Yeah. I guess some people do.
"Guess Lydia has her hands full for the next few weeks then."
"That woman is on a mission. I swear she's already called every florist within a fifty-mile radius and somehow convinced the bakery to bump us ahead of three other weddings. I think she might actually be a wizard disguised as a middle-aged woman."
We both laugh and something inside me loosens. Maybe it's the way Nate’s fingers have found my thigh again, grounding me with a slow, reassuring stroke.
"I'll be there." I promise.
Mom beams, then squints. “Did you get up to anything exciting for your birthday?”
Heat floods my cheeks. I try so hard to sound casual.
“Oh, um, nothing too crazy. Just dinner and a bit of sightseeing.”
As if sensing my panic, Nate chooses that exact moment to press a slow, warm kiss to my thigh—just above the hem of his shirt.
The traitor.
His mouth curves against my skin in a smile that is entirely aware of the effect he’s having.
"Well when you’re back here, we’ll celebrate together." Mom says, oblivious.
Nate shifts closer and kisses the spot just above my knee and my breath catches.
"I will, Mom," I manage.
"I love you, Nora."
"I love you too."
"Send me your flight details when you have them, okay?"
"Okay."
"Bye, Nate!" she calls out loudly—because of course she knows.
Nate’s voice is warm, a little amused. “Congratulations, Kat.”
Mom winks at me before the screen goes dark.
Silence fills the room.
I look at him. “You think she knows?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“That we’re together, or that we just had sex multiple times this morning?”
I grab a pillow and throw it at him, he catches it one-handed, grinning.
Then his expression softens. “You okay?”
His voice is quieter. The one he uses when he’s stripping things down to truth.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He tilts his head slightly, reading me the way he always has—like he can see the parts I’m trying to hide.
“Your mom is getting remarried,” he says simply. “And yeah, it’s Nick—anyone would be lucky to have him. But it still shifts things.”
“I’m happy it’s Nick,” I say. “He makes her happy and I just want her to be happy.”
Nate threads his fingers through mine, and we fall into a quiet thumb war—childish yet still comforting.
“Will you come back to Eden with me?”
His thumb freezes and just like that the game ends instantly.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair. His back is to me, the new tattoos winding over his shoulders like armor he built himself. Armor over old wounds.
“I don’t think I can go back to Eden,” he says. His voice isn’t cold—just honest. And that hurts more.
“Not yet?” I ask. “Or ever?”
He turns, meeting my eyes. Something troubled flickers behind his.
“Come here.”
I sit beside him. His fingers brush my hair back, gentle in a way that makes my throat tighten then he presses a slow kiss to my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “But I can’t.”
The apology is soft, sincere, but it cuts clean.
What was I thinking—that one night, one morning, could erase years of history, could make everything simple? That wanting each other this badly meant we were suddenly capable of being whole?
It hits me how naive I’ve been.
He’s in a place I can’t reach, and I’m somewhere else entirely.
Eden isn’t an option, and neither is London—not without bending ourselves into shapes we weren’t made to fit.
Maybe we’re just two people who belong together in moments, but not in life.
And the truth stings more than any goodbye ever could.
"I need to shower," I say, standing abruptly. "And look at flights."
"Nora, wait—"
He reaches for me, but the moment his fingers brush my wrist, something inside me flinches. Not away from him—never from him—but from the crushing weight of everything we haven't said.
Everything we keep circling without ever daring to touch.
I step back instead.
"I just need a minute," I whisper, even though we both know I need more than that.
I need distance and air.
In the bathroom, the steam fogs the mirror, but it's the reflection of my own uncertainty that feels hardest to face.
The water runs over my skin, but it doesn't wash away the longing or the ache or the quiet devastation of realizing that wanting each other hasn't magically solved the parts of us that are still broken.
When I step out, the villa feels different. Like something has already shifted between us while I was behind the door.