Elona’s POV
The air was cool in the old lounge, the scent of dust clinging to velvet and once polished wood. It felt like I had stepped back in time, into a preserved part of Tristan’s life that hadn’t been disturbed in years. I just wanted to really explore this part of the house again while Tristan had taken Spooky back to my apartment. I stood still for a moment, just letting it settle around me...the silence, the quiet ache of nostalgia.
The sheets draped over the furniture moved slightly in the draft. But it wasn’t the quiet or the antique furniture that caught my attention first. It was the paintings. The ones Tristan had carefully mounted along the wall, the ones painted by my mother. My throat tightened. I stepped closer to them, reaching out but not quite touching them. The brushstrokes were so familiar. My mother’s hand had moved with such life, and with such color. Each painting was a memory, a preserved breath of the past. There was one of a stormy sea, the waves curling like wild hair, another of a little girl in a yellow dress reaching for a dandelion. That one stopped me. It was me. I knew it, because of my long brunette hair, the delicate shoulders, and the hopeful tilt of the chin...my mother had captured me in a moment I couldn’t even remember. I wanted to cry, but instead, I smiled through the sting behind my eyes.
I turned slowly, scanning the rest of the lounge. That was when my eyes fell on the grand piano in the corner. I walked over, the piano had caught dust on its glossy black surface. My fingers moved over the keys without pressing down, like a whisper across a memory. I finally let one finger drop onto a single key.
Pling.
The soft note echoed in the quiet lounge. I closed my eyes, feeling the vibration echo through the wood and into my palm. I had never played before. But I have watched Tristan play over the years when he was so happy when Aunt Estelle was alive, and I want to see that from him again.
The sound of footsteps snapped me from my thoughts. “Elona?” Tristan’s voice carried into the space, low and warm.
“Yeah?” I called back.
He appeared in the doorway, tall and rumpled from the rain outside. His eyes found me, then softened as they took in the piano, the paintings, and then finally me. I could tell he wasn’t expecting me to come in here all by myself. The old part of the house held ghosts of his own.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he stepped further inside.
I nodded slowly, letting my hand fall from the keys. “I think I’m doing better today. This… lounge helps. My mom is here. In every stroke of the brush.”
He followed my gaze to the wall and exhaled, his jaw clenching briefly. “She was brilliant with her talent,” he murmured.
I turned to face him fully now. “If I’m going to move in with you,” I said softly, “you need to uncover all this again. The sheets. The silence. This house can’t keep pretending like it’s not alive.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “Is that your answer then?” he asked.
I smiled. “Yes. If it’s not too much. If we’re in this for the long haul.”
He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the closest sheet and ripped it off, sending a puff of dust into the air, making him cough. He tossed it aside and moved to the next one, laughter mixing with the sudden crash of thunder outside. The windows rattled as the storm rolled over the house. He stopped just long enough to ignite the fireplace, the flames crackling to life. I helped him uncover the chairs and coffee table. The warmth slowly chased away the chill, and the lounge began to breathe again. Alive like us.
When he was done, he straightened and looked around, breathing heavily, hair slightly tousled, a smudge of soot on his cheek from the fireplace. “You have resurrected it,” I whispered.
His eyes met mine, playful but earnest. “You did.”
I returned to the piano, sitting down slowly, smoothing my hands over the keys. “Teach me,” I asked quietly, glancing over my shoulder. “Please.”
His expression softened immediately. He walked toward me and pulled out the bench, and sat down. Instead of sitting beside me, he gently lifted me by the waist and settled me onto his lap, my back against his chest. His arms wrapped around me as he reached for the keys. I tensed at first, feeling the press of his body, the steadiness of his breath, but then I melted into him.
“This one,” he said, pressing my finger to a middle C. “That’s where we start.”
I laughed softly. “I have zero musical talent.”
“You have fingers and a heart. That’s more than enough.”
His voice was so close to my ear, the vibrations of it rumbling through my spine. He guided my hands gently, our fingers brushing. He would press a chord, let me try it, then another. His breath grazed my neck each time he whispered a note. Then, he kissed my shoulder, softly, like it was instinct. A sigh left my lips.
“You still have the scar,” he murmured against my skin.
I blinked, glancing over my shoulder where the faint crescent from his bite had never quite faded. I wore an off-shoulder top, something loose and soft, and the mark was just visible. “Models cover scars,” I said. “But I don’t want to cover this one.”
He pressed another kiss there. “Why not?”
“I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”
He paused. “Of what?”
I smiled. “Something to mark the storm we survived.”
He exhaled, his lips still near my shoulder. “I didn’t know I needed to hear that until now.”
We sat in silence for a while. His arms never left mine, and he occasionally played a slow tune, guiding my fingers with his. The fire warmed us from behind. Outside, lightning lit up the windows, thunder answering like a second heartbeat.
“I didn’t think this house could feel like home again,” he whispered.
“And now?” I asked.
He tightened his arms around me. “Now, I don’t ever want you to leave it.”
I leaned back into him, closing my eyes. “Then let’s keep playing. Even if we mess up the notes.”
We stayed like that for what felt like hours, fingers brushing keys, hearts syncing through every note and breath. For the first time in a long time, we were not haunted by the past or the situation we were currently dealing with. We were writing something new... one chord at a time.