part 25 : her heart in his strings

She didn't tell him she was coming.

Fiona just... arrived. Quietly. No announcement. No flutter of nerves, just something unspoken inside her that led her to the hilltop bookstore—the place he said he played, the place she'd been avoiding not out of disinterest, but out of fear. Of feeling too much. Of letting someone close again.

The terrace was nearly empty, scattered with old wooden chairs and the golden hush of lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. The sun was dipping low, its last light spilling over the town in streaks of burnt amber and rose gold. She wrapped her lavender sweater tighter around her shoulders, as if it could hold her together, as if it were armor made of softness.

He was there.

Alone.

The bow moved against the cello like a conversation he didn't need words for. And the moment the first notes drifted into the air, Fiona felt herself unravel.

It wasn't a song. It was a confession.

The music wove through her chest, tugging at things she'd buried. All the ache she'd tucked away behind practiced smiles and quiet retreats began to rise. Longing. Regret. The soft ache of memories that never had a proper ending. The cello told it all, and she couldn't stop listening—not when it felt like he was playing her.

Tears blurred her vision before she realized she was crying. She turned her face slightly, ashamed of it, wiping at her cheeks with trembling fingers. But the music didn't falter. If anything, it deepened. As if it knew. As if it reached for her anyway.

And then... he was there.

Not in a rush. Not loud. Just present.

Fiona didn't know when he stopped playing. She didn't hear the moment the bow quieted. All she knew was the shift in the air—the silent, still presence settling beside her.

He didn't speak. He didn't touch her. Just sat on the wooden floor near her, his knees pulled in, cello resting silently between them like a companion. He didn't try to break the silence. He honored it.

And somehow, that made her chest ache more.

The lanterns flickered. Somewhere below, a dog barked once, distant. And still, neither of them moved.

Then—his voice. Low, careful. Like a promise whispered in a chapel.

"Can I stay with you… like this?"

Her nod was barely visible, but it was enough.

She didn't have words, not yet. But she leaned toward him, ever so slightly. Not collapsing. Not asking to be saved. Just... sharing the weight.

He understood. Without question, without hesitation, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders with the kind of tenderness that felt holy.

And that, somehow, broke her more than any embrace could.

No expectations.

No questions.

Just warmth.

Just him.

And then, after what felt like an entire lifetime suspended in a single breath, he whispered:

"Even your tears are beautiful, you know."

It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't for effect. It was reverent. A sacred observation. And it made Fiona feel seen in a way she hadn't been in years—not as a project, not as someone to fix, but as someone simply... human.

She inhaled, sharp and shaky, her lips parting, but no words came—only the rise and fall of her chest. And then, finally, her voice broke through the silence, soft and raw:

"Thank you… for not asking me why."

Because if he had, she might've built the wall again. Might've lied, deflected, smiled her pain away. But he didn't.

He just stayed.

And that was enough.