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I could play for you, if you’d like.
Nate spoke the words into her mouth with a smile, hands lazily roaming the sides of her body still, tracing slow circles on her skin; always, always touching her. She laughed—bright and giddy and a little breathless; yes, of course she would like that, she would love to listen to him play.
She didn’t realize he’d meant right then, but with another kiss he stood, pulling away and leaving her as she was, half tangled in the soft silk sheets of his bed (the bed she now shared with him more often than not), the fabric cool against her heated skin. He walked to the other side of the room, to the antique dresser in the corner, where he carefully took the violin out of a drawer.
Eva knew nothing about music, nothing about instruments or how to play them—but even she could have said it was a beautifully crafted thing, just from the look of it in the dim lamplight that bathed the room; from the care with which Nate handled it, removed it from its case. Not that she would ever have expected any less from him.
She watched him from the bed with warm curiosity, propped up on an elbow and half covered with the bedsheets. Her gaze followed his movements as he drew closer again (lingering on his body—the toned muscle of his arms, his chest; the dark trail of hair that disappeared into the low-slung waistband of the pyjama pants he had, somehow, retrieved), coming to a stop on a spot near the bed.
He gave her a smile as dazzling as ever, just as breathtaking, as he placed the instrument on his shoulder, tucked it under his chin and began to play.
Eva didn’t recognize the song—not that it surprised her—but it was beautiful from the very first notes: something bittersweet and haunting, ever so slowly building, that landed on her skin and settled in her chest, a dull ache forming from the moment he started to play.
She was not entirely sure, just then—she might have been dreaming. She felt like dreaming, a haze heightened by the soft light of the lamps, the sound of the bow on the strings, the lingering scent of them still in the air. Maybe despite her certainty and precious rationality this had, after all, been a dream, an oh-so-sweet delirious fever dream; the thought that this was her life now and she was lying on an immortal vampire’s bed while he played the violin for her was bewildering, impossible, surreal.
And yet nothing (no one) in this world, human or otherwise, had ever felt as real to her as Nate did. Nothing was as bright or as true as the feelings he’d awakened in her (things she hadn’t known she could feel, before she’d met him); nothing as solid or grounding as his presence, his entire being.
She watched him as his expression changed, his eyes half-lidded until he finally closed them; watched him as the music grew until it filled the darkened room, the sound of the violin soft and full.
He looked so beautiful now, he looked so much more than beautiful. His dark hair, slightly messy from the way her fingers had run through it earlier, fell freely and framed his face with its soft waves. Lips ever so slightly parted, eyes closed—his long lashes resting on his cheeks and he moved, swayed, lost in the melody he was playing, fingers moving over the strings with as much care and precision as he ever played her.
She held her breath in her lungs, a single exhalation feeling like it would disturb the magic that had fallen over them.
He looked for a moment like the immortal creature he was, ethereal and sublime, soft light reflecting off of his skin and yet she knew—she knew that was not him, not really, not deep down. Nate was, vampire or not, more human than her, more human than anyone else she’d ever met. Softer and kinder, gentle, full of longing and love in ways she still struggled to understand (might never fully understand).
The sweet, dark notes of the violin tempted her to close her eyes, let them wash over her and lull her into a trance, lose herself in them as well, but she couldn’t take her focus off of him, his hold on her so much stronger than any other.
She whispered his name, or at least she tried to—but her voice faltered, stuck in her throat along with the breath he’d stolen from her, along with everything else he’d taken, all of it so very willingly given.
She barely made a sound, but he heard her, all the same.
Nate’s eyes opened slowly, and the look in them, the softness in them—she was sure her heart would either stop in its tracks or beat out of her throat, cut its way out of her chest and directly into his hands. He kept on playing, the haunting notes heavy in the air but his focus seemed entirely on her now, even as his fingers didn’t falter.
He smiled, gentle, loving, so loving, and she could have forgotten the whole world right then, could have damned it all to darkness just to keep that smile for herself. She smiled too, something shaky and breathless and even the very idea of words vanished from her mind.
His movement slowed, the song reaching its final notes and some part of her mind told her she had to remember to ask him later what song it was, when he’d learned to play, where, if it meant something to him—all those things that right at that moment meant absolutely nothing, nothing, not with the way he looked at her as the music wound down, the last lingering notes stretching into the silence as though denying its inevitability.
When he stopped, she reached out to him, a hand extended wordlessly. He set the violin gently aside, on top of the antique table, and joined her again, took her hand and twined his fingers with hers as he took his place next to her on the bed. His eyes sparkled in the low light and she thought she could see the slightest hint of a flush on his cheeks.
Her heart felt full to bursting. There were words stuck in her throat, thick and unyielding, words she wanted to say but that refused to form on her tongue.
Instead she reached out with her other hand to trace the lines of his face—his jawline, stubble rough under her fingertips; his lips, soft and parting under her touch. The bridge of his nose, his brow. She tucked his hair behind his ear; she traced the lines of him as though discovering, memorizing him—though she knew him by heart already, every angle of his face and plane of his body burned into her memory with both touch and sight.
The room was quiet save for their breathing and the lingering silence, that silence left behind by the melody he’d played, somehow louder and heavier than any noise.
He leaned into her touch when she cupped his face, smiled and pressed a quick kiss to her palm that made her pulse jump. A breath passed her lips, something that might have been a laugh; she felt dizzy, unsteady; entirely charmed, wholly in love, her heart singing just like the violin’s strings.