Page 8 of Every Shattered Note
It shouldn’t make my breath catch.
But it does.
He doesn’t just look like he belongs here.
He knows it.
Like the stage missed him.Like he’s not borrowing this moment but reclaiming it.He plays like someone who never should’ve been off the roster.
I press the clipboard closer to my chest and pull in a breath, trying to flatten the buzz under my skin.
I don’t know whether to be impressed, suspicious, or just plain pissed that he’s unraveling every rule I have about how these events are supposed to go.About professionalism.About trust.About whatever this tug in my stomach is every time he sings.
I close my eyes, grounding myself in the familiar noise of a wedding in full swing—cutlery clinking, laughter bubbling over from the champagne bar, the faint swoosh of satin gowns brushing past.
Back in control, Alyssa.
But then—I hear it.
The first few notes are unmistakable.
A bright, bouncy synth.Tight rhythm.A stutter of drums.
“You Make My Dreams (Come True).”
Hall & Oates.
My eyes snap open.
What the actual fuck.That song is not part of the playlist.I step out from behind the curtain just in time to see him step to the mic, one hand casually sliding along the fretboard of his guitar.He lets it roll, effortless, confident.His voice rides the beat like he owns it.Light, playful, toeing the line between homage and flirtation.
And somehow—somehow—he doesn’t butcher it.
He makes it work.
The crowd responds immediately.Heads turn.Feet tap.A few guests let out little whoops of recognition.The energy lifts, and I swear, the dance floor lights up like someone flipped a switch.
He meets my eyes again mid-verse.A split second.That smile again which is impossibly fucking charming and infuriating.
See?It says.I know them.I know you were watching.I fucking know it.
I glance down at my clipboard, but it’s useless now.The checklist might as well be written in a foreign language.None of it matters when he’s singing like that.When his voice carries across the ballroom with enough warmth to crack through every defense I’ve spent years perfecting.
His foot taps once.Twice.The drummer follows.The whole band falls into rhythm like they’ve been playing together forever.There’s a lightness in the air that wasn’t here before.A pull.
And I feel myself moving toward it.
Not physically.Not yet.But internally—there’s a shift.A surrender I didn’t authorize.
Stop it.This doesn’t mean anything.
It’s just a song.
Just a man.
Just a voice.
But my pulse has other ideas.My feet itch to move.My hands feel too empty.I clutch the clipboard tighter like it might ground me again.
