For seven endless days, she appeared alternatively.
No texts. No calls. Just silence. The kind that hums in the walls and lingers like unfinished melody.
It wasn't anger that kept her away.
It was fear.
Fear that one look from him would rip through her defenses, that his calm, deep, and dangerously steady voice would undo every bit of resolve she'd fought to build.
She tried to stay busy. Long walks, meaningless chatter, scrolling endlessly through a world that didn't know her ache. But nothing could drown the echo of his voice, the memory of his eyes, or the phantom warmth of his nearness.
At night, her dreams betrayed her.
He was there. His gaze steady, his touch imagined but vivid enough to wake her breathless.
She hated herself for it. For wanting him, for needing what she could never have. For craving the very thing that had once destroyed her.
But restraint is a fragile thing. Desire, when denied, becomes a living creature. It claws at the walls of your chest until you let it breathe.
And on the eighth day, she did.
Her feet carried her to the music centre like a prisoner drawn to the site of her execution.
She told herself it was for the lessons, nothing more. That he wouldn't even notice.
But deep down, she knew... lies like that dissolve before truth can even be spoken.
He was there.
Waiting.
The moment she entered, his eyes found hers.
It wasn't surprise that flickered there, it was recognition, relief, and something heavier.
Something dangerously close to longing.
He didn't ask why she had stayed away. He didn't need to.
That one sharp, piercing, and wordless look was enough.
It stripped her bare.
And in that instant, he realized what had been gnawing at him all week... her absence.
She turned away quickly, trying to steady her breath, pretending to busy herself with the strings of her guitar. Her fingers fumbled. Her pulse thundered. She forced her movements into neat precision, hoping logic could drown the storm in her veins.
But his presence was magnetic and unshakable. She felt him move behind her before she saw him, the subtle shift of air, the soft scrape of his shoes on the wooden floor.
Then came the shadow and then the touch.
His hand came lightly to her waist, guiding her posture.
It was innocent, technically. The kind of correction any mentor might offer.
But the way his fingertips brushed her ribs, the quiet breath that escaped him when she trembled - that wasn't technical. That was human.
"Keep your back straight," he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. "You'll hurt your wrist if you lean too far."
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. The space between them pulsed, charged, heavy, thick with words neither dared to speak.
She could feel the warmth of him against her back, his breath ghosting near her ear. Her pulse stuttered violently.
She stepped forward, forcing a laugh that died halfway.
"I'm fine. I got it," she murmured, her tone shaking, betraying her completely.
He didn't apologize. Didn't retreat immediately.
For one heartbeat too long, he just looked at her: the air between them tightening, trembling and then he turned away.
The lesson continued, both pretending.
He spoke of scales and intervals, of resonance and rhythm. But the only rhythm she could feel was the one in her chest: erratic, dangerous.
When she sat down to rest, he approached again. Too quietly, too close.
"Your hand," he said simply. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, adjusting the angle, brushing against her pulse. The contact was fleeting, deliberate.
Her heart stuttered again. The warmth of his skin burned into her, a phantom fire that wouldn't fade. He moved behind her, correcting her posture again... his palm at her waist, his touch tracing upward along her spine to her shoulder.
It wasn't lust. Not exactly.
It was something more terrifying.
The kind of hunger that whispers, this is where you belong.
"Don't," she breathed, barely audible. She didn't even know what she meant: don't touch me? don't stop? don't let me fall?
He froze, eyes darkening, control visibly unraveling for a heartbeat before he stepped back.
Their eyes met.
And in that thick, trembling silence everything they'd tried to suppress came roaring to life.
Her throat tightened.
Her chest ached.
She wanted to scream, to run, to stay.
The lesson ended in fragments. Her hands trembled as she packed her things.
She whispered, "I shouldn't. I can't…"
Then she left before he could respond, before her voice betrayed her further.
Outside, the night air was cold, but her skin still burned with the memory of his touch.
She pressed her hands to her face, trembling. Tears spilled before she could stop them. Not from regret, but from the unbearable truth of it all.
Her body had betrayed her.
Her heart wasn't far behind.
Inside, he watched her go. His chest tight, his pulse pounding against the cage of his ribs. The flush on her cheeks, the tremor in her breath... it haunted him.
Something inside him cracked, and before he could stop himself, he began to test the silence between them.
A brush of his hand when she passed by.
A lingering glance too long to be innocent.
Appearing behind her without a sound just to see her gasp, just to feel that pulse of panic and heat flicker through the air.
Each time, she looked at him with a mixture of fear and ache that drove him mad.
And each time, he told himself he was only helping, only teaching, only restrained.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
He wasn't teaching anymore.
He was unraveling.
And she... she was already undone.