Page 34 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Iris

T he first thing I register is warmth. The second is weight—his head on my chest and his arm draped lazily across my waist, the slow rise and fall of steady breathing inches from my face. My brain, still sluggish from sleep, takes a second to catch up. Then it slams into me all at once.

Alex.

In my bed.

My eyes snap open. My breath catches. Technically, our first sleepover. The realization makes my stomach flip.

Memories of last night flash back, him drunk, sad and defeated.

This is fine. This means nothing. It was one night, and me being a decent human being . And yet, my heart doesn’t quite get the memo as it hammers against my ribs.

The weight of him and this whole situation presses heavily into my body, making me squirm.

He stirs and groans.

“Alex?” I rouse him gently.

His head turns to meet mine, his eyes open, and realization creeps over his face, but I see it—the slow unfurling of recognition as his mind catches up. His lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again. A beat of silence stretches between us.

Then, his arm tightens, slightly, like a reflex before he seems to realize where he is, where we are.

“Elena,” he murmurs, his voice rough from sleep, my name rolling off his tongue like a secret. His brows pull together, and I brace myself for the questions. But they never come.

Instead, he exhales a slow breath and shifts, his body brushing against mine in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself.

His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Did I…” His brows knit deeper as he struggles through the fog of memory.

“You didn’t do anything,” I say, my voice firmer than I expected. “You were drunk. I…” My throat bobs as I swallow. “I didn’t want you to be alone .”

His lips press together, his jaw ticking slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to that. Then, his eyes flicker over me, slow and searching.

I should move. Get up. Create space. But I don’t.

Because his face is inches from mine, and in this hazy, morning-lit moment, it doesn’t feel reckless. It doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It just feels…inevitable.

His fingers pulse against my waist, and for a second, I think he’s going to pull away. But then his thumb brushes the fabric of my shirt, a whisper of a touch that causes my breath to falter.

Even though I’m furious at him, I’m more annoyed at my body’s reaction toward his touch, his presence enough to undo me.

“Elena.” He whispers it, reverent. Heavy with all the things he wants to say, the explanation for what happened between us.

“Hungry?” I ask, trying to break the tension.

His eyes darken, and he nods.

As I order room service, Alex takes a much-needed shower. He emerges minutes later, clad in a plush robe, his damp hair curling at the ends. His movements are slower, his usual effortless confidence dulled by exhaustion and too much alcohol from the night before.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he murmurs, hanging his head as he sinks onto the edge of the bed, no doubt nursing a hangover.

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I take him in—the way his shoulders slope forward, the hint of regret in his posture. He looks different, smaller somehow—the weight of his choices pressing down on him.

My heart softens.

“What happened last night?”

“Searching for answers at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, it would seem,” he says with a sigh, offering a weak, self-deprecating smile.

A flicker of doubt creeps in. Does he regret coming here last night? Insecurity claws at my chest. Was this a mistake? I was the one who ended things, the one who pushed him away. Surely, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me now.

Then, as if sensing my uncertainty, he shifts slightly, his tired eyes locking onto mine.

“Though,” he says, voice laced with teasing, “I don’t regret the actions that landed me in bed with you this morning.”

The playful remark is weak, diluted by his hungover state, but my heart still betrays me, lurching forward, foolish and delusional.

Does he still want me?

Do I still want him?

The thought both excites and frustrates me. But no matter how badly I want to believe him, the shadow of his lies still looms over us.

“We should talk about what happened.”

He nods, his expression tightening.

I inhale, steadying myself. “What would possess you to lie about your identity? Help me understand.” My voice is softer than I intend, a quiet plea.

He exhales slowly, straightening his shoulders, as though bracing himself.

“Do you know what it’s like to meet people who only want a piece of you?

Who don’t care about you, just what you can give them?

An autograph, a photo, an introduction to a director, a meeting with my agent.

” His voice is raw, carrying the weight of something long unspoken.

“The world thinks they know me because they know about me. But no one understands what it’s like in this world of shallow, fake people. ”

My pulse skitters.

“Then, after the vintage store, when we were in the hospital, something about you felt familiar. I couldn’t place it at first.” He shifts, his eyes flicking to mine. “But when you woke up, I remembered. The bar. You were dancing.”

My brow lifts. The bar?

His eyes sharpen. “You were magnetic. And when I saw you again…it felt like kismet .”

The memory slams into me. The blond man at the bar that night. The swarm of flashing cameras.

It was him.

The room tilts slightly. My fingers tighten around the edge of the couch.

Was this fate? Or another coincidence I’m desperate to sculpt into meaning?

Part of me wants to believe it.

It’s almost poetic—two strangers orbiting the same city, lost in our own gravity, until the moment we collided.

I feel it now—a melody forming at the base of my spine, blooming behind my ribs. Another song, already pushing to be born. My fingers ache to find a piano. To capture this feeling.

But I say nothing.

I let him keep going.

“When you looked at me…” His voice catches. “It wasn’t like everyone else.”

He steps closer. The air sharpens.

“You didn’t flinch. You didn’t perform. You just saw me.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. “And I hadn’t had that in a long time.”

His voice drops, almost a whisper. “It felt like a clean slate. And I was selfish. I didn’t want to lose it.”

My breath stutters.

“Your innocence…” He exhales like he’s afraid to finish the thought. “It captivated me. You make me look at the world completely new. Everything is sharper, rawer, when I’m with you.”

A muscle jumps in his cheek. His hand lifts, hovers near mine, but he holds himself back.

“I want to show you everything,” he murmurs, voice low and aching. “Corrupt you. Keep you. Make you mine until there’s no part of you untouched by me.”

He draws a shaky breath, his eyes burning into mine.

“I tried to stay away. I told myself you were too young, that it was wrong, but the moment you looked at me with those beguiling eyes, Elena…” His voice fractures, raw. “I was yours.”

My eyes widen. I’m at a loss for words.

“No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fight it. I don’t think I can give you up. I’ve never wanted anything, anyone, more desperately in my life than I want you .”

He. Wants. Me.

For a moment, my heart stops. He wants me .

Something unravels in his face—tightness loosening, the strain of holding something in too long. His mask drops, and for the first time since I learned the truth, I see him.

Not the actor.

Not the handsome, confident man who shook my world and inspired lyrics to bloom in my heart.

Just him.

The way his shoulders tilt forward like he’s bracing for rejection. The flicker of shame in his eyes when he looks at me, then away. The hunger beneath it all. Not for fame, not for control—for connection .

Like me, he’s been lonely, searching for something real.

My fingers curl at my sides. My ribs ache from holding it all in.

The walls around my heart crack, just enough.

Enough to let him in.

He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m sorry for lying—or omitting the truth. But I’m not sorry for the circumstances that led me to you. Everything else was real, Elena. The moments we shared, the conversations we had—those were all me. I just wanted you to know who I am.”

His eyes are wide, the passion raging behind them.

“Darling, please. I don’t want this to end. I’m not ready for this to end. I’m begging you—just give me another chance.”

My breath hitches.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I am standing on the edge of something unknown—something terrifying and exhilarating all at once. And against all logic, I want to fall into it.

So, I do.

I close the distance between us, lifting his face with my hands, my fingers brushing against the stubble along his jaw. His eyes darken as he takes me in, but he doesn’t pull away.

Neither do I.

I kiss him. Softly, tentatively, like I’m testing the weight of something fragile.

His breath stutters, and then he’s pulling me into his lap, his hands gripping my waist as if anchoring himself to me. My fingers slide into his damp hair, and for one stolen moment, everything else fades.

It’s him and me. And the undeniable pull between us.

With a sudden surge of emotion, I push him down onto the bed, breaking the kiss. His back meets the mattress, his gaze locked onto mine, startled but intrigued.

“Don’t ever lie to me again, Alex.” My voice is firm, steady, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

His chest heaves, his lips slightly parted, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to explain.

Because we both know the truth—I can’t unfeel what I felt. I can’t rewrite the moments that made me believe in him, that made me care. And that might be the worst part of all.

No more lies. No more chances.

I repeat the words, letting them settle between us like a final warning.

Something flickers in his expression—understanding, maybe even relief. Then, a slow, genuine smile tugs at his lips, breaking through the weight of everything unspoken.