Page 9 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

in the midnight hour

Seren

He fills my kitchen.

That’s the first thing that hits me as I watch him navigate my pristine white space.

He’s too much colour, too much energy, too much presence for these careful neutral walls.

The green of his T-shirt practically glows against my marble countertops.

Everything about him is saturated, vivid, alive in a way that makes my monochrome flat feel like a museum exhibit.

Under the warm kitchen lighting, everything about him is saturated, vivid, alive in a way that makes my monochrome flat more museum exhibit than a home.

I can smell him from here—clean cotton mixed with something warmer, more complex. Sandalwood maybe. Or cedar. It shouldn’t work with the clinical scent of my kitchen, all bleach and empty surfaces, but somehow it does. Somehow it makes the space feel less like a showroom and more like... home.

“Where do these go?”

He’s holding the eggs as though they’re foreign objects. I laugh as I splash milk into two mugs, the sound escaping before I can smother it .

“What’s funny?”

I turn back towards him, and for a second my brain malfunctions. The green of his T-shirt makes his eyes glow. Not in some subtle poetic way. In a full, radiant, biblical way. Droplets of sun floating in dark honey.

Apparently I’m writing sonnets now. Fabulous. Someone get me a lobotomy.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“The great Harrison Carter is asking where my eggs are kept?”

“I thought I wasn’t that great to you.”

“It’s true. But think how many girls have daydreamed about you asking where their eggs are.”

He squints. “Pretty sure they weren’t talking about the kind you crack into a bowl and whisk.”

“Gross. Do you mind?” My brain takes a dark detour. Sobering, really. “Just leave them on the counter.”

He does, and I watch the way his muscles shift beneath his T-shirt. The fabric clings in some places, loose in others, and I hate that I notice.

His presence fills every corner, bounces off every surface. Even when he’s still, there’s energy radiating from him—restless, electric, impossible to ignore. It’s like trying to pretend there isn’t a bonfire burning in your sitting room.

“Your bandmates. What did they say when you didn’t get on the plane to LA?” I pass him a mug, clutch mine as though it’s a protective charm. Steam curls over my face, soft and concealing.

“Truth?”

“This is a truth zone.”

It is. Which makes it dangerous. We’ve crossed into stupid territory now, with no map, no exit, no brakes.

“I didn’t say anything. I just didn’t get out of the car.”

My mouth pulls into a grimace. “That’s... not good behaviour. ”

“It’s not that straightforward.”

I shake my head. “And that sounds exactly like what my dad would’ve said.”

That gets his attention. He watches me carefully. “How much do you remember of those days?”

“Everything.” I say it without thinking. “Every excuse; every phone call. Every morning after; every shouted word.”

The memories taste bitter on my tongue. But I drink them anyway.

He nods, slow and deliberate. “You know, it’s not an excuse, but the business does strange things to you. It doesn’t matter how grounded you think you are, it picks you up and throws you.”

“Mm. All the groupies must’ve been hard to ignore.”

He leans against the island, legs crossed at the ankle, sipping his tea as though we’re discussing weather. “No sugar?”

“Sugar-free house.”

“Lovely.” He winces but drinks it again anyway. Then he says, “That’s why I made my New Year’s resolution.”

Rolling my eyes, I gag loudly. “I don’t think I want to know.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow, an echo inside of it. “I look in the mirror and wish I didn’t know either.”

“Surely that’s up to you to change.”

In my head, I picture him—hotel rooms, mascara-smeared girls, the kind of chaos that makes headlines. And for some reason, it makes my stomach twist. Not quite jealousy. Darker.

“When Tommy died, I thought we’d be different. I promised we would be.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but I see the twitch in his jaw.

“No one talks about Tommy much,” I prompt, because silence from Harrison Carter is almost deafening .

“I’m surprised you know about him, being such a fan and all.” His smile is all teeth now, no warmth.

“I know you had a bandmate who died before you hit it big. I might avoid the limelight, but I don’t live under a rock.”

He sets his mug down. Turns away.

“He died. Left us. And us spineless, selfish bastards just carried on without him.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns back, and I physically flinch. His eyes burn; his jaw is set. There’s a vein in his neck that looks as though it might snap. “We were working on the second album. Writing; arguing. Failing. And then he...”

“Overdosed?” The word cuts the air clean in half.

He gives me a smile. Fake; the kind you wear for press tours and promo interviews. “I still had to write. So I did.”

“The awful second album?”

“Say awful one more time and you might actually hurt my feelings.”

“Awful. Worst thing I’ve ever heard. My ears bled and there were stains on my cream carpet.”

He steps closer, too fast, too tense. Yanked towards me on some invisible string.

“Did you buy it?”

“Pre-ordered.” I stare straight at him. “Ripped it open, played it, and had my soul crushed.”

Heat flickers behind his eyes. My chest caves under the weight of it. The weight of him.

“Fuck.” The curse is low, but it lands hard. He closes the gap between us, his smell wraps around me, tension made tangible.

I brace for fire. For fallout. Because I can already feel the burn coming.

A shiver runs up my spine as his fingers slide through my hair, gentle but assured. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, lifting my chin. Reading me with his hands .

The kiss doesn’t come.

I close my eyes, won’t open them. Can’t.

Because if I do, I’ll have to face the reality of him—Harrison Carter in full, devastating focus.

And up close, he’s ruinous. All unbrushed curls and cheekbones carved out of guilt.

There’s a frayed cuff on his jumper, and his black jeans are lived-in, sagging perfectly at the knee.

His boots are worn, London-slicked and cracked at the sole.

He smells of night air and regret. The kind of man who’s just walked out of a party—or someone’s life.

I could write a verse on the way his lashes kiss the tops of his cheeks, or on the way his voice scrapes through vowels. There’s an ache stitched into every part of him. And I don’t want to look, because once I look, I’m done.

When his kiss doesn’t come, I don’t move. I stay suspended, my lips parted, breath tight, every inch of me painfully aware of his proximity.

Time stretches. The formation and destruction of planets pass as the earth spins on its leisurely course toward my inevitable destruction.

Then, his thumb presses into the swell of my bottom lip. His breath hot and a whisper from my mouth.

“Look at me.” His voice is rough sugar. I don’t think I choose to obey; my eyes fly open anyway.

His eyes burn. Tawny sparks flickering behind the soft fan of lashes. He holds my gaze; one second, two, three. Long enough for it to hurt.

Then it comes. The kiss.

Soft at first. The memory of a future we haven’t lived yet. Warm. Sweet with tannin and milk. Then harder. Demanding.

My lips part under the press, and my body shifts, seeking the heat of him; his tongue finds mine, slow and assured, coaxing buried secrets from me.

His hand fists gently in my hair, tilting my head back until he has all of me. His kiss deepens, and I sag into him, weak-limbed and wholly, dangerously present .

Fire cracks open in the pit of my stomach; the kind that scorches. I press my thighs together. It doesn’t help.

Breath merges. Minds blur. He makes it effortless; so painfully easy to forget the rules.

A warning tries to rise. But it gets swallowed by the birdsong under my ribs; the fluttering, the chaos.

His tongue sweeps once more. Deep; curious. Then retreats. I shiver, grasping on, spinning toward a cliff in heels. He doesn’t let it end; not cleanly.

A kiss lands on my mouth. Then another; smaller, tighter. Staccato beats against the storm in my chest.

When he finally pulls away, we’re both breathing too hard for it to be casual. He rests his forehead against mine, and for a second the world goes quiet.

“Seren.”

The way he says my name; praying, swearing. It costs him.

“This is a mistake.” But I don’t move; my body won’t let me.

“Probably.” His thumb brushes my lip again; I nearly bite it. “But I can’t seem to care.”

“You should care. I should care.” But I’m already leaning; already lost, already breaking rules I’ve spent years building.

Then his phone buzzes against his hip. Reality crashes in.

He steps back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck. That’ll be Henry.”

The air between us goes icy. A void opens where heat used to be.

“Right. Of course.”

“No, Seren, I—” He steps toward me, then pauses. “The song. You said you’d write a song with me.”

I nod. Grateful for the shift; safer territory. Lyrics and structure. Not feelings.

“How do you usually...?” I gesture vaguely. “Write, I mean. ”

He grins, already reaching. From his back pocket, he pulls a beat-up spiral notebook. It looks older than him.

I can’t help the laugh. “You’re joking.”

“What?”

“Harrison Carter. Global star. And you keep your lyrical gems in that wreck of a notebook?”

He blushes. Actually blushes. “It works.”

“It’s charming. Weirdly analogue. Human.”

“As opposed to what?”

“I don’t know. I expected you to dictate your feelings into a gold-plated iPad while someone takes notes.”

I pull out my phone, open my voice memos. “I use this; record melodies when they come.”

He looks curious. “Can I hear one?”

“God, no. They’re chaos; unfiltered. Awful.” I hold it up. “But maybe we could both do our thing? You write, I hum?”

“Then meet in the middle?”

“Exactly.”

I move to the piano bench, nerves prickling at my skin. “It’s been years. I’m rusty.”