Page 28 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The scent of coffee and cinnamon fills the air, curling around the quiet morning like a warm blanket.

I’m perched cross-legged on one of the barstools at Eddie’s kitchen island, wearing his hoodie and a pair of leggings, lazily picking at a piece of buttery toast while he leans over the stove, flipping scrambled eggs like a domestic god who just so happens to have abs and a jawline that should be illegal.

We haven’t said much yet. Just exchanged soft, sleepy smiles and brushes of fingers as he passed the butter or refilled my mug. It’s peaceful. Familiar. Like we’ve lived in this little rhythm for years instead of weeks.

And maybe that’s what makes the ache in my chest so stubborn.

Only a few more days.

He leaves in three. Six months of shows, planes, cities I can’t pronounce, fans screaming his name.

And me, back in real life. Alone in this big house without him.

Without him in my bed. Without his stupid mug that says ‘#1 Sound Check Survivor’ or his warm laugh curling through the kitchen like sunlight.

I try not to let it show on my face.

Eddie turns, setting a plate of eggs and more toast in front of me, then pours himself another cup of coffee. His free hand brushes across my lower back as he passes, and I lean into his touch instinctively, like my body already misses him before he’s even gone.

“I was thinking,” he says, hopping up onto the stool beside me.

Please ask me to go on tour with you , my heart begs silently.

“You wanna come out to the barn with me after breakfast? I’ve been working on a couple of new tracks. I want you to hear them.”

My heart jumps, just a little, the disappointment a sharp ache I try to ignore, and instead focus on the fact he wants me to hear his songs first.

Me. He wants me to hear them.

Not a producer. Not his label. Me.

I try not to look too starstruck, but he’s already grinning like he knows exactly what that offer means to me.

“Of course I will,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “You know I’m secretly waiting for you to write a song about me, right?”

He leans in, eyes warm, voice low. “Who says I haven’t?”

Cue internal meltdown.

I bite my lip to hide the way I’m absolutely beaming inside, but he sees it anyway. His hand slips onto my thigh, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing slow circles that make my breath catch. He doesn’t say anything more, just keeps his eyes on me like I’m something to memorize.

And God, I wish I could freeze this. Bottle it. The quiet joy. The casual affection. The way my heart flutters just sitting next to him while we eat eggs and pretend like goodbye isn’t looming in the doorway.

We finish breakfast with that same quiet ease, bumping elbows, sharing bites. When we’re done, he grabs our mugs, rinses them in the sink, and laces his fingers through mine.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “You gotta see the place in daylight.”

We step out into the cool morning air, and I tug his hoodie tighter around me, inhaling the crispness of the sky and the way the scent of pine hangs on the breeze.

The barn sits at the edge of his property—rustic and red on the outside, like something from a postcard.

But I know what’s inside is nothing like the exterior suggests.

He opens the heavy door and steps aside so I can go first.

The moment I cross the threshold, my breath catches.

It’s magic in here.

Soft Edison bulbs hang in delicate lines across the wooden beams above, casting a warm amber glow over the space.

Instruments are propped on stands—acoustic and electric guitars, a piano tucked into one corner, even a vintage-looking drum kit near the far wall.

A sleek recording booth is enclosed in glass, with a mixing board that looks like it could launch a spaceship.

There’s a soft couch, rugs layered over the old wooden floor, shelves stacked with notebooks, headphones, vinyl, and handwritten lyrics taped everywhere.

“This is…” I whisper, turning in slow awe, “...incredible.”

He smiles, watching me with quiet pride. “It’s my second favorite place in the world.”

I walk deeper into the space, fingers brushing over guitar necks, lyric sheets, the edge of the piano bench. The scent of cedar and dust and something that’s unmistakably him lingers in the air.

“You built this,” I say.

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly shy. “A few years ago. Before the first big tour. I wanted a space that was mine. No label people. No pressure. Just music.”

“It feels sacred,” I say softly, and I mean it.

Eddie steps up behind me, his hands resting on my hips, warm and grounding. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, slow and lingering. “You belong here, you know.”

I close my eyes, leaning back into him, my heart pounding.

Don’t let this end.

“What’s your first?”

He crinkles his brow at me in question.

“You said this is your second favorite place in the world.”

He grins at me and holds me tighter. “Right here with you in my arms, that’s my favorite place in the world, baby.”

I wish time would pause. That I could stay right here, in this barn, wrapped in him and this golden light and the scent of music and memory and everything that feels too big to name.

He turns me gently, his arms sliding around my waist.

“I know we don’t have much time,” he says, brushing my hair back behind my ear. “But I want to share this with you.”

“You already are,” I whisper, cupping his jaw, my thumb sweeping across the stubble there. “Every second I get with you… I feel it.”

He kisses me—soft and slow and full of things neither of us are ready to say. My hands curl into his shirt, holding him there, not ready to let him go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

Eddie pulls away from our kiss and brushes a thumb across my lower lip, lingering for a second like he wants to memorize the feel of me.

Then he steps toward the wall where one of his acoustic guitars rests on a stand, lifting it with practiced ease and settling onto the stool in the middle of the room like he’s done it a thousand times.

But this time—this time—he’s only playing for me.

The studio feels even quieter now. Like the air is holding its breath.

He strums once—low, warm, resonant. The sound seems to hum in my chest, wrapping around my ribs. Then he looks up at me through those long lashes, mouth twitching into the faintest smile.

“This one’s kind of new,” he says. “Rough around the edges.”

“Like you,” I tease softly.

He gives me a look, but he’s smiling.

And then he starts to play.

The first song is slow, aching. A sweet country ballad laced with yearning and something softer underneath—loss maybe, or hope. His voice is low and gravelly, rich as molasses, and it pulls me under.

I sink to the rug near the base of the stool, cross-legged, watching him with my chin in my hand. He doesn’t perform it like he would on stage. This is something else—intimate, stripped down, every lyric landing like a whisper only I’m meant to hear.

The chorus slides over me like warm rain: “ I’d chase you down a backroad / with your name burned in my mouth / give up every song I’ve ever sung / if you’d just turn around .”

I forget to breathe.

When he finishes, the silence rings louder than the music. I don’t say anything, just sit there blinking like I’ve just woken from a dream. Eddie looks at me for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes, then clears his throat and shifts.

“Okay,” he says, suddenly bashful, “now one with a little more dirt under its boots.”

He launches into something brighter—still country, but playful, faster. The chords bounce with rhythm, and I can’t help but grin as he sings about whiskey-drenched kisses and losing bets on love, throwing a wink in my direction as he strums.

“ She rolled into town in a t-shirt and thunder / had me down in two flat, head full of wonder …”

It’s charming and cocky and unmistakably him.

And still, it’s so damn good.

By the time he strums the final chord, my cheeks hurt from smiling. I push myself up from the rug, my heart thudding in a way that feels a lot like falling.

I meet his gaze across the room, both of us wrapped in the stillness that follows music when it’s left something behind.

“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.

His weight grounds me.

His eyes search mine.

And still, he doesn’t speak.

Because he doesn’t need to.

Our mouths meet again, but it’s not hunger this time. It’s need. Quiet and aching and full of too many things to name.

When he enters me, it’s with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and I gasp into his mouth, fingers fisting into his hair. He groans softly, forehead pressed to mine, and I feel every inch of him—inside me, around me, all-consuming.

It’s different this time.

No wild rhythm. No dominance.

Just him.

Just us.

His hands cradle my face like I’m made of glass, and his hips move with slow, unrelenting precision—deep, tender, steady. My body arches into his with every stroke, meeting him, welcoming him, wrapping around him like I can’t bear to let him go.

We don’t speak.

We feel.

Our eyes don’t stray. His gaze holds mine like an anchor, and I see it there—behind the sweat, the restraint, the beauty of him falling apart—he’s afraid too.

That this is fleeting.

That this is real.

That something might take it away.

Our fingers tangle. My legs wrap around his waist. And when his thrusts pick up, just slightly, building toward that slow, rising wave, I feel myself fall into it with him.

“Laney,” he breathes, barely audible, barely human.

I nod, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, wherever I can reach. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”

He groans, low and deep, and I feel his rhythm stutter. My body clenches around him, pulsing with the rise of my own release. He feels it, reacts to it, kissing me harder, hips rolling deeper, everything building like a tide that can’t be stopped.

We come together—his name a broken moan in my mouth, my body writhing beneath his, his release hitting as mine does, crashing into each other in perfect, exquisite silence.

And then I feel it.

The tears.

Warm and sudden, slipping from the corners of my eyes.

Not from pain. Not from sadness.

From everything.

He sees them instantly. Pulls back just enough to brush a thumb over my cheek. His brows draw together, and his voice is so soft it breaks me all over again.

“Hey… what’s wrong?”

I shake my head, choking on a breath that feels too full. “Nothing,” I whisper. “You’re just… perfect.”

He looks at me for a long moment, his expression crumbling. And then he says it—voice raw, eyes glassy.

“I love you, Laney.”

My heart stops.

“I am so—so—in love with you, and I don’t even know how to breathe at the thought of leaving you.”

My lips tremble as I cup his face, fingers framing the man who has turned my world inside out. “I feel it too,” I whisper. “I feel you in every part of me. I think I’ve been falling since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His forehead presses to mine. His lips brush mine. And then he just holds me there, still inside me, still wrapped around me like I’m something he can’t afford to lose.

And I hold him back.

Because I feel the exact same way.