Page 37 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

everything i want

Harrison

The karaoke bar in Shibuya is exactly the kind of place I never would have found on my own—tucked down an alley that’s barely wide enough for two people, up three flights of stairs that smell of cigarettes and possibility.

The kind of place that exists in the space between worlds, where famous people can pretend to be normal and normal people can pretend to be famous.

It’s perfect.

Seren’s up at the tiny makeshift stage, microphone in hand, absolutely destroying “You Oughta Know” while our entire touring crew loses their collective mind.

She’s got the rage down perfectly, all that pent-up British frustration channelled into Alanis Morissette’s fury, and I swear to God I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my entire life.

“She’s mental,” Jamie shouts over the music, grinning. “Absolutely fucking mental.”

“Mental in the best way,” Dex adds, raising his beer in salute as Seren hits a note that probably shouldn’t be physically possible.

The crowd in here is small but enthusiastic—our crew, a few local music industry types, and what appears to be the entire staff of the bar who’ve abandoned any pretence of working to watch this tiny British woman channel her inner rock goddess.

Through the windows, I can see faces pressed against the glass, phones out, fans who somehow tracked us down to this impossible-to-find place.

I should care about the privacy breach. Should worry about tomorrow’s headlines or Henry’s reaction to unauthorised public appearances.

Instead, I’m mesmerised by the way Seren owns the space, commands attention without demanding it, makes everyone in the room fall a little bit in love with her just by being completely, authentically herself.

This is what happiness looks. Not the manufactured high of performing for stadium crowds, but this—watching someone you love discover they’re exactly who they were meant to be.

The song ends to raucous applause, and Seren takes a theatrical bow that makes everyone cheer louder. Her cheeks are flushed from the sake and the performance high, her hair slightly messed from the enthusiastic head-banging, and she looks absolutely radiant.

“Your turn,” she says, bouncing over to me with energy that’s purely infectious. “I believe I set a rather high bar.”

“I don’t karaoke,” I tell her, which is a lie. I’ve done plenty of karaoke, just never sober and never in front of people whose opinion of me actually matters.

“Everyone karaokes in Tokyo,” she insists, grabbing my hand and trying to pull me toward the stage. “It’s the law.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. I asked the bartender. Very serious legal consequences for refusing.”

Before I can protest further, she’s kissing me, right there in front of everyone, her mouth tasting of sake and victory. The crew whoops and makes exaggerated gagging noises, but I don’t care because this—this moment, this woman, this perfect ridiculous night—feels everything I never knew I wanted.

“Bathroom,” I whisper against her ear, and her sharp intake of breath tells me she understands exactly what I’m asking.

The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but we make it work. I have her pressed against the door before she can even flip the lock, my mouth on her neck, my hands already working at the buttons of her dress. She tastes of salt and perfume and adrenaline.

“Anyone could knock,” she breathes, but her hands are already tugging at my belt, desperate and clumsy.

“Let them.” My voice comes out rough, almost growling.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders as I kiss down her throat, sucking hard enough to mark. She arches against me, breathless, and when I lift her, she wraps her legs around my waist with a sharp gasp.

“Fuck, Harry?—”

“I love you,” I tell her, the words torn from somewhere primal.

She responds by biting my bottom lip, pulling my mouth back to hers with desperate hunger.

I push into her and she cries out, quickly muffling the sound against my shoulder.

We move together with urgent, messy need, all fumbling hands and stifled moans, her nails digging crescents into my back as I drive into her.

The mirror behind her fogs with our breath. Her head falls back against the glass, mouth open, and the sound she makes when I hit exactly the right spot nearly destroys me.

When I come with a groan, burying my face in her neck, the intensity of it almost brings tears to my eyes. She follows moments later, trembling against me, her breath hot and ragged in my ear .

We stay pressed together afterward, hearts hammering, sweat cooling on our skin.

“Christ,” she whispers, voice wrecked.

We spend the next five minutes making ourselves presentable enough to return to civilised company. Her lipstick is smeared, my hair is a disaster, and we both look thoroughly debauched.

“Very professional,” she says, trying to fix her dress in the tiny mirror.

“I’ve never been less professional in my life,” I reply, and mean it as the highest compliment.

When we return to the main room, the crew pretends not to notice our obvious post-bathroom glow, though Dex raises his beer in what might be a salute or might be acknowledgment that subtlety has never been my strong suit. Which is ironic coming from him.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of terrible singing and excellent company. By the time we stumble back to the hotel, I’m drunk on more than alcohol—drunk on the way Seren fits into my world, the way my crew has adopted her, the way everything feels possible when she’s next to me.

“You know,” I say as we’re falling into bed, her fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt, “you should open for us tomorrow night.”

She freezes. “What?”

“Open for us. At the Tokyo Dome. Your voice tonight...” I trail my fingers down her spine, feeling her shiver. “Everyone should hear it.”

“Harry, I can’t?—”

“Just one song. That melody you were humming in the shower this morning? The one about second chances?” I kiss the hollow of her throat, tasting sake and possibility. “Put it out there. Let the world hear it.”

Her breathing catches. “What if they hate it?”

“They won’t.” I pull back to look at her properly, push a strand of hair behind her ear. “And even if they did, so what? You’d survive it. You’ve survived worse.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can practically hear her brain working, weighing the fear against the want. Finally, she nods.

“One song.”

“One song,” I agree, “Or two, or three.”

The next evening, I watch from the wings as Seren takes the stage. Fifty thousand seats stretch up into darkness, but she commands them all.

Her voice fills the space without effort, clear and honest, cutting through the pre-show chatter. The crowd, who came to see Elementary, finds themselves leaning forward, actually listening instead of just waiting for the main event.

She’s performing that melody I’ve heard her sing in the shower, transformed now into something powerful and aching. About taking chances and choosing love over safety. She doesn’t look at me while she sings, but every word feels personal.

Every note feels like home.

My chest swells and tightens all at once. This woman, who not even two months ago was hiding behind a record shop counter, is holding fifty thousand people in the palm of her hand. And she chose me.

The song builds, and Seren’s voice soars. The crowd goes silent, absorbed. When she finishes, the applause is immediate and thunderous.

I’m moving before I’ve decided to do it, but I feel it in my gut—I can’t let one more moment pass without everyone knowing exactly what this is.

Who this is. To me. I’m grabbing a microphone from the sound tech and walking onto the stage.

The crowd shifts from appreciation to confusion to excitement.

Seren turns. Her eyes go wide, mouth slightly parted.

“Tokyo,” I say into the microphone, and fifty thousand people cheer. “How are we doing tonight?”

More cheering, but I’m looking at Seren, standing there in the stage lights looking beautiful and bewildered.

“I need to tell you something.” The crowd settles. “This woman—” I gesture to Seren “—changed my life.”

The response crashes over me. My throat tightens.

“A few months ago, I was going through the motions, performing songs that didn’t mean anything. Then she covered me in strawberry milkshake—” the crowd laughs “—and reminded me what real music sounds like.”

Seren’s eyes are wide. I can see her fighting between embarrassment and joy.

“Seren Rogers,” I take her hand, “I love you.”

The words ring out over the sound system. Fifty thousand people lose their minds, screaming. But I only care about one person.

She’s crying—just a little, tears catching the stage lights. When she smiles, it’s everything.

“I love you too,” she says. The microphone doesn’t catch it, but I hear it anyway. Feel it when she lets me pull her close and kiss her in front of all these people.

The kiss is desperate and certain. The crowd cheers. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard, both grinning.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say into the microphone, “Seren Rogers!”

I hand her the mic and head for the wings, floating on pure adrenaline. She said she loves me back. In front of fifty thousand people. She could have hedged, kept it private. But she didn’t.

From the wings, I watch her perform her final song. The arena goes completely silent except for her voice. Fifty thousand people hanging on every word.

That’s when Henry appears beside me.

“Quite the show,” he says. “Very romantic. Very public.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the moment calls for grand gestures.” My heart’s still hammering against my ribs.

“Does it? Or do you just like the attention?”

Something cold slides down my spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Henry doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches Seren finish her song to thunderous applause. When she starts walking toward us, he finally speaks.

“You know this won’t last.” Conversational. “The novelty will wear off. You’ll get bored, you’ll miss the spotlight, and everything between you will turn to shit.”

My chest caves in. All the air leaves my lungs. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? You’ve been performing love songs for strangers for ten years, Harrison. How long before you start feeling like you’re performing this too?”

“It’s not?—”

“It’s exactly that. You’re addicted to being adored, to being the centre of attention. She’s just the latest way to get your fix.” His smile is cold. “How long before you resent her for making you ordinary?”

“You’re wrong.”

“We’ll see. But when it inevitably falls apart, remember that I tried to warn you.”

The rage comes sudden and white-hot. “I can’t wait for this tour to be over so I can finally live my actual life instead of the performance you’ve been managing.”

Henry’s expression darkens. Before I can react, he shoves me hard. I stumble backward into the sound equipment.

“You ungrateful shit,” he hisses. “I pulled you out of a Manchester back street and gave you everything. ”

“Everything I am is a lie you helped me build,” I shoot back, straightening. “And I’m done living it.”

That’s when Seren appears, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, still breathing hard from the stage. She takes one look at the tension between Henry and me and stops.

“Everything okay?” Her eyes flick between us.

“Everything’s perfect,” I say, shouldering Henry aside and moving to her. My arm goes around her shoulders automatically. I press a kiss to the side of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with stage lights and victory.

“Did I tell you I love you?” I ask, loud enough for Henry to hear.

She laughs, the sound bright and real. “I think you told everyone.”

“Good.” I kiss her hard, desperate. She melts into me the way she always does. I can feel Henry’s disapproval radiating from behind us.

When we break apart, she’s looking at me with concern. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m perfect,” I tell her. “We’re perfect.”

The five-minute warning crackles through the backstage monitors. Jamie and Dex appear, already amped up and ready to perform.

“Ready to close this out?” Jamie asks, bouncing on his toes.

“More than ready,” I say, kissing Seren one more time before heading toward the stage. “Time to finish what we started.”

As we walk toward the entrance, I can feel Henry’s eyes on my back. But for the first time in years, I don’t care what he thinks.

The roar of the crowd hits us as we take the stage. Fifty thousand people on their feet. But as I strap on my guitar and look out at the sea of faces, all I can think about is the woman standing in the wings, watching us with pride and love.

Henry can try to poison this all he wants. But what Seren and I have is stronger than his doubts.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as the opening chords ring out.

That’s what I need to believe.