Page 127 of The Sound Between Us

32

everything i want

Harrison

The karaoke bar in Shibuya is exactly the kind of place I never would have found on my own—tucked down an alley that’s barely wide enough for two people, up three flights of stairs that smell of cigarettes and possibility. The kind of place that exists in the space between worlds, where famous people can pretend to be normal and normal people can pretend to be famous.

It’s perfect.

Seren’s up at the tiny makeshift stage, microphone in hand, absolutely destroying “You Oughta Know” while our entire touring crew loses their collective mind. She’s got the rage down perfectly, all that pent-up British frustration channelled into Alanis Morissette’s fury, and I swear to God I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my entire life.

“She’s mental,” Jamie shouts over the music, grinning. “Absolutely fucking mental.”

“Mental in the best way,” Dex adds, raising his beer in salute as Seren hits a note that probably shouldn’t be physically possible.

The crowd in here is small but enthusiastic—our crew, a few local music industry types, and what appears to be the entire staff of the bar who’ve abandoned any pretence of working to watch this tiny British woman channel her inner rock goddess. Through the windows, I can see faces pressed against the glass, phones out, fans who somehow tracked us down to this impossible-to-find place.

I should care about the privacy breach. Should worry about tomorrow’s headlines or Henry’s reaction to unauthorised public appearances. Instead, I’m mesmerised by the way Seren owns the space, commands attention without demanding it, makes everyone in the room fall a little bit in love with her just by being completely, authentically herself.

This is what happiness looks. Not the manufactured high of performing for stadium crowds, but this—watching someone you love discover they’re exactly who they were meant to be.

The song ends to raucous applause, and Seren takes a theatrical bow that makes everyone cheer louder. Her cheeks are flushed from the sake and the performance high, her hair slightly messed from the enthusiastic head-banging, and she looks absolutely radiant.

“Your turn,” she says, bouncing over to me with energy that’s purely infectious. “I believe I set a rather high bar.”

“I don’t karaoke,” I tell her, which is a lie. I’ve done plenty of karaoke, just never sober and never in front of people whose opinion of me actually matters.

“Everyone karaokes in Tokyo,” she insists, grabbing my hand and trying to pull me toward the stage. “It’s the law.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. I asked the bartender. Very serious legal consequences for refusing.”

Before I can protest further, she’s kissing me, right there in front of everyone, her mouth tasting of sake and victory. The crew whoops and makes exaggerated gagging noises, but I don’t care because this—this moment, this woman, this perfect ridiculous night—feels everything I never knew I wanted.

“Bathroom,” I whisper against her ear, and her sharp intake of breath tells me she understands exactly what I’m asking.

The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but we make it work. I have her pressed against the door before she can even flip the lock, my mouth on her neck, my hands already working at the buttons of her dress. She tastes of salt and perfume and adrenaline.

“Anyone could knock,” she breathes, but her hands are already tugging at my belt, desperate and clumsy.

“Let them.” My voice comes out rough, almost growling.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders as I kiss down her throat, sucking hard enough to mark. She arches against me, breathless, and when I lift her, she wraps her legs around my waist with a sharp gasp.

“Fuck, Harry⁠—”

“I love you,” I tell her, the words torn from somewhere primal.

She responds by biting my bottom lip, pulling my mouth back to hers with desperate hunger. I push into her and she cries out, quickly muffling the sound against my shoulder. We move together with urgent, messy need, all fumbling hands and stifled moans, her nails digging crescents into my back as I drive into her.

The mirror behind her fogs with our breath. Her head falls back against the glass, mouth open, and the sound she makes when I hit exactly the right spot nearly destroys me.

When I come with a groan, burying my face in her neck, the intensity of it almost brings tears to my eyes. She follows moments later, trembling against me, her breath hot and ragged in my ear.

We stay pressed together afterward, hearts hammering, sweat cooling on our skin.

“Christ,” she whispers, voice wrecked.