Page 6 of Every Shattered Note
He doesn’t just look good.
He looks composed.Polished.Like someone you’d find framed behind glass in a vintage jazz club photo.The kind that makes you wonder what song he was playing when the flashbulb caught him mid-note, frozen in time and sound.Not behind a borrowed guitar at someone else’s wedding.
The stage lights shimmer against his lenses, a quick glint that makes him look surreal.For one suspended second, I forget how to breathe.
He adjusts his guitar strap with calm precision, nods once to the drummer behind him.
Then it begins.
A low hum of strings, soft percussion, and—“At Last.”
Etta’s version.Slow.Velvet-wrapped.I know it before the first full note folds itself into the air like a secret.The sound drapes across the ballroom, subtle and rich, pulling every conversation down to a hush.It slides beneath skin and memory, slow-dancing with forgotten hopes.Even the cynics pause.Even I—who’ve built entire walls out of structure and scheduling—feel something shift under my ribs.
It’s not just the melody—it’s what it stirs.Something from a far-off place I don’t let myself visit.Not during weddings.Especially not during weddings.
My heart skips, then taps an odd rhythm against my ribs.
He plays like he’s coaxing the music from some place deeper than just frets and strings.Like each note is threaded from memory.He’s not just performing—he’s translating something only he can hear.Every chord rings through the room, smooth and aching.The sort of sound that fills the spaces between candlelight and champagne bubbles.
And then he sings.
Low.Unhurried.A voice with grit and silk in equal measure, warm in the throat and frayed around the edges.Like he’s been somewhere, done something, hurt someone—or maybe himself—and lived to turn it into melody.
It hits something in me I didn’t know was exposed.
Maybe Jules was right.Maybe this whole thing wasn’t a total disaster.
I hover near the corner of the ballroom, half-hidden behind a linen-draped table and a clipboard I haven’t looked at in ten minutes.I pretend to scan timelines, guest lists, catering notes.But really, I’m just watching him.
The bride is glowing.Her parents look like they might cry again.A few guests slow-dance at the edge of the parquet floor.And there I am—stuck between awe and disbelief—because the same man who blinked at me blankly when I referenced Hall & Oates now sounds like he’s been doing this since birth.
Like music is his native language, and this ballroom is fluent.
Jules drifts close, low enough to be discreet.“You said he was okay.That guy is more than okay.”
I glance sideways, resisting a comment.
She clears her throat dramatically.“He’s fucking fine.And not a wet disaster.”
“I’m trying not to notice,” I mutter, the clipboard clenched a little too tightly.
She arches a brow.“You’re failing spectacularly.”
“Go count the desserts.”
She grins like the smug menace she is and slips back into the crowd.
On stage, Rafe shifts again—just slightly—and the light slides across the shoulder of his jacket.He doesn’t look like someone trying to control attention.He just ...has it.Without effort.Without trying to earn it.
The song ends in a breathless hush, followed by applause that swells and fades exactly how it should.Not flashy.Not awkward.Just ...right.
The bride’s mother dabs at the corner of her eyes with a lace handkerchief.The photographer catches a perfect shot as the couple spins once on the dance floor.I inhale.I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it in.
“Maybe he’s not a total liability,” I mumble, mainly to the clipboard.
Then he looks up.
Right at me.
