Page 42 of The Sound Between Us

I brace for fire. For fallout. Because I can already feel the burn coming.

A shiver runs up my spine as his fingers slide through my hair, gentle but assured. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, lifting my chin. Reading me with his hands.

The kiss doesn’t come.

I close my eyes, won’t open them. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll have to face the reality of him—Harrison Carter in full, devastating focus. And up close, he’s ruinous. All unbrushed curls and cheekbones carved out of guilt. There’s a frayed cuff on his jumper, and his black jeans are lived-in, sagging perfectly at the knee. His boots are worn, London-slicked and cracked at the sole. He smells of night air and regret. The kind of man who’s just walked out of a party—or someone’s life.

I could write a verse on the way his lashes kiss the tops of his cheeks, or on the way his voice scrapes through vowels. There’s an ache stitched into every part of him. And I don’t want to look, because once I look, I’m done.

When his kiss doesn’t come, I don’t move. I stay suspended, my lips parted, breath tight, every inch of me painfully aware of his proximity.

Time stretches. The formation and destruction of planets pass as the earth spins on its leisurely course toward my inevitable destruction.

Then, his thumb presses into the swell of my bottom lip. His breath hot and a whisper from my mouth.

“Look at me.” His voice is rough sugar. I don’t think I choose to obey; my eyes fly open anyway.

His eyes burn. Tawny sparks flickering behind the soft fan of lashes. He holds my gaze; one second, two, three. Long enough for it to hurt.

Then it comes. The kiss.

Soft at first. The memory of a future we haven’t lived yet. Warm. Sweet with tannin and milk. Then harder. Demanding.

My lips part under the press, and my body shifts, seeking the heat of him; his tongue finds mine, slow and assured, coaxing buried secrets from me.

His hand fists gently in my hair, tilting my head back until he has all of me. His kiss deepens, and I sag into him, weak-limbed and wholly, dangerously present.

Fire cracks open in the pit of my stomach; the kind that scorches. I press my thighs together. It doesn’t help.

Breath merges. Minds blur. He makes it effortless; so painfully easy to forget the rules.

A warning tries to rise. But it gets swallowed by the birdsong under my ribs; the fluttering, the chaos.

His tongue sweeps once more. Deep; curious. Then retreats. I shiver, grasping on, spinning toward a cliff in heels. He doesn’t let it end; not cleanly.

A kiss lands on my mouth. Then another; smaller, tighter. Staccato beats against the storm in my chest.

When he finally pulls away, we’re both breathing too hard for it to be casual. He rests his forehead against mine, and for a second the world goes quiet.

“Seren.”

The way he says my name; praying, swearing. It costs him.

“This is a mistake.” But I don’t move; my body won’t let me.

“Probably.” His thumb brushes my lip again; I nearly bite it. “But I can’t seem to care.”

“You should care. I should care.” But I’m already leaning; already lost, already breaking rules I’ve spent years building.

Then his phone buzzes against his hip. Reality crashes in.

He steps back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck. That’ll be Henry.”

The air between us goes icy. A void opens where heat used to be.

“Right. Of course.”

“No, Seren, I—” He steps toward me, then pauses. “The song. You said you’d write a song with me.”