28. Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“‘They’re obviously in love, Bran. Stop being dense.’”
“She sounds perceptive.”
“She watches too many romantic comedies.”
“Apparently not.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
A real smile finally appears.
Then Bran points one finger at me.
“You cannot screw this up.”
The warning wipes away the humor.
“I know Simone acts as though she doesn’t care what anyone thinks.”
He looks toward the house.
“She cares about everything. Too much.”
“I know.”
“She’ll provoke you. Say things she doesn’t mean. Do reckless shit just to prove no one can control her.”
“I know that too.”
“She has spent years believing she was the one who cared more.”
The statement strikes hard.
Bran holds my gaze.
“If you make her believe that again, I will forget every pleasant thing I’ve said tonight.”
“I don’t intend to hurt her.”
“No one intends to.”
He isn’t wrong.
Love doesn’t make me incapable of failure.
“I’ll make mistakes,” I admit.
Bran’s expression sharpens, but I continue.
“So will she.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“I’m not going to lie to you.”
I rest both hands against the railing.
“I can’t promise she’ll never cry because of me. I can promise I won’t run when things become difficult.”
Bran listens.
“I won’t decide what’s best for her and call it love.”
The lesson cost us both enough.
“And I’ll never treat her heart carelessly again.”
His face softens by a fraction.
“She means everything to me.”
Bran nods slowly.
“That’s what worries me.”
“Why?”
“Because if this goes badly, I lose both of you.”
The answer silences me.
I turn toward him.
“You won’t lose me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes.”
I grip the back of his neck the way he has done to me a thousand times.
“I do.”
He looks at my hand.
Then at me.
“Still brothers?”
“Always.”
Bran pulls me into a rough embrace.
It lasts less than two seconds before he shoves me away.
“Don’t make this emotional.”
“You hugged me.”
“I slipped.”
“Of course.”
He straightens his jacket.
“I’m not giving you permission to date her.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“And I’m not apologizing.”
“You should apologize for making me imagine the two of you having sex.”
“No one asked you to do that.”
“The visual arrived against my will.”
“You need professional help.”
Bran winces.
“Can we agree you won’t be affectionate in front of me?”
“No.”
“Luca.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Maybe avoid kissing while I’m eating.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“That means no.”
“Yes.”
He looks toward the house.
“Go. She’s probably pacing a trench into her bedroom floor.”
I start toward the door.
“Luca.”
I turn.
Bran’s expression is serious again.
“Take care of her.”
“I will.”
“And yourself.”
That request catches me off guard.
He shrugs.
“You’re still my brother, asshole.”
Warmth moves through my chest.
“You too.”
I return inside.
Simone is pacing when I enter her bedroom.
She has changed out of the sapphire gown while waiting.
Now she wears tiny black shorts and a thin tank top, and the sight of her bare legs nearly erases the conversation I just had.
She stops the moment she sees me.
Her gaze moves over my face.
Then my shirt.
Then back to my face again.
“Everything appears intact.”
“I told you we were talking.”
“Bran has an unpredictable relationship with the truth.”
“He didn’t hit me.”
“Did you hit him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She approaches and studies me more closely.
“Your face is still perfect.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“I’m very attached to it.”
I catch the belt loops of her shorts and pull her against me.
Her hands settle on my chest.
“We’re all right,” I tell her.
Relief softens her shoulders.
“Really?”
“Still brothers.”
“I told you he would survive.”
“You predicted violence.”
“Both things can be true.”
I slide my hands beneath the hem of her tank top and touch the warm skin of her waist.
“He has one condition.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want us kissing in front of him.”
Simone considers it.
“No.”
“That was also my response.”
Her smile appears.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She takes my hand.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“I want to show you something.”
Simone leads me from her bedroom and down the hallway toward her private studio.
The room is dark until she switches on several low lamps.
A piano stands near the window. Guitars line one wall. A microphone and sound equipment occupy the opposite side, surrounded by notebooks, cables, and half-empty cups.
This room feels more intimate than her bedroom.
This is where she creates.
Where she becomes the version of herself no camera can manufacture.
Simone releases my hand and walks toward the piano.
“I wrote something for you.”
My chest tightens.
“You did?”
“The second night after we returned.”
She sits on the bench and adjusts the microphone.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Because you missed me?”
“Don’t become arrogant.”
“It’s too late.”
Her lips curve.
I sit on the couch across from her.
“When did you plan to play it?”
“When you finally stopped communicating like a hostage.”
“That seems fair.”
She places her fingers over the keys.
“I thought a song might be better than an autograph.”
The reference to the island bonfire makes me smile.
“I must be a very lucky fan.”
“You are.”
She glances at me from beneath her lashes.
“You get to date me too.”
The first notes begin.
Soft.
Haunting.
The melody enters the room like a confession.
Then Simone sings.
She sings about being eighteen and loving someone who refused to believe her heart knew what it wanted.
About turning love into anger because anger hurt less than rejection.
She sings about two kisses in dark cars and all the words we buried after them.
About a man kneeling before her, willing to give her anything except the truth.
Then the music changes.
She sings about falling from the sky.
Fire against water.
An island of relentless wind.
A shelter beneath stone and the safety of waking inside someone’s arms.
She sings about the difference between being watched and being seen.
About all the years we spent standing beside each other without closing the distance.
About finally choosing instead of almost.
Every lyric reaches inside me and touches something exposed.
I have heard Simone perform before.
Onstage, she commands thousands of people.
Here, she sings only to me.
Her voice breaks slightly during the final line.
Not because she misses the note.
Because she feels it.
The last chord fades.
For several seconds, I can’t move.
Simone keeps her hands over the piano keys.
Color spreads across her cheeks.
“Well?”
I cross the room before she finishes the question.
My hands close around her waist, and I lift her from the bench.
She laughs as her arms wrap around my neck.
I kiss her.
The song remains suspended around us.
Every note.
Every confession.
Everything she was brave enough to preserve in music.
When I draw back, her forehead rests against mine.
“I love it.”
“Only it?”
“I love you.”
Her smile softens.
“I want to hear it again.”
“The song?”
“That too.”
I kiss her.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
I carry her toward the couch.
Simone laughs against my mouth.
“How many times are you planning to say it?”
“For the rest of my life.”
The words emerge before I can question them.
They are raw.
Possibly too soon.
Still true.
Her laughter fades.
Her brown eyes search mine.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
I lower her carefully onto the couch but remain kneeling between her legs.
“I spent years treating loving you like something I had to survive.”
My hands settle at her waist.
“I don’t want to waste another day pretending I can imagine a life without you.”
Her fingers move into my hair.
“You don’t have to.”
I kiss her slowly.
No urgency.
No fear that someone will take the moment away.
Only Simone.
The music she wrote for me.
And the life waiting for us beyond the studio door.
Time exists with her.
It simply feels worth spending.