“What song is this?” I venture, heart skipping. I feel like I’ve finally found him, rather than him finding me.
I guess I technically did.
“Mine. I wrote it,” His reply is casual, almost dismissive.
Of course he did.
“A psychopath who writes music and stalks people? How original.” I laugh, the sound flat compared to the melody. I’m acutely aware of the tension that prickles under my skin, the two halves of myself—the one who knows better, the one who never cared—colliding.
He keeps playing. The song curls around us again, slower now, like it recognizes me too. I settle on the piano bench beside him. I close my eyes, letting the music consume me. My heart beats in time with his rhythm: soft, intense, and so distinctlyhim.
I wonder if he’s hypnotizing me. If that’s why I feel so unnaturally calm right now, why the blood that usually rushes everywhere when he’s near is moving more subtly, sneaking into crevices that it shouldn’t.
“Where did you learn how to play?” The question slips out before I can stop it, innocent but laden with implications.
The piano stills, the sound fading away, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Roman’s eyes narrow, something shifting in his posture.
I’ve pried too deep.
“It was a long time ago,” he finally says, and I can almost see walls rising around him, a barrier built from years of pain and rage. I hold my breath, anxiety swirling.
There’s part of me that expects him to slam me down on the piano, peel my thighs apart and fuck the questions out of me.
Part of me wants nothing more than that.
But another knows that the raw animal lust he ignites in me can only go so far.
At some point, I need to know this man.
And I want to know him better than anyone.
I realize, in a way that makes my chest collapse, that I want him to choose me for this, too. Not just for my body. Not just for the cause.
I want him to trust me with the parts of himself he hasn’t given to anyone.
But he can’t.
Not after what I’ve done.
“Prison,” he says, snapping the word at me. Testing me, maybe.
I should have known. Emotion stirs in me—sympathy, understanding, something deeper than I want to admit.
I lean in anyway, drawn forward despite the warning in his tone. Despite the truth I already know: I’ve betrayed him, and he doesn’t even realize it yet.
“I was taught by an old maestro. He drew piano keys on a piece of wood, and hummed the tunes until I could imagine the sounds.” His words hang in the air, and I wonder when he last spoke them. And to who. Something about this makes me feel undressed, like this story is itself a form of touch.
Except instead of the fire and violence we’ve shared so far, where he touches me like its his job to make me come, this is sweet and unpracticed—an inexpert but adoring caress.
I shudder.
“What happened to him?” I press gently. I think about how little I know Roman. Nothing at all, really. I know more about that goddamn banker from the bar.
And yet, I feel that I know Roman as well as I know myself.
I certainly know enough that I don’t think this story will have a happy ending.
My hands pre-emptively clench into fists as I force myself to remember who he is. An obsessive monster and a sentient shadow.
