Page 33 of Wanna Bet?

He considered her for a moment, letting his eyes take in the details he hadn’t allowed himself to linger on yesterday. The long fall of her hair. The softness of her sweater. The way her fingers tapped lightly against the counter in an absent rhythm that suggested she always had some kind of music playing in her head.

“What do you like?” he asked.

She thought about it. “Sad songs,” she said finally.

The answer surprised him, not because it didn’t fit her but because it did, sliding into place with a quiet kind of rightness.

“Sad songs,” he repeated.

She nodded, her expression thoughtful rather than gloomy. “The kind that feel like they understand you.”

Something in his chest shifted.

He pushed away from the counter. “Come here.”

She followed him without hesitation, boots soft against the floor as he led her toward the listening station tucked along the side wall. Issaky had renovated this corner for Ellis after the last owner had passed. It was nice, and quiet. Ellis spent most of his time there. The turntable was already spinning a record he’d put on earlier, something slow and aching and instrumental, the notes drifting through the air like they were afraid of disturbing it.

He crouched to flip through a crate beneath the stand, fingers moving with easy familiarity as he skimmed titles until he found the one he wanted. When he pulled it out and straightened, she was watching him with open interest, her hair slipping forward over one shoulder like it wanted to be closer to whatever he was about to show her.

“This one,” he said, sliding the vinyl free and setting it carefully on the turntable. “It’s… a quiet sad. Not dramatic sad.”

“Those are the best kind,” she said softly.

He lowered the needle and the music that spilled out was gentle and slow, piano and voice braided together in a way that made the air feel heavier, richer, like it had texture now. It filled the space between them, settling into the silence without breaking it, and he reached for the spare set of headphones hanging from the hook beside the player.

He hesitated only a second before holding them out to her. “Here.”

She took them, her fingers brushing his, and for a moment neither of them moved.

Then she slipped them on and her almost violet eyes closed immediately.

Jace watched her as she listened, watched the way her expression softened, the way her shoulders loosened like something inside her had exhaled. A strand of her damp hair clung to her cheek but she didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in the sound pouring into her ears. He’d seen people listen to music before–of course he had, that was half his job–but something about the way she did it felt different, more intimate, like she was letting the song touch parts of her most people never got close to.

After a few seconds she opened one eye and looked at him, then lifted one side of the headphones slightly off her ear.

“Share,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head toward him, smiling. “You can’t just give me your music and not listen with me. That’s rude.”

He huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh and stepped closer, reaching to take the other side of the headphones. The cord stretched between them as he slipped one ear beneath the padded cup, and suddenly he was close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin, close enough that if he turned his head even slightly their noses would brush.

The song continued, soft and aching. For a moment neither of them spoke.

Her shoulder pressed lightly against his arm, the contact accidental in theory but lingering in practice, and he became acutely aware of every point where their bodies aligned–the brush of fabric, the shared heat, the faint rhythm of her breathing. He could hear the music in one ear and her in the other, the quiet sound of air moving in and out of her lungs, and something about that combination made his chest feel tight in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

They had kissed, some would even say made out, and yet this felt far more intimate.

“I like this,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, her voice barely louder than the piano. “It feels honest.”

He swallowed. “That’s why I also like sad music.”

She turned her head slightly, enough that her temple almost touched his. “Why?”