Page 116 of Stolen Harmony

It was supposed to be gentle, brief, just a simple good morning. But Rowan's hand came up to cup the back of my neck, and suddenly we were kissing properly—warm and unhurried, tasting like sleep and possibility.

When we broke apart, Rowan was grinning. “Well, that's one way to wake up.”

“I could make coffee instead,” I offered, though I made no move to leave the warm cocoon of blankets.

“Coffee's good. But this is better.” He stretched like a cat, all long limbs and satisfied movements. “Though I should probably warn you—I'm not much of a morning person until I've had caffeine.”

“I'll take my chances.”

We lay there for another few minutes, trading lazy kisses and quiet conversation, neither of us in any hurry to face the day. This felt stolen somehow, precious in its ordinary domesticity. Just two people sharing a bed and morning light, no complications or consequences beyond the simple pleasure of being close.

Eventually, my stomach rumbled loudly enough to make Rowan laugh.

“Okay, that's our cue,” he said, sitting up and pushing hair out of his eyes. “Time for actual food.”

In the kitchen, I attempted to make breakfast with more enthusiasm than skill. Pancakes seemed like a good idea until I realized I'd never actually made them from scratch, and the first few came out looking more like abstract art than food.

“These are...” Rowan paused diplomatically, poking at the misshapen pancake on his plate.

“Terrible,” I finished. “The word you're looking foris terrible.”

“I was going to say unique.”

“That's worse than terrible.”

He laughed, taking a bite anyway. “They taste better than they look. Mostly.”

I was attempting to salvage the next batch when I felt arms slide around my waist from behind. Rowan's chin came to rest on my shoulder, and I could feel his smile against my neck.

“You know,” he murmured, “there's something endearing about a man who can run a successful business but gets defeated by pancake batter.”

“I'm a man of very specific talents,” I said, leaning back against his warmth.

“I can think of a few,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck that made me lose focus entirely.

I turned in his arms, meaning to kiss him properly, but he was already pulling away with a mischievous grin.

“Hold that thought,” he said, and before I could protest, he was walking toward the living room.

Moments later, I heard it—the soft, hesitant notes of piano music drifting through the house. I turned off the burner and followed the sound, finding Rowan seated at Elaine's piano, his fingers moving across the keys with careful reverence.

I leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt, just watching as he worked through the melody. The morning light streaming through the windows caught in his hair, painted everything in soft gold, and I felt something settle in my chest that I hadn't experienced in years. Contentment, maybe. Or hope.

After a few minutes, I moved to sit beside him on the piano bench, close enough that our shoulders brushed. He didn't stop playing, just shifted slightly to make room, and I found myself humming along to the melody he was creating.

“This is beautiful,” I said quietly when he finally let the last notes fade away.

“It's something new. Or trying to be.” He flexed his fingers, studying the keys like they held secrets. “Sitting here, I could feel it coming back.”

“The music?”

“The music. The words. The feeling that maybe I have something worth saying again.” He turned to look at me, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “I think I want to try writing again. Really try, not just going through the motions.”

The admission felt like a gift, like permission to hope that what we were building together was helping him heal instead of just providing distraction from pain.

“She would have loved hearing you play here,” I said, thinking of all the evenings Elaine had spent at this same piano, fingers moving over these same keys.

“I hope so.” His hand found mine on the bench between us, fingers intertwining. “This feels right. Being here, with you, making music in the house she loved. Like maybe all the broken pieces are starting to fit together in a way that makes sense.”