Page 87 of The Sound Between Us

She shows me another variation, and suddenly the progression has depth, has story. Has the kind of emotional weight that makes you want to keep listening.

“Bloody hell, Seren.”

“It was already there. You just needed to stop being afraid of it.”

I play it through again, feeling the song take shape under my fingers. She hums along, finding a melody line that weaves through the chords as though it was always meant to be there.

“That’s gorgeous,” I whisper, caught up in the sound of her voice layering over the guitar, there’s a catch in my chest that hurts. “Sing it properly.”

“I don’t sing properly.”

“You’re singing right now.”

“I’m humming. There’s a difference.”

“Seren.” I stop playing, turning to face her fully. “That melody is perfect. Don’t waste it on false modesty.”

She bites her lower lip, a gesture I’m learning to recognise as her tell when she’s fighting with herself about whether to trust me.

“It’s probably shit.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.” I play the chord progression again, waiting. “Trust me.”

She closes her eyes and sings, soft and tentative at first, then with growing confidence. Her voice is untrained but honest, with a raw quality that most singers spend years trying to fake. The melody she creates is simple but devastating, the kind of hook that gets under your skin and stays there.

When she finishes, the silence charges the air between us.

“Fuck me, that’s beautiful.”

Colour rises in her cheeks. “It’s just humming around.”

“It’s not just anything.” I set the guitar aside. “That’s what we’ve been missing. That honesty.”

“Harrison—”

“Come to the studio with me tomorrow.”

The words tumble out desperate and raw. She pulls back like I’ve struck her.

“Absolutely not.”

“We couldn’t write a grocery list today. We’ve got nothing. But if you were there...”

“I’m not your magical music fairy, Harrison.” Sharp now. Defensive. All that softness gone.

“I know that. But you make me remember what music is supposed to feel like.”

She’s up, pacing to the window. City lights twinkle below, her silhouette dark against the glass. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. You need something from me.”

“Seren—”

“No, this is how it always starts.” She whirls around, arms tight around herself. “Someone makes you feel safe, makes you think they care about you, and then suddenly there’s a price. There’s always a fucking price.”

Her shoulders hunch like she’s bracing for a blow that’s already landed too many times. She’s right. I am asking for something.