Chapter Text
Rain hammered against the windshield like impatient fingers on invisible keys, and Noah watched the red-brick building with a mixture of relief and resignation that only those who have spent the last three weeks sleeping on a friend's couch know. The online listing had promised "quiet atmosphere, artistic neighborhood, perfect for professionals," and at that moment, with all his belongings packed in battered boxes in the back seat of his borrowed car, he would have accepted living next to a drum factory if it meant having a place of his own.
Apartment 4B. Fourth floor. No elevator.
Of course there was no elevator.
He climbed the stairs with a box marked "Fragile – Books" that weighed as if he'd packed bricks instead of novels. The fourth-floor hallway smelled of ancient humidity and that indefinable aroma of old buildings that have absorbed decades of other people's lives into their walls. The door to 4B had paint peeling at the corners, but the lock worked smoothly when he turned the key, and that was already more than he could say about his last apartment.
The space was small. Tiny, actually. A studio where the kitchen, living room, and bedroom shared the same compressed air, as if the architect had decided that dividing walls were an unnecessary luxury. But there were large windows that let in the gray afternoon light, and the wooden floor, though worn, had the kind of character that only years grant. Noah set the box on the floor and breathed deeply, feeling something in his chest loosen for the first time in weeks.
A place of his own. Finally.
He didn't hear the music that first night. He mas too busy unpacking, arranging his life on improvised shelves and drawers that didn't quite close properly. When he finally collapsed onto the mattress he'd placed directly on the floor—because assembling the bed frame could wait until tomorrow, or maybe until next month—exhaustion dragged him into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It was the second night when he heard it. At first, he thought it was part of a dream. A soft melody, almost ghostly, filtering through the floor as if the building's structure itself were singing. Noah opened his eyes in the darkness, disoriented, trying to locate the source of the sound. It wasn't coming from outside, nor from the sides. It was coming from below. From apartment 3B, directly beneath his.
A guitar. Someone was playing guitar at two in the morning, and doing it with a delicacy that turned the intrusion into something almost beautiful. The chords slid into one another like water over polished stones, creating a sonic texture that filled the nocturnal silence in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. But it was two in the morning.
Noah covered his head with the pillow and tried to go back to sleep, but the music continued, persistent, exploring chord progressions that sounded like unanswered questions. When it finally stopped, close to three, Noah was already too awake to recover sleep, and he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the building settling in the early hours.
The third night, it happened again. And the fourth. And the fifth. By the end of the first week, Noah had developed a particular resentment toward his invisible downstairs neighbor, that nocturnal musician who seemed to believe the entire world shared his vampire schedule. He'd never seen him, never heard his footsteps in the hallway or his voice on the stairs. Apartment 3B was like a black hole in the building, emitting only music and silence.
It was the broken pipe that finally introduced them.
Noah was making coffee one Tuesday morning, still dazed from another night of interrupted sleep, when he heard the sound. A drip. Soft at first, almost imperceptible, but growing in urgency until it became a constant flow. He turned just in time to see water spurting from under the sink like an improvised fountain, spreading across the kitchen floor in a puddle that expanded with malicious determination toward his still-unpacked boxes of books.
"No, no, no, no—" Noah lunged toward the sink, opening the cabinet doors to reveal a pipe that was gushing water as if it had decided to quit its job. He searched for the shut-off valve, turning it with trembling hands until the flow reduced to a pitiful drip.
The damage was already done. His kitchen floor looked like a shallow lake, and when he knelt to assess the situation, he heard a muffled scream coming from the floor below.
"Shit!"
The voice was masculine, hoarse, tinged with panic and frustration. Noah closed his eyes, understanding with growing horror that the water hadn't simply decided to flood his apartment. It had decided to share the experience with his downstairs neighbor.
He went down the stairs three at a time, barefoot, with his pajama pants soaked to the knees. The door to 3B was ajar, and when Noah pushed it open, he found a scene that was part natural disaster, part chaotic art gallery.
The apartment was an inverted reflection of his own, but where Noah had opted for the forced minimalism of someone who had just moved in, 3B was a controlled explosion of creativity. Instruments hung from the walls like hunting trophies: guitars of different shapes and sizes, a turquoise electric bass, something that appeared to be a vintage ukulele. There were cables everywhere, tangling like technological vines around amplifiers and effect pedals. Sheet music piled on every available surface, some falling to the floor where the water—his water—dripped from the ceiling in a constant and accusatory rhythm.
And in the middle of all that, holding a soaked towel and looking at the ceiling with an expression mixing disbelief and resignation, was Finn; his neighbor. Noah knew without being told. That was Finn. It had to be.
He was younger than Noah had imagined, though he wasn't sure what he'd imagined exactly. Maybe someone with the long, unkempt hair of a seventies rocker, or the hipster beard of an indie singer-songwriter. But Finn was... different. He had dark hair cut in a way that suggested he'd given up halfway through attempting to style it, falling over his forehead in disheveled strands. His eyes were a color between gray and green that changed with the light, framed by dark circles that spoke of too many sleepless nights. He wore a band t-shirt that Noah didn't recognize, with holes in the collar, and pajama pants with an absurd print of cats wearing headphones.
Finn's eyes moved from the ceiling to the door, landing on Noah with an expression that passed from surprise to comprehension and finally to something like tired amusement.
"Let me guess," he said, and his voice had that hoarse quality Noah had heard through the floor, but now with an added sarcastic tone. "Four B?"
Noah nodded, feeling the weight of guilt settling in his stomach like stones.
"I'm so sorry, I— the pipe just exploded, I don't know what happened—"
"The pipes in this building are approximately a hundred years old," Finn interrupted, dropping the soaked towel into a bucket that was already half full. "It's a miracle this hasn't happened before. The real miracle would be if something in this place worked properly for more than five minutes straight."
There was something comforting in his resignation, as if he'd seen so much that nothing could surprise him anymore. Noah entered the apartment fully, stepping carefully around puddles and cables, trying to assess the damage.
"Did water fall on anything important?" he asked, fear tightening his throat.
Finn followed his gaze to the collection of electronic equipment filling a corner of the apartment. A laptop was covered with a waterproof jacket, clearly placed there in panic when the deluge began.
"My laptop is safe," Finn said, and for the first time, Noah detected a flash of real vulnerability in his voice. "That's where... everything is. All my songs. Years of work."
"God," Noah exhaled, feeling the weight of what could have been lost. "I'm so sorry. I— I'll call the landlord right now, I'll get this fixed—"
"The landlord," Finn laughed, but there was no humor in the sound, "is a seventy-year-old man who lives in Florida and probably doesn't even know what city this building is in. Good luck with that."
They looked at each other for a moment, two strangers united by hydraulic disaster, and Noah felt something strange flutter in his chest. It was, he thought, the most surreal moment of his week, which was saying something considering it had started with him sleeping on a couch that smelled like wet dog.
"I'm Noah," he said finally, because it seemed absurd not to introduce himself when he was standing in someone's apartment, soaked and apologizing.
"Finn," the other responded, and extended his hand. It was wet, but Noah shook it anyway.
Finn's hand was warm despite the water, and his fingers were long, with calluses on the tips that Noah recognized as the marks of someone who played strings frequently. When their palms met, Noah felt something like an electric shock, soft but unmistakable, like when you touch metal on a dry winter day. Finn felt it too. Noah knew by the way his eyes widened slightly, by how he held the grip a second longer than necessary before releasing it, wiping his hand on his ridiculous pajama pants.
"So," Finn said, breaking the moment, "I guess we're officially neighbors with shared plumbing problems."
Noah couldn't help but smile, despite everything.
"I guess so."
The pipe repair took three weeks. Three weeks during which Noah and Finn developed an awkward routine of forced encounters and muttered apologies. The absent landlord finally sent a plumber who appeared to be a hundred years old and who worked with the speed of a particularly lazy tortoise. Meanwhile, Noah had to use the sink with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb, and every time he opened the faucet, he could imagine Finn below, holding his breath, waiting for the next deluge. But something changed after that first disastrous morning. When Noah heard the guitar at night, he could now put a face to the sound. He could imagine Finn sitting in his chaotic apartment, surrounded by instruments and cables, fingers moving over the strings while searching for the perfect melody. And although it still kept him awake, there was something less annoying about it. Almost as if the music were a conversation they were having through the layers of wood and plaster that separated them.
Almost.
The building's laundry room was in the basement, a gloomy space lit by fluorescent tubes that flickered with epileptic regularity. There were four washers and four dryers, half of which had "Out of Service" signs stuck with tape that had yellowed over the years. Noah avoided the place when he could, preferring to wash his clothes at the neighborhood laundromat where at least there were windows and the lighting didn't seem pulled from a horror movie.
But it was late on a Sunday night, and Noah had run out of clean clothes after postponing the task for two weeks. He went down to the basement with his laundry basket, hoping to have the place to himself.
Of course, Finn was there.
He was sitting on top of one of the dryers, legs dangling, headphones on and eyes closed, moving to the rhythm of music only he could hear. One of the washers was spinning with an irregular rattle, shaking its contents as if trying to escape.
Noah hesitated at the entrance, considering retreating silently, but before he could make a decision, Finn opened his eyes. For a moment they looked at each other, and then Finn removed his headphones with a smile that was half apology, half greeting.
"The most glamorous place in the building," he said, making a theatrical gesture toward the dented machines and stained concrete floor.
"Definitely has atmosphere," Noah responded, approaching a free washer. He began loading his clothes, hyperaware of Finn's presence a few meters away.
"Sunday nights too?" Finn asked. "I thought I was the only one disorganized enough to leave laundry until the last minute."
"Procrastination is an art," Noah said, pouring detergent with hands that trembled slightly for reasons he couldn't fully explain. "And I'm a master."
Finn laughed, and the sound bounced off the basement walls in a way that made it bigger, more present. Noah closed the washer door and started it, then leaned against it, not quite knowing what to do with himself. He could leave, go up to his apartment and come back in thirty-five minutes when the cycle finished. It would be normal, what any reasonable person would do.
But he stayed.
"Hey," Noah said, and the words came out before he could think them through too much, "about the music. At night. I... don't want to be that neighbor who complains about everything, but—"
"It's too late," Finn interrupted, and his expression transformed into something more serious, more aware. "I know. I should... I should be more careful with the schedule. It's just that's when I work best, when everything is quiet and there are no distractions."
"You work with music?" Noah asked, though he already knew, had seen the equipment, the guitars, the sheet music.
Finn hesitated, and Noah could see the conflict in his face, as if he were deciding how much to reveal.
"I'm a musician," he said finally, and there was something defensive in his tone, as if he expected mockery or contempt. "Or I'm trying to be. I'm working on an album. I have some songs on Spotify, some followers. It's nothing important, but I'm trying to make it be."
Noah heard the vulnerability hidden beneath the casual words, the hope Finn was trying not to show too much. He knew that feeling, that precarious balance between dream and reality, between what you are and what you want to be.
"Can I listen to it?" Noah asked, pulling his phone from his pocket. "Your music, I mean. If you don't mind."
Finn blinked, surprised, and a blush rose up his neck in a way Noah found inexplicably charming.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," Noah insisted, and he meant it. "I've been listening to you play for weeks through the floor. I'd like to hear the finished version."
For a moment, Finn said nothing. He just looked at Noah as if trying to decipher a riddle, searching for sarcasm or mockery that weren't there. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Finn Wolfhard," he said. "That's how it is on Spotify. W-O-L-F-H-A-R-D."
Noah typed the name, found the profile, and pressed play on the first song on the list. It was instrumental, a mix of acoustic and electronic guitar that intertwined in unexpected ways. The melody was the same he'd heard filtering through the floor, but here it was polished, complete, with layers of sound Noah hadn't been able to appreciate before.
It was beautiful. Strange and melancholic, but beautiful.
"This is..." Noah searched for the right words, "it's really good, Finn. Seriously."
Finn got down from the dryer, approaching with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity in his expression.
"Really?" he asked, and there was so much naked hope in his voice that something in Noah's chest contracted.
"Really," Noah confirmed. "It has something... I don't know how to explain it. It's like each note is telling a story."
"That's the goal," Finn said softly. "Words are... complicated for me. They always have been. But with music, I can say things I otherwise couldn't. Does that make sense?"
"All the sense in the world," Noah responded, and their gazes met in the poorly lit space of the laundry room, held for longer than was strictly necessary.
Finn's dryer emitted a beep, breaking the moment. Finn blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and turned to remove his clothes.
"So," he said while folding a t-shirt with careless movements that suggested organization wasn't his forte, "if you're not too tired of my vampire schedule, how about a deal?"
"What kind of deal?" Noah asked, intrigued.
"I can play earlier, let's say until eleven. And if it's ever too much, if you really need to sleep, knock on the floor three times. I'll listen. I'll stop."
Noah considered the offer. It was reasonable, more than he'd expected. And there was something in the way Finn looked at him, with that mixture of hope and concern, that made it impossible to refuse.
"Deal," he said, extending his hand to seal it.
This time, when their palms met, both were prepared for the spark. But that didn't make it any less real.
__________________
Weeks became a month, and then two. Noah adapted to the strange routine of living above Finn, to the sounds he now recognized: the soft strumming of the guitar that meant Finn was experimenting, the louder and more confident chords that indicated he'd found something that worked. He learned to distinguish between good days, when the music flowed with an almost tangible joy, and bad days, when the notes sounded frustrated, repetitive, as if Finn were hitting against an invisible wall.
On those bad days, Noah sometimes left a coffee outside Finn's door before leaving for work. He never knocked, never left a note. Just the coffee, in his disposable travel cup, still hot. And when he returned at night, the cup had always disappeared.
They never talked about it.
Noah worked from home as a freelance editor, correcting manuscripts and articles in his small apartment, and the sounds of Finn composing became a kind of soundtrack to his life. It was strange how something he'd once found so irritating had transformed into something comforting, almost necessary. On nights when Finn didn't play—when he went out or when he was simply too tired—Noah found the silence unsettling, empty in a way it hadn't been before.
They crossed paths in the building more frequently now. In the laundry room, on the stairs, in the small entrance lobby where mail accumulated in mailboxes that were never quite emptied. Each encounter was like a small spark, a moment of connection that left Noah feeling slightly disoriented, as if he'd spun too quickly.
Finn had that quality. That way of looking at you as if he were really seeing you, as if every word you said mattered. Noah wasn't used to that. In his previous life—before the move, before this apartment—he'd been in a relationship that had slowly worn down until it became silence and routine. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen.
It was in the laundry room again where things changed.
It was late on a Friday night, and Noah had been reviewing a particularly dense manuscript for hours, until his eyes burned and his back protested. He needed a break, an excuse to get away from the screen, so he grabbed his laundry basket and went down to the basement. Finn was there, but he wasn't sitting on the dryer with headphones like he usually did. He was standing in front of one of the washers, staring at his clothes spinning behind the glass, and there was something in his posture—the dropped shoulders, the tilted head—that made Noah stop.
"Finn?"
Finn startled, turning with a speed that suggested he hadn't heard Noah come down. His eyes were red, not as if he'd been crying, but as if he'd been awake too long, pushing against the limits of human endurance.
"Hey," he said, and his voice sounded raspy, exhausted. "Didn't hear you."
"Are you okay?" Noah asked, setting his basket aside and approaching cautiously, as if Finn were an injured animal that might flee at any moment.
Finn laughed, but the sound was empty of humor.
"There's a record label," he said abruptly, the words coming out in a torrent as if they'd been held back too long. "A small one, independent, but real. They heard my stuff on Spotify, contacted me a month ago. They want— they want to hear more. Complete songs, a complete EP. They said if they like what they hear, there's a possibility of a contract."
"Finn, that's amazing," Noah said, feeling a wave of excitement for his neighbor, for this man who had been working so hard in the darkness of early mornings.
"It would be," Finn continued, and his voice broke slightly at the edges, "if I could finish the damn songs. If I could— God, Noah, I can't. Every time I think I have it, that I finally found what I'm looking for, I listen to myself and it sounds... empty. It sounds like shit."
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Noah had seen before but never so loaded with desperation.
"I have two weeks. Two weeks to send them five finished songs. And I have... I have fragments. Pieces. Nothing that feels complete."
Noah didn't know what to say. He wasn't a musician, couldn't offer technical advice or creative solutions. But he knew the frustration of looking at your own work and seeing only its flaws, of feeling that no matter how hard you try, it will never be enough.
"Have you slept?" he asked finally, because that at least was something tangible, something he could address.
Finn looked at him as if the question were in a foreign language.
"Sleep? Noah, I don't have time to sleep. I have to—"
"Finn," Noah interrupted, and took another step closer, close enough to see the lines of exhaustion etched around Finn's eyes, the deep shadows that spoke of nights without rest. "You can't create when you're running on fumes. Trust me, I've tried. You just end up staring at the work until the words have no meaning and everything becomes noise."
"But—"
"Come," Noah said, making an impulsive decision.
"Leave your clothes. You can get them later. Come up with me."
Finn blinked, confused. "Up? To your apartment?"
"I'm going to make you something to eat," Noah said firmly. "Something that isn't coffee and whatever you've been surviving on. And you're going to sit and you're going to not think about music for at least an hour. Understood?"
For a moment, Finn seemed about to protest. But then something in his expression softened, the resistance crumbling to reveal simple gratitude.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."
Noah's apartment was still minimalist, but it had acquired more personality in the months since he'd moved in. Books stacked everywhere, a soft blanket over the worn sofa he'd bought secondhand, a plant near the window that, against all odds, was still alive. Finn entered timidly, as if crossing a sacred threshold, his eyes scanning the space with curiosity.
"It's... cozy," he said, and Noah wasn't sure if it was a compliment or a neutral observation.
"It's small," Noah corrected, going toward the kitchen. "But it's mine."
He pulled ingredients from the refrigerator: eggs, vegetables, some cheese he hoped was still good. It wasn't much, but he could make a decent omelet, something substantial that wasn't the fast food he suspected Finn had been eating.
"Sit," he ordered, pointing to the sofa.
Finn obeyed, sinking into the cushions with a sigh that sounded like it carried the weight of the world. Noah could feel his eyes on him as he cooked, a warm presence on his back that made him hyperaware of every movement.
"You know?" Finn said after a moment of silence, "no one has— no one has done this for me in a long time."
"Cooked?" Noah asked, beating the eggs with more force than necessary.
"Cared," Finn corrected softly.
Noah stopped, turning to look at Finn. He was curled in a corner of the sofa, knees pulled against his chest, and he looked so young, so vulnerable, that something in Noah's chest tightened painfully.
"I care," Noah said, and the words came out more intense than he'd intended. "More than I probably should, considering we're basically strangers."
"It doesn't feel like we're strangers," Finn said, and his eyes held Noah's gaze with an intensity that made the air in the apartment feel thinner.
Noah swallowed, forcing himself back to the stove before he did something stupid, like cross the room and... And what? He didn't know. He just knew the impulse was there, alive and demanding under his skin.
They cooked—well, Noah cooked while Finn watched—and then ate in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. Finn devoured the omelet as if he hadn't eaten in days, which, Noah suspected, might not be far from the truth. When he finished, he leaned back against the sofa with an expression of satisfaction that made Noah smile.
"Thank you," Finn said, and there was so much sincerity in his voice that Noah felt the thanks were for more than just the food. "I really needed this."
"You're welcome," Noah responded, collecting the plates. "And now you're going to go down to your apartment and you're going to sleep. No music, no working. Just sleep."
Finn opened his mouth to protest, but Noah shot him a look that admitted no arguments.
"Doctor's orders," Noah joked, though he wasn't a doctor of anything except poorly written manuscripts.
Finn stood with effort, as if his bones were made of lead. At the door, he stopped and turned toward Noah.
"Hey, Noah," he said, and there was something different in his voice, something soft and exposed. "If you ever want to... if you'd like to hear the songs while I'm working on them, you're invited. To come down, I mean. You don't have to do it through the floor."
Noah's heart did something strange in his chest, a leap that had nothing to do with caffeine or surprise.
"I'd like that," he said, and he meant it completely.
Finn smiled, a real smile that lit up his tired face, and then he left, leaving Noah in his apartment that suddenly felt very empty.
The invitation became a routine. Nights when Noah went down to Finn's apartment with two cups of tea or hot chocolate, sitting on the worn sofa surrounded by cables and equipment while Finn played fragments of songs, tried different chord progressions, searched for the melody that had been eluding him.
Noah discovered he liked this. He liked watching Finn work, the way his face transformed when he played, losing himself in the music in a way that was almost transcendental. He liked how Finn asked for his opinions, played him two different versions of a bridge and asked which resonated more, genuinely valuing his answers even when Noah insisted he knew nothing about music.
"You don't need to know music theory to know how something makes you feel," Finn had said one night, his fingers still on the guitar strings. "That's the most important thing. The emotional connection."
And there was emotion. God, there was so much emotion in Finn's music that sometimes Noah had to look away, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. It was as if Finn were laying his soul bare note by note, and Noah was witnessing it, being let into something deep and private.
The deadline approached like a storm on the horizon. Two weeks became ten days, then a week. Finn worked with frantic intensity, and Noah could see the wear on him: the deeper lines around his eyes, the way his hands trembled slightly when he held his coffee cup.
"I almost have it," Finn would say, and then, hours later: "I hate all of this."
Noah learned to recognize the cycles, the ups and downs of the creative process that left Finn euphoric or devastated with no middle ground. He learned when to push, when to offer words of encouragement, and when to simply be there in silence, a constant presence amid the chaos.
It was the night before the deadline when everything collapsed.
Noah was in his apartment, trying to concentrate on a manuscript he had to deliver, but his mind kept drifting downward, toward Finn. He hadn't heard music in hours, and that worried him more than the nocturnal sounds that had once bothered him.
Finally, at eleven at night, he went down to check.
Finn's apartment door was ajar, which was strange. Noah pushed gently, calling Finn's name.
"Finn?"
He found him sitting on the floor in the middle of the apartment, surrounded by crumpled sheet music. His acoustic guitar was beside him, and there were tears on his cheeks that glistened under the dim light of the floor lamp.
Noah's heart sank.
"Hey," he said softly, entering and closing the door behind him. "Hey, what happened?"
Finn looked up, and the desolation in his eyes was like a physical blow.
"I can't do it," he said, and his voice broke on the last word. "I have four songs. Four half-decent songs out of the five I need, and the fifth— the fifth just isn't there. I've tried everything. I've tried every chord progression I know, I've rewritten the melody twenty times, and nothing works. Nothing feels right."
Noah sat on the floor in front of him, not caring about the sheet music crunching under his weight.
"It's okay," he began, but Finn shook his head violently.
"No, it's not okay. This is my chance, Noah. This is probably the only chance I'm going to get, and I'm going to waste it because I can't— because I'm not good enough—"
"Stop," Noah interrupted firmly, reaching to take Finn's face between his hands, forcing him to look. "Stop talking like that. You're incredible, Finn. Your music is incredible. I've heard every song you've made, I've seen how much work you put into this, and you're so damn talented that it hurts to hear you put yourself down like that."
Tears kept falling down Finn's cheeks, wetting Noah's thumbs, and Finn didn't look away. He stayed there, holding Noah's gaze with an intensity that made the air between them vibrate.
"Why do you care so much?" Finn whispered, and the question was so vulnerable, so exposed, that Noah felt something break in his chest.
"Because you matter to me," Noah said, and the words emerged with a truth he'd been denying for weeks. "You matter to me more than should be possible in such a short time, and I can't stand watching you tear yourself apart like this."
The world seemed to hold itself in that moment, balanced on a knife's edge. Noah could feel Finn's pulse under his fingers, fast and erratic. He could see the way Finn's lips parted slightly, surprised by the admission.
And then Finn, was closing the distance between them, and their lips met in a kiss that was desperate and soft and needy all at once. Noah responded without thinking, his hands sliding from Finn's face to his hair, pulling him closer. Finn tasted of salt from tears and cold coffee, and his mouth moved against Noah's with an urgency that spoke of all the contained emotions, all the tension that had been building between them since that first flooded morning.
When they finally pulled apart, both panting, Finn rested his forehead against Noah's.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't apologize," Noah interrupted, his hands still tangled in Finn's hair. "Please don't apologize for that."
Finn laughed, a trembling sound that was half sob, half relief.
"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted.
"Every time you came up with coffee, every time you sat on my sofa and listened to my music like it really mattered—"
"It matters," Noah said fiercely. "It matters because it comes from you. Everything about you matters to me, Finn."
They kissed again, slower this time, savoring it. And when they pulled apart, Noah helped Finn up from the floor.
"Come," he said, guiding him toward the sofa. "Let's figure this out."
"Noah, I already told you, I've tried–"
"Then try differently," Noah interrupted. "Stop thinking about the record label, about the contract, about what it's supposed to be. Just... play. Play what you feel right now, in this moment."
Finn looked at him for a long moment, then reached for his guitar. He settled on the sofa, the guitar resting against his body in a way that seemed as natural as breathing, and closed his eyes.
The first chords were tentative, searching. But then something changed. The melody that emerged was different from anything Noah had heard from Finn before. It was softer, more intimate, with a raw vulnerability that made each note feel like a confession. Noah watched, barely breathing, as Finn played. He could see the moment Finn felt it too, the moment he knew this was what he'd been searching for. His fingers moved with more confidence, the melody building in layers, adding complexity without losing the core emotion that drove it.
When the last note faded into silence, Finn opened his eyes and looked at Noah with an expression of awe.
"That's it," he said, and his voice was full of reverent admiration. "That's everything. Noah, that's—"
"It's perfect," Noah finished, feeling hot tears stinging his own eyes. "Finn, that was absolutely perfect."
Finn set the guitar aside and reached for Noah, pulling him into a hug that was tight and desperate and full of gratitude.
"Thank you," he whispered against Noah's hair. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Noah held him, feeling Finn's body tremble with relief and exhaustion and something else, something bigger than both of them.
"Now," Noah said finally, pulling back just enough to look Finn in the eyes, "you're going to record that song. And tomorrow you're going to send your EP to the record label. And it's going to be brilliant."
"And after?" Finn asked, and there was a deeper question hidden in those two words.
"After," Noah said, smiling softly, "we're going to figure out what this is between us. But for now, let's focus on your music."
Finn nodded, but before turning toward his recording equipment, he leaned in to kiss Noah once more, sweet and promising.