Page 3 of Unlocking Melodies

I turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes on our hands. “I was thinking about performing something. Maybe that piece we've been working on?”

My heart did a weird little skip. “You mean... during actual daylight hours? With people watching?”

“Unless you'd rather keep me as your dirty little midnight secret,” he teased, but I could hear the uncertainty underneath.

I kissed him quiet. “What time on Thursday?”

The coffee shop was packed when we walked in together. I felt every eye on us. Jimmy squeezed my hand once before heading to the small stage area, and I found a spot near the back, trying to ignore the whispers.

When he started playing our piece the whispers died. Because here's the thing about Jimmy: when he plays, everything else disappears. He has this way of making you forget about everything except the music.

After his performance, some guy from my Business Ethics class made a crack about “slumming it.” Before I could think, I was in his face.

“Want to say that again?”

He backed up, hands raised. “Chill, man. Just looking out for you.”

“Yeah? Look out for yourself instead.” I didn't recognize my own voice. “And while you're at it, work on your fucking portfolio analysis. Your last presentation was embarrassing.”

Jimmy found me later, eyes dancing. “Did you really tell Brad his SWOT analysis was, and I quote, 'what you'd expect from someone who thinks Excel is just expensive spreadsheet paper'?”

I groaned. “Who told you that?”

“Are you kidding? The whole business school is talking about how Ethan Cole finally grew a pair.” He tugged me closer. “It was hot.”

The story spread, of course. But somehow, the more people talked, the less we cared. We turned their judgment into private jokes, their sneers into strength. By April, when our collaborative piece got selected for the spring showcase, it almost felt normal.

Almost.

Practice Room C became our daytime home as we prepared for the showcase. It was different, seeing Jimmy in sunlight—the way it caught his eyes, the freckles I'd never noticed before, the dimple that appeared when he really smiled. We were running on too much coffee and too little sleep, trying to perfect every note.

“No, no, the transition needs to be smoother,” I insisted, reaching across him to demonstrate. He shoved my hands away.

“The transition is fine, you perfectionist gremlin.”

“Perfectionist gremlin?” I tried to sound offended, but he was already launching into a truly terrible impression of me.

“'Oh no, Jimmy, that note was 0.3 seconds too long, we'll never make it into Carnegie Hall now!'”

“I do not sound like that!” I made a grab for him, but he was faster, sliding to the other end of the bench.

“'Jimmy, your posture is atrocious, what would Chopin say?'”

What followed was probably the least dignified piano bench chase in musical history. It ended with both of us on the floor, laughing too hard to breathe.

“I love you,” I said, without meaning to. The words just fell out, as natural as breathing.

Jimmy went still. For one horrible moment, I thought I'd ruined everything. Then he smiled—not his usual smirk, but something softer, more vulnerable. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that's convenient,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Because I?—“

The door crashed open. We jumped apart like startled cats as the janitor walked in, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Room's closing in five minutes,” he announced, then paused. “And whatever you spilled better be cleaned up before you leave.”

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