‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

Thursday rolls around sooner than I would have liked, meaning the wedding is only two days away. Ben and I have managed to squeeze in sessions at least once a day, and we've managed to get through all of the songs. Now, we were focusing on polishing up our arrangement, adjusting as needed.

Since our encounter at the auto shop, we've been formal around each other for the most part. We try not to make practice last any longer than necessary, typically only discussing topics related to the gig.

However, there's something about being around him that makes me feel a certain way, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. Every time we play together, there's an undeniable pull–like we're speaking in a language only the two of us understand. And I hate to admit it, but I don't recall ever feeling this way when playing with Vince. Just the thought forms a heavy weight in my chest–an uneasy guilt.

Since we started these sessions, Ben has been teaching me simple signs that he uses often, that way he can communicate more easily. Of course, ASL is not something a normal person can master overnight, so it's taken me a while to memorize a few gestures. But it makes me feel better knowing he's getting more comfortable communicating with me in the way he's accustomed to.

I watch as Ben adjusts the sheet music in front of him, his brown drawn together in thought. He's been doing that a lot–refining, shifting dynamics, making slight changes that somehow make everything sound better. It's admirable, really. How he's unafraid to take a piece and make it his own.

I should be focused on the music. I should be thinking about the wedding, about making sure we have everything down perfectly. But instead, I'm watching the way his fingers drum lightly against the edge of the piano as he contemplates adding a build-up, or the way he tilts his head slightly when he's lost in thought.

I shake it off and lift my violin. "Should we run through it again with the new notes?"

Ben glances at me, then gives a short nod. He raises his hands to the keys, waiting for his cue.

We begin, and just like before, that unspoken rhythm between us returns. It's not just about playing the right notes anymore–it's the way we adjust to each other without thinking, the way the music pushes and pulls between us. Even when we're not speaking, it feels like we're having a conversation.

But something is different this time.

The way my heart stumbles when his eyes lift from the keys to meet mine peeking over my music stand. The way I feel a little too aware of his flickering gaze on me. The way, for just a second, I forget that we're here to practice at all.

This is dangerous.

When we reach the last note, I lower my bow and exhale. Ben sits slightly, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the piano. He glances my way and rises from his seat. I slowly lower my bow and violin as he approaches my stand, pulling the pencil that was tucked behind his ear.

He makes a gesture with his hand that takes me a moment to register. Let me.

I watch as he reaches his hand out to my sheet music, his bicep brushing against the sleeve of my sweatshirt. I can feel his undeniable warmth, even through the thick fabric. I subconsciously suck in a deep breath as he leans in close to write some notes in the margins.

I should step back.

But I don't.

Ben's presence is steady beside me, his focus solely on the sheet music as he scribbles in a quick note. The pencil scratches softly against the paper, but it's nothing compared to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. With how silent the room is, I am positive he can hear it too.

He's just correcting a section of the song, making a minor adjustment–something he's done countless times for me. But this time, I feel it. I feel everything.

The warmth radiating from him, even though the air conditioning in the room is running just fine. The quiet rise and fall of his even breaths. The faint scent that is uniquely, unmistakably his.

It's ridiculous how something so small can make me feel so unsteady. But then, his arm brushes against mine again, firmer this time, as if he's suddenly comfortably aware of how close he's standing.

A slow, dangerous heat unfurls in my stomach.

He tilts his head slightly, lost in his own head as he considers what else to add to the page. He is completely unaware of the effect this is having on me, and if I'm wrong, he's doing a very good job at remaining calm.

My fingers tighten around my bow as I fight the urge to move, to shift closer when I should be doing the exact opposite. His face is so near that if I turned my head, my cheek might graze his.

Would he pull away?

Would I?

The thought sends a sharp thrill through me–one I have no business feeling

Then, his head turns. Our eyes meet. He is so close that I can make out the faintest specks of hazel mixed into his deep brown irises. The curve of his soft lips that twitch ever-so-slightly when his gaze lands on me.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Ben doesn't pull away. He doesn't look away, either. And I think I might just pass away if he looks at me like this any longer.

My breath catches, my grip tightening on my violin as something thick and unspoken lingers between us. The air feels heavier now, charged with something that was not present before.

For a moment, I forget about all of my recent hardships. The rent. Vince. The gig. All I can think about is what is happening now. It feels like I've been given a second to take a breather I have needed for a long time. It's just me and him.

His gaze flickers, dipping slightly, as if he's considering something. As if he feels it too.

I swallow, suddenly hyper aware of how close we are. It would take so little–just the tilt of my head, the slightest shift forward. And that thought alone is enough to send my pulse skyrocketing.

Ben's fingers tighten subtly around the pencil still hovering over my paper. He exhales through his nose, a slow, measured breath I feel subtly, before finally–finally–he takes a step back.

The space he leaves behind feels colder than it should.

He doesn't do anything for a moment, but his head is turned away from me. He eventually grounds himself and turns to tap the margin where he made his notes, his expression looking more tense than before. He signs, Again?

I don't trust my voice, so I just nod.

And as we reset, I force myself to focus on the music, not on the way my skin still tingles where he touched me.