Chapter Eight #2
“This one,” he said, sliding the vinyl free and setting it carefully on the turntable. “It’s… a quiet sad. Not dramatic sad.”
“Those are the best kind,” she said softly.
He lowered the needle and the music that spilled out was gentle and slow, piano and voice braided together in a way that made the air feel heavier, richer, like it had texture now.
It filled the space between them, settling into the silence without breaking it, and he reached for the spare set of headphones hanging from the hook beside the player.
He hesitated only a second before holding them out to her. “Here.”
She took them, her fingers brushing his, and for a moment neither of them moved.
Then she slipped them on and her almost violet eyes closed immediately.
Jace watched her as she listened, watched the way her expression softened, the way her shoulders loosened like something inside her had exhaled.
A strand of her damp hair clung to her cheek but she didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in the sound pouring into her ears.
He’d seen people listen to music before–of course he had, that was half his job–but something about the way she did it felt different, more intimate, like she was letting the song touch parts of her most people never got close to.
After a few seconds she opened one eye and looked at him, then lifted one side of the headphones slightly off her ear.
“Share,” she said.
He blinked. “What?”
She tilted her head toward him, smiling. “You can’t just give me your music and not listen with me. That’s rude.”
He huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh and stepped closer, reaching to take the other side of the headphones.
The cord stretched between them as he slipped one ear beneath the padded cup, and suddenly he was close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin, close enough that if he turned his head even slightly their noses would brush.
The song continued, soft and aching. For a moment neither of them spoke.
Her shoulder pressed lightly against his arm, the contact accidental in theory but lingering in practice, and he became acutely aware of every point where their bodies aligned–the brush of fabric, the shared heat, the faint rhythm of her breathing.
He could hear the music in one ear and her in the other, the quiet sound of air moving in and out of her lungs, and something about that combination made his chest feel tight in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.
They had kissed, some would even say made out, and yet this felt far more intimate.
“I like this,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
She nodded, her voice barely louder than the piano. “It feels honest.”
He swallowed. “That’s why I also like sad music.”
She turned her head slightly, enough that her temple almost touched his. “Why?”
He hesitated. He didn’t usually answer questions like that.
Not real ones. Not ones that asked him to open something instead of deflecting it.
But the rain whispered against the windows.
The store was empty. The music was soft.
And she was looking at him like she wasn’t asking out of curiosity but out of care.
“It makes me feel less alone,” he said quietly.
The words settled between them. She didn’t tease him or joke or brush him off. Instead she nodded once, slow and understanding, like she knew exactly what he meant.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
They stood like that for the length of the song, sharing the headphones, sharing the quiet, sharing a space that felt suddenly smaller and safer all at once. Outside, rain traced silver paths down the glass.
When the track ended, neither of them pulled apart right away.
It was Myah who moved first, lifting her hand to slide the headphones down around her neck, but she didn’t step back.
If anything she leaned a fraction closer, her eyes drifting to his mouth and then back up again with a softness that made his pulse stutter.
“That was really pretty,” she said.
“Yeah.” God he felt stupid with the short replies.
Her fingers toyed absently with the cord. “You always listen to music like that?”
“Mostly.”
“I think I get why now.”
He tilted his head. “Why?”
She met his gaze, her expression open in a way that felt like trust. “Because it sounds like how you look when you think no one’s watching.”
His breath caught. He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to deflect it or dodge it or tuck it safely away, because it landed too close to something true. For a second he just stood there, caught between the instinct to retreat and the unfamiliar urge to stay exactly where he was.
Her hand lifted, hesitant but deliberate, and brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead. The touch was light and careful and he felt his entire body go rigid.
“Myah,” he murmured.
She didn’t answer. She was already leaning in.
This kiss was nothing like the last one.
The last had been heat and surprise and impulse, a spark catching dry tinder and flaring fast. This one unfolded slowly, like a question asked in a whisper.
Her lips touched his gently, testing, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to.
He didn’t. He leaned into it, one hand coming up to rest against the side of her neck, his thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw. Her mouth was warm, softer than he remembered, and she kissed him like she was savoring something rather than chasing it, her movements unhurried and sure.
Time stretched.
The rain hushed.
The record spun silently beside them, forgotten.
He kissed her back with equal care, letting himself feel it instead of rushing through it, letting himself notice the small things–the faint hitch in her breath, the way her fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt, the way the world seemed to narrow until it was just her and the quiet space they shared.
When they parted, it wasn’t abrupt. It was gradual, their lips lingering close, their foreheads almost touching, both of them breathing a little deeper than before.
Her eyes opened slowly. “So,” she whispered.
“So,” he echoed.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, soft and pleased and a little shy in a way he hadn’t seen from her before.
They stayed close like that, neither of them stepping away, and Jace realized with a slow, dawning certainty that something inside him had shifted while he wasn’t paying attention.
The feeling wasn’t fireworks or thunder or anything that obvious.
It was quieter than that. Warmer. It felt like the first note of a song he already knew he was going to love.
And as he looked at her–at her rain-damp hair, her soft mouth, her eyes still half-lidded from the kiss–he had the sudden, unmistakable thought that he might be falling for her.
The realization didn’t scare him as much as it probably should have. It just settled in his chest, steady and sure, like music finding its rhythm.