Page 79 of Vengeful Melodies

“I made that for you an hour ago,” he says quietly, like raising his voice might break the spell. “It’s probably cold now.”

“I like it cold,” I whisper, voice still scratchy with sleep.

The others turn to look at me now. There’s no frenzy. No rush to say anything. Just small smiles and the kind of silent greeting that doesn’t need words.

Kai tilts his head, eyes trailing down the hoodie I’m wearing. Alix’s hoodie. “You’re a walking billboard for bad decisions right now,” he teases, voice low and affectionate.

I grin. “You’re just mad it wasn’t yours I grabbed.”

Bash winks. “She knows how to stir trouble, even half asleep.”

Takoa doesn’t say anything. He just offers a slow, knowing smile and taps the notebook once, like the answer’s already in the music.

I sip the lukewarm coffee, settling deeper into the blanket.

And for a moment, I let myself believe this is real. This soft thing we’ve built in the cracks of a loud, messy world. The hoodie, the cold coffee, the melody they’re building together like it’s sacred—it feels like home.

Like love, in slow motion. Like how the song by Cigarettes and Sex describes it in their music. Or the way Cecilia describes it in The Ravenhood trilogy.

I sip the cold coffee again, the taste a little bitter but familiar. Comforting. Their voices drift like low thunder, each note a hum in my chest, even when they aren’t playing yet.

Then Alix sets his drumstick down and stands slowly, brushing his hands on his sweats as he makes his way over. He crouches in front of me, eyes locked on mine, like I’m the only thing that exists in the room.

“You good, Darlin?”

I nod, lips parting—but nothing really comes out. Just a breath. A feeling. Whatever this is swelling up in my chest, soft and stupid and huge.

Alix brushes his fingers against the blanket. “Come here. We want you in this.”

“In what?”

Alix tilts his head toward the others. “The song. The one we’ve been working on while you snored so sweetly in my damn hoodie.”

I narrow my eyes playfully, but my heart skips. “You wrote something?”

Kai grins from the floor. “We didn’t just write something, Siren. We wrote you.”

“You can say no,” Bash adds, but his tone is all tease, his dimple peeking. “But you’ll crush four fragile musician egos.”

Takoa’s voice is quieter. “Sit with us, Muse.”

That’s it. Just that.

An invitation.

An offering.

And I can’t say no.

I unfold from the couch, hoodie sleeves too long, hair messy, coffee still in hand—and they look at me like I’m the main event at a sold-out arena. Like I’m everything. Like I’m theirs.

I settle onto the rug between Bash and Kai. Alix moves back behind the small kit they’d set up against the corner wall. Takoa picks up his guitar again, his fingers already moving.

And then it begins.

The first note is a slow, low hum of bass. Kaiser, head bowed, eyes closed, plucking each string like he’s touching skin. Then the guitar slides in—Bash’s sound slick and sinuous, like smoke curling beneath a closed door. Takoa follows, deeper and richer, layering warmth like a second heartbeat.

Then Alix. That steady, sensual pulse of rhythm. It’s not loud—it’s felt. In my spine. Between my legs. In every breath.