"Some songs speak louder than words. Especially when played with the one who makes your heart skip."
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As night deepened, the firepit in the courtyard came alive—embers crackled, casting golden warmth across the walls. The winter air carried a damp chill, but by the flames, Celeste and Nolan sat shoulder to shoulder, quietly watching the dancing fire as if tethered to some invisible thread. Neither spoke.
Nolan noticed her shoulders tense slightly against the cold.
"Wait here," he said softly, rising to his feet and disappearing into the house.
Moments later, he returned—quiet as before, a blanket draped over one arm. Bending slightly, he gently laid it over her lap.
"It gets colder at night," he murmured, his voice low and calm. He didn't look at the blanket—he looked straight at her.
Celeste looked up. Their eyes met in the firelight.
It wasn't intense, or shy. Just steady—like moonlight. A gaze that said: In this moment, there's no one else worth waiting for but you.
They exchanged a quiet smile. Nothing needed to be said.
"Thanks," she whispered. Her voice was like spun sugar in smoke—sweet, subtle, lingering.
She watched the fire's reflection in his lashes, then followed the light as it played across his sharp features and into his eyes—clear and steady. Eyes that, at this moment, held nothing but her.
After a pause, she finally asked what had been lingering in her mind."…Are you heading back to Canada after the tournament next year?"
He didn't hesitate."No," he said, turning to her. His voice was soft, but certain. "I filed for a program switch. I'll be staying the whole year."
Her eyes lit up like a star dropped into water.
He watched her reaction—the joy she tried and failed to hide—and for a moment, his throat tightened. He wondered: If I moved just a little closer… would she actually hug me?
But he didn't move. He just looked at her, eyes wide open, afraid to blink.
Her heart was beating hotter than the fire. She wanted to reach out, wrap her arms around him—just for a second. But reason held her back. So instead, she smiled and tugged the blanket closer, movements restrained but trembling with something deeper. Her palm was already burning.
It was 2007. Long-distance calls were expensive. QQ dropped offline all the time. His decision to stay wasn't just a surprise—it was a promise.
A quiet confirmation:This winter wouldn't be so short.And maybe, just maybe, they still had time.
Nolan looked down at her faint smile, the one she couldn't quite hide. Something stirred in him again.
Dinner was served by Jett's family chef, a master of southern Fujian cuisine. Nolan took one bite and murmured, "This isn't food. This is art."
Celeste beamed, proud and playful. "Of course. I secretly learned a few signature dishes. Someday, I'll make them for you."
The firelight flickered in her eyes, and he couldn't help but stare a little longer.
Inside, the soft notes of Clair de Lune floated through the room. Moonlight, firelight, piano, and the aroma of food wove together like a quiet confession.
Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, but Celeste kept glancing Nolan's way. And it felt like his gaze always found its way back to her too.
She didn't know where things would go after this night—but she knew one thing.
He hadn't walked away.And she didn't want to miss her chance.
Later, she learned Nolan didn't just play basketball—he played the piano. And not just "play," either. He played with the kind of quiet passion that made the whole room pause.
His fingers danced across the keys, his expression serene and focused—lost in music. That kind of focus was mesmerizing in itself.
When the final note faded, the applause began.
Jett's mom leaned forward with a smile. "Celeste plays too, doesn't she? How about a duet?"
"Yesss! Let's go!" someone called out, and the rest quickly chimed in with cheers.
Celeste laughed, caught off guard but clearly enjoying the attention. Her fingers twitched like they already knew what they wanted."Alright, alright," she said, shooting Nolan a look. "Guess we're doing this."
Nolan stood, offering his hand with a small bow—left hand behind his back, right hand extended, palm open like an invitation into a secret game only the two of them knew.
She placed her hand into his. It was long and warm, delicate like a butterfly just landed.
"What do you want to play?" she whispered as they sat down.
"Your call," he replied, voice soft and sweet with trust.
"Then… June: Barcarolle?"
"Perfect," he smiled, boyish excitement flickering in his eyes.
The music began again.
Though four hands on one piano could be complicated, they moved like they'd practiced for months. Nolan softly marked the rhythm; Celeste picked up the harmony. Each note felt like breath—aligned, unspoken.
Their shoulders brushed lightly under the firelight. Their eyes met more than once—each glance a little longer than the last.
Celeste glanced at him again, just as he was looking at her.
Neither looked away.
They weren't just playing music. They were speaking something neither dared say aloud.
When the song ended, the applause returned—but Celeste's mind was still in that brief, breathless silence between their eyes.
That night, beneath firelight and falling notes, they came just a little closer.
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"It's not about the talents—it's about the timing. The person. The way they made it feel like fate, without trying at all."