The first time I heard you play the piano was the first time I realised what black and white really meant to you.

I woke up to the soft strains of piano music drifting through the apartment, the notes winding their way into my consciousness, pulling me from sleep. For a moment, I lay there, eyes closed, letting the sound wash over me. It was a simple melody, but there was a depth to it, an undercurrent of emotion that I could feel in my chest.

When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the warmth of the room. It was a studio apartment, small but cosy, almost intimate. The walls were painted a soft grey, adorned with framed photographs and minimalist art that gave the space a personal touch.

A wooden shelves against a wall filled with books and records. A small sofa lined another wall and in the corner a coffee table cluttered with sheet music and empty mugs. Everything was in shades of black and white, with only the faintest hint of colour here and there—a splash of blue in a throw pillow, the green of a potted plant by the window.

You were seated at the piano which took most of the space, apart from the bed I sat on. Your back faced me, fingers moving gracefully over the keys. The polished wood of the instrument gleamed under the soft light, and I could see your reflection in the black lacquer, your face serene, focused.

Outside the window a winter storm raged on, wind howling against the windows. Your music cut through the noise, each note perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the storm. It matched the howling wind rising and falling, as if the two were in conversation.

I felt drawn to the it, like it was calling me to move, to dance. And I couldn't just sit and watch no more. So, I slipped out of bed quietly, not wanting to disturb you, my bare feet light on the cool, polished wooden floor. I began to sway to the melody, letting my body interpret the notes as they came, each movement flowing naturally from one to the next. The music and the storm outside became the soundtrack to my dance, and soon, I was lost in it, my movements becoming more deliberate, more expressive.

I began with a slow, sweeping motion, my arms extending outward like the petals of a flower blooming in the soft glow of the room. I spun lightly on my toes, my body turning gracefully as I embraced the airy notes, drawing them into my core.

How long had it been since I had danced? A decade? Or maybe more than that. I had lost count. So many things had happened in my life, shaping me in ways I never anticipated. I wasn't the little boy who used to dance on a bar anymore. The person in the mirror I saw every morning was a lot taller than him, and hopefully a lot bolder.

It wasn't until the tempo shifted, the notes becoming softer, more delicate, that I realised you had noticed me. You continued to play, but your eyes were on me now, watching as I danced in your living room, lost in a world of music and movement. And you played as if you were accompanying me, adjusting the melody to match my steps.

I dropped into a deep plié, my knees bending in perfect harmony with the rhythm. I felt the weight of the music grounding me, and I let it lift me, propelling me into a series of intricate turns. Each spin was deliberate, my body arching back slightly, as if reaching for something just out of grasp. 

Dancing to what you played felt so right, as if the music had been waiting for me to join in, to express all the emotions that had built up inside. Your melodies became the breath of life flowing through me, filling the spaces that had long felt empty. 

It felt good. It felt so good to dance again, to let my body sway and twist in rhythm with the music you created. There was a raw freedom in those movements, a fluidity that connected me to the present moment.

Each step was a reclaiming of a part of myself that had been buried beneath the weight of responsibilities and expectations. The echoes of my past danced in the back of my mind, but they faded with each note you played, releasing me from their grip.

I played with the tension in my limbs, punctuating the space around me, rolling my shoulders and swaying my hips, my movements echoing the gentle undulations of the sound. I folded into myself for a moment, my hands brushing against the floor before I shot back up with a burst of energy, my arms reaching toward the ceiling as if to touch the very notes you were playing. You watched, transfixed, as I transitioned into a series of contractions and releases, the ebb and flow reflecting the delicate intricacies of the melody.

As the piece came to an end, I slowed my movements, eventually coming to a stop in front of you. We held each other's gaze for a moment, the last note hanging in the air before fading into silence. Then, as if by practice we bowed to each other.

You were the first to break the silence. "I—I didn't know you're a dancer," you said, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

I chuckled, the sound feeling strange in the stillness that followed the music. "Not many know," I admitted, a hint of nostalgia creeping into my voice. "I retired a while ago."

I slowly retreated to the fortress of soft beddings, crawling in the same way I crawled out–timber creaking beneath your feet suggesting you followed. I nestled among plush pillows and threw a blanket over myself, cocooning in its warmth. You sat on the edge of the bed beside me.

You looked at me, something unreadable in your eyes. "Why did you stop?"

I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Life, I guess. Things changed, and I... I just didn't have it in me anymore."

You nodded, understanding in your gaze. "But you still dance."

"Sometimes," I replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "When the music's right."

The storm outside had calmed somewhat, the wind still howling, but less fiercely now, as if it too were winding down. There was a silence between us—not awkward, but comfortable. It was the kind of silence that allowed thoughts to settle, the kind that you didn't feel the need to fill.

"I'll make you something warm to drink," you said, getting up from the bed. You paused, tucking the blanket a little closer around me. "Hot chocolate?"

I met your eyes, and a memory flickered—mint and wine, and the way your lips had tasted. A small smile tugged at my lips, and before I could stop myself, I licked them, reliving the moment for a fleeting second. You were watching me, and I caught the subtle clench of your jaw, something unspoken crossing your eyes before you quickly masked it. Your resolve was strong, but I could see the cracks. So I leaned in, sitting on my knees to match your height.

"Mint-flavoured wine sounds better," I winked, biting my lip just enough to make sure you noticed the playful glint in my eyes. You stirred something in me—feelings I never quite knew how to handle, yet I found myself leaning into the mischievous thrill you always managed to spark.

Your gaze flickered to mine, then down to my lips. I noticed the subtle hitch in your breath. "Brat," you muttered, a mix of amusement and exasperation lacing your voice.

"Your brat," I shot back instantly, grinning wider.

Your mouth parted slightly, your eyes searching mine, as if looking for reassurance. "Mine?"

"Mhm," I hummed, "I've kind of... decided on it."

You smiled, content, achieved. And before I could second-guess myself, I leaned forward, closing the tiny gap between us, and planted a soft kiss on the tip of your nose. You stiffened at the suddenness of it, eyes widening a fraction in surprise.

The shock melted away as soon it came, replaced by something warmer, softer—a fondness that tugged at your features. You let out a small sigh, the sound halfway between a chuckle and a hum, as you ruffled my hair. "Hot chocolate it is, then," you murmured, voice a low and affectionate.

I nodded, feeling a flutter of happiness as you turned to prepare my drink."Extra whipping cream, please," I called after you, and you chuckled, not bothering to turn around.

I watched as you move about the apartment, a little pocket of warmth in the midst of winter's fury. You moved with a casual grace, pulling out strawberries and the requested whipped cream, your eyes occasionally flicking over to meet mine. Each time, I smiled softly, and each time, you couldn't help but steal another glance.

The way you poured the hot chocolate into two mugs, the way you cut the strawberries with care, and the way the whipped cream piled high—just a few slices of strawberry peeking out from beneath the frothy cloud as you finished—wasn't supposed to entrance me. But it did. Every bit of everything about you did.

You carried the mugs back to the bed, your movements fluid and confident, offering one to me with that same small, absent-minded smile that I'd come to anticipate each day. You settled down beside me, the scent of cocoa and strawberries filing the air, wrapping around us like a comforting embrace. We talked as we sipped, the conversation easy and flowing.

"Our new semester starts from next Monday," you said, a hint of excitement in your voice as you placed the half done cup on the small side table, sighing content. "It's going to be intense. The professors have already sent out some of the material, and I can tell they're not going easy on us."

I smiled over my mug, taking in the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your studies. "Sounds like you're in for a challenge," I replied.

"Definitely," you nodded, a thoughtful look crossing your face. "But I'm looking forward to it. There's this one composition class... the professor is a bit of a legend. I've heard he's incredibly demanding, but he's also brilliant. It's intimidating, but I think it'll push me to be better."

"I have no doubt you'll impress him," I said, watching the way your expression softened, the excitement still there but now tinged with a bit of uncertainty.

"Thanks," you murmured, a small smile playing on your lips. "I just hope I can keep up. It's a lot, and I know it's going to take up most of my time."

I felt a slight pang at the thought of you being so busy, but I didn't let it show. Instead, I offered, "Well, if you ever need a break, you know where to find me. I'll make sure to have a piece of avocado toast and your favourite cup of black coffee waiting."

You laughed softly, a sound that made the room feel even warmer. "I'll hold you to that," you said, your eyes meeting mine. "You might regret it when I show up at three in the morning, desperate for a break."

"I'll be ready," I replied, the words slipping out softer than I'd intended. 

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. We just stared at each other.  The corners of your lips softened, your gaze deepening. I couldn't tear my eyes away from you. The slight curve of your nose, the delicate line of your jaw. There was a storm of emotions there: desire, tenderness, curiosity. I could see your lashes flutter as you glanced at my lips, then back up and before I knew it, you began to lean in slowly, your movements unhurried, deliberate.

The mug was still cradled in my hands, the steam curling softly between us, but it suddenly didn't matter. My pulse drummed in my ears, drowning out everything but the quiet, shared breath between us.

And then your lips were on mine.

It wasn't hurried or insistent. It was a slow, deliberate touch, like a question. Warmth bloomed where our mouths met, spreading through me in a rush that was both grounding and dizzying. The kiss deepened—a soft press, then another, firmer this time. A small sigh escaped me before I could stop it, and I felt you smile against my lips, like you'd been waiting for that. It sent a thrill up my spine, something hot and wild flickering to life inside me.

I kissed you back, my eyes fluttered shut, and all I could feel was you. You deepened the kiss, just slightly, just enough for the world to tilt and my senses to blur. My fingers trembled around the mug, so focused on the way you tasted—like chocolate and something sweeter, something that made me want to pull you in closer, wrap my arms around your neck, forget everything else but the feel of you.

Something swelled in my chest—something raw and overwhelming—and I let myself sink into it, every nerve alight with a mix of excitement and something dangerously close to yearning. You were kissing me. You were kissing me.

And then it was over. You pulled back slowly, a hint of reluctance in the way your lips lingered, as if savouring the last bit of warmth. My eyes fluttered open, my gaze still locked on your lips. My gaze traced all over your face—the slightly tousled hair, the dark depths of your eyes still holding mine, intense and unreadable.

Your hand moved up, fingers brushing my cheek, then tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that made my heart stutter. I must've been staring because you smiled, soft and just a little smug, and I realised how ridiculous I must've looked: wide-eyed, slack-jawed, utterly bewitched.

I snapped upright, nearly sloshing my hot chocolate over the edge. "Uh—I, um—well!" I stammered, words tripping over themselves as I struggled to find my footing again. "I, uh, should—get going." My voice was embarrassingly high-pitched, breathless. "Promised Mrs. Bonigo—shopping—anniversary, you know, next week..." I was rambling, and I knew it, but I couldn't seem to stop.

You let out a low, amused chuckle, collapsing onto the bed, your laughter a soft rumble that made my chest tighten all over again. "Mm, is that right?"

"Yeah, uh, well, I should—go." I muttered, more to myself than to you.

But just as I thought I was free, your hand caught mine.

"Wanna take a shower together?" you asked, the playful lilt in your voice sending another shiver through me.

I froze, glancing down at where your fingers wrapped around mine, then back up at your face. There was that teasing smile again, but something else flickered in your gaze—a heat, a promise. My mind short-circuited for a moment, images flashing unbidden, and I gulped, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

That only made you laugh harder, the sound deep and rich as you let yourself collapse fully against the pillows. "You should have seen your face right now. Redder than a ripe tomato!" you wheezed, your laughter spilling over in waves as you kicked your feet lightly against the bed in delight.

I could feel my cheeks heating even more, if that was even possible, the embarrassment clawing at my insides. I tried to summon a retort, to throw something back at you like I normally would, but nothing came out except a garbled noise of disbelief. 

 I frowned, trying to muster some dignity as I tugged on my trapped hand. "I—I was just surprised, okay? Don't flatter yourself," I mumbled, desperate to sound indignant but betraying myself with a stammer. "You—y-you can't just—just say stuff like that out of nowhere!"

But your grip held firm, the warmth of your palm grounding me even as it sent a fresh wave of chaotic emotions tumbling through my mind. "Why not?" you teased, your grin softening into something almost fond. "You're cute when you're flustered."

I opened my mouth, a half-formed protest on the tip of my tongue—I'm not cute, you jerk!—but I didn't get the chance to finish. A faint buzz interrupted the moment, the sound barely audible but insistent. Your laughter cut off abruptly, and we both turned our heads in the same direction, ears straining to catch it again.

You arched a brow, releasing my hand to feel around the bedspread with your other. A few seconds later you pulled out my phone, squinting at the screen.

"Unknown number," you announced, holding it out to me.

I blinked, heart starting to pound for a whole different reason, I but took the phone anyway. "Who...?" I breathed, staring at the unfamiliar digits flashing across the display. I hesitated, thumb hovering over the green button for a second before I pressed it and brought the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Ahen!" The voice on the other end was panicked, a jumbled rush of sound that sent alarm bells ringing in my head.

"M-Mom?" My heart skipped a beat, my grip tightening around the phone. There was no mistaking that voice—breathless, anxious, and a little too shrill.

"Ahen—Ahen, where are you?"

WC:2832