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“Okay,” I say softly, stepping closer. “So… which one was for me?”

He blinks, then gives me the kind of smile that undoes me from the inside out.

“Neither.”

I pause, a little breathless. “What?”

He sets the guitar down beside the stool and stands, walking over to me. His voice is quiet, but sure. “Neither of those are your song.”

My stomach flips.

“Yours isn’t finished,” he adds, eyes locked with mine. “And I hope it never will be.”

God.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But I don’t have to choose, because he pulls me into his arms, slow and strong, and presses his lips to mine before either emotion can take hold.

It’s not frantic. Not lustful.

It’s the kind of kiss you only give someone when you’re feeling too much to say it out loud.

His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing across my cheeks. My arms slide around his waist, and I melt into him like I’ve been waiting for this kiss my whole life.

Then, without a word, he takes my hand and leads me to the old, soft leather couch in the corner of the studio. He sits first, then pulls me gently down with him, guiding me so I’m lying on my back, and he’s hovering above, one arm braced beside my head.

Our bodies aren’t frantic now. They’re close. Wrapped in something we haven’t dared name.

He kisses me again—slow, deep, full of unspoken everything.

And I kiss him back like I’m terrified I’ll forget how he tastes once he’s gone.

Eddie kisses me like he’s trying to imprint himself on my skin. Not rushed. Not rough. Just there—present and consuming and soft, in a way that leaves my heart aching even as it swells.

His fingers brush my cheek like I’m something fragile, something irreplaceable, and when he pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, I feel it all over again—the unspoken fear, the heaviness of the countdown hanging between us.

Three days.

It’s not enough time.

Maybe no amount of time ever will be.

He doesn’t say anything as he slides his hand beneath the hem of his hoodie that I borrowed again this morning. It’s oversized, soft, and completely dwarfs me—but I think he likes seeing me in it. The way his lips curve when I wear his clothes makes my stomach flip.

He lifts the fabric slowly, giving me every second to stop him, to change my mind—but I don’t. I raise my arms, and he pulls it over my head, baring me to the golden studio light.

His gaze roams my body like a prayer.

And then his hands follow.

He kisses my shoulder, then my collarbone, then lower, each press of his mouth reverent, careful. Like he’s memorizing me.Like he’s afraid this will be the last time he gets to hold me this way.

I cup his jaw, needing to touch him back, needing to feel him, and he lets out the softest sound when my fingers trace down his chest and slip beneath the hem of his shirt.

I push it up slowly, and he pulls it off the rest of the way, tossing it somewhere I don’t care to look.

We undress each other in slow pieces—kisses between every layer like promises whispered without sound. When we’re finally bare, he lays his body over mine, pressing skin to skin, warm and solid and safe.