"My parents wanted to have dinner but maybe when I'm done I can come over?" Emmie suggested. "I kind of doubt it 'cause you know how they are but, you know, just in case."

"That sounds good," I replied, twisting the knob on the stove to lower the heat. "But give me a call before you come, if you do. If I'm too tired to do anything then I don't want you to waste your time driving over here."

"Sounds good." A muffled sound came through the line before she returned to the call. "I gotta go but I'll let you know."

When I first invited her over a couple of days ago, the plan was to come clean about Zachariah and me. I'd even bought her favorite dessert—strawberry shortcake—as a way to bribe her into not completely flipping out at me. While utilizing a subtle form of manipulation wasn't the most ideal tactic, it gave me some peace of mind to follow through on my plans.

But as a couple of days passed by, nerves built up in the crevices of my well-being until they formed into a full-fledged panic that couldn't be ignored. It really shouldn't have been this dramatic. There was some truth to the words Zachariah used to soothe me the other day, but I couldn't help but let the guilt eat at me.

By the time this call came around, I was secretly relieved she would most likely not come over.

After placing my phone down, I eyed the cursed strawberry shortcake. I didn't even like strawberries.

I dug into one of the drawers anyway and grabbed a spoon so I could go to town on it. I wasn't going to waste my money on a damn strawberry shortcake.

That was how Zachariah found me when he came over a little while later—hunched over my kitchen counter with nearly a quarter of the shortcake devoured and a guilty frown on my face.

After scolding me for leaving the door open, he kicked it shut behind him and twisted the lock into place. He walked over to the other side of the counter and slid down onto one of the barstools, eyeing me carefully and probably wondering what he had gotten himself into by coming over here tonight. His appearance was a surprise, but a welcome one.

"You have terrible timing," I told him.

He tilted his head to the side curiously. "About what, exactly?"

"Emmie was supposed to come over tonight." I placed the plastic lid back over the cake and stepped over to the sink to drop the spoon inside. As I wiped my hands off after a quick rinse, I added, "Don't worry, she can't make it."

"I wasn't worried."

His guitar case leaning up against the wall wasn't the only sign he had come over after a session with his band. It was the way his hair had a slight sheen from the sweat he built up from sitting in that garage and pouring his heart out through those songs he played. The way his fingers looked soft and raw from pressing tightly against those strings. And the way his entire face lit up after getting lost in the music. With the adrenaline coursing through him during those sessions, I compared it to the way I felt after those soccer games I'd been forced into by my friends during my freshman year of high school. Like hitting a runner's high and not wanting the momentum to stop until I sprinted along cloud nine.

"What are you doing here?" I questioned, kicking myself until I reached the counter separating us. "You stink."

He lifted his arm and took a whiff. "No, I don't."

I gestured toward the bathroom. "Take a shower or I'm kicking you out."

He'd stayed over enough times that he had a few items of clothing tucked away in my closet. I'd worn a couple of his shirts to bed some nights because guys' shirts were the most comfortable.

Zachariah groaned but obliged my demands and disappeared into my bedroom, remerging with a handful of his clothes. He grumbled one last time before locking himself away in the bathroom. Shortly after, the sound of the shower mixed in harmony with the music he played from his phone.

I wasn't sure what to do while I waited for him, so when my eyes landed on his guitar case once again, I jumped at the opportunity to keep myself busy.

He'd tried to teach me how to play it once before until he realized I didn't have a single musical bone in my body. While I'd love to spend all day drifting off to the dulcet sounds of his records—and that has happened before—my brother was more likely to pick up playing an instrument. He'd even done it at one point when he spent a year abroad in New Zealand with a couple of his friends quite a few years back. He'd met a musician there and his new friend taught him how to play the guitar. Unfortunately, Anthony's new hobby took a backseat to taking care of our father, so it collected dust in the back of his closet nowadays.

I admired people who could play an instrument, especially when they made it look so easy. Whenever I'd gone over to watch Zachariah with his friends, it felt like watching a ballerina performing a solo, or an ice skater gliding inside a rink. The way his fingers would slide down the strings, and the rhythmic way in which he strummed. He'd tried to assure me he was ordinary in his skill levels as a guitarist, but to someone like me who couldn't do more than strum my fingers up and down offbeat, he was one of the most talented people I'd ever met.

Walking over to the guitar case, I grabbed a hold of it carefully and carried it over to the couch. After sitting down at the edge of the seat, I placed it lengthwise across the coffee table so I could unhook the case. I flipped the cover open and eased the instrument onto my lap where I admired its glossy texture for a few seconds.

Music was a language all on its own. A way to connect a heart to another without words. Even though we'd seen each other at some of our highest highs and lowest lows, part of me felt like something was missing. As if there remained one last facet of Zachariah I needed to conquer before I fully understood him as a person.

The day he'd attempted to teach me how to play, he showed me the chords for Good Riddance by Green Day. Zachariah told me it was one of the first songs he ever learned to play and it only required five chords.

"What was the first one?" I muttered to myself.

The memory of Zachariah's calloused fingers guided me as I formed each chord and strummed up and down, making sure each one sounded as close to what I remembered.

It took me a few tries to get to a decent place, but by the end, I sounded decent. It must have sounded nice enough because I didn't even notice Zachariah had long finished with his shower and was sitting back at the counter once again. When he spoke up, I nearly jumped out of my seat.

"You scared the shit out of me," I gasped, clutching a hand to my chest. "When the hell did you come back?"

"Around the time you started feeling more confident about yourself." He tipped his chin toward the guitar still in my hands.

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks and laid it down next to me on the sofa. "How does one even recognize something like that?"

Instead of replying, he walked over and moved the instrument, replacing it with himself. "When you play, you know. And because I know you."

Playing the guitar came second nature to someone like Zachariah. Each move was delicate and precise, an inherent part of how he viewed the world. When the melodies rose from his movements, it was like I placed my ear to his chest and was listening to the gentle rhythm of his beating heart.

I watched in complete awe as each chord rang out through the apartment. Whatever song he was playing was either original or outside of my repertoire, but coming from him, the melody washed over me like I'd slipped deep into a warm bath.

When the song ended, he placed the guitar back in its case and returned to his spot next to me, the space notably dwindling like it always seemed to the more time we spent together.

"I still don't know how you do it so well," I remarked, resting my head against the back of the sofa. "It took me, what, almost a year to finally play a song with five chords?"

"You just gotta keep trying. When you want something badly, you don't stop until you have it. And then you keep working at it because you never want to let it go."

"But it just looks so....easy when you do it. You're a natural. You love it."

"Loving something isn't enough. It still requires work." His eyes flickered over to the case. "And sometimes it's hard because when you do have to work at certain things, it makes you less passionate about it." He looked back at me. "That's why I never tried to pursue anything with my music. I knew if I tried to make it something more, I wouldn't enjoy it anymore."

"Maybe I should try again." I looked over at it again. "Maybe it'll click this time."

Zachariah shrugged. "It's okay if it doesn't. You tried and that's a lot more than some people can say."

"I know but I want—"

He waited for me to continue, but our conversation halted at the red light. I saw it flashing in my mind, warning me that confessing these feelings when things were still in limbo wasn't going to help alleviate any of the stress.

"Want what?"

I squirmed. Who had I become around him?

He nudged me with his elbow, encouraging me to continue.

I released a sigh, aware this would come out one way or another because I couldn't hide things from him. "I just want to understand every part of who you are. And to experience this thing I know you love so much."

Before I could react, he pulled me around so I sat on his lap. His hands rested on my hips, anchoring me to him as if there was any chance I'd drift away. Little did he know that my resolve was so paper-thin that even the tiny voice in my head telling me to run away was firmly ignored.

"You don't have to force something to click," he chuckled, rubbing his thumb in circles. "But you know what I love about you? That you'd even do that."

I nodded my head; unable to think, unable to speak.

"I love the way you complain about how you don't read much anymore, but when you do, it's like you're transported into whatever book you're reading." He smoothed a finger over the patch of skin between my eyebrows. "You get this crease in your forehead whenever you squint at something in the book. It's usually some dumb man."

"It is."

"I love when you go out to dinner with your friends, you save them the best piece of whatever we're eating. Or how you'll always say yes to watching a movie because you know how much we like having someone there to talk to. And you fall asleep during half of them, but you look it up afterward just to make sure you can contribute to the conversation."

I rested my hands on his shoulders, my grip tightening with each attribute lovingly thrown at me. Like a ray of sunlight glistening along with an ever-moving wave, my fingers traveled along him until they danced at his jawline.

"I hate how you never take compliments. Whenever someone tells you that you look beautiful, you look at the ground and call them silly. I hate that you don't let yourself just enjoy things. You're always overthinking everything and wondering what someone else will think about it. But you deserve to feel good and be happy and be loved."

He didn't stop there. Zachariah made it his mission to make me believe all these things he felt about me, and for tonight, I did. So easily we denied ourselves the most obvious things in life, but as soon as someone else reminded us we were deserving of these things, we believed them. Maybe it would've been better to realize these things myself; maybe we needed to stop looking down on the way people grew within a relationship.

"I love the way you love me," I told him after I couldn't take it anymore.

Leaning forward, I captured his words with my lips, swallowing them until they were part of my DNA. It wasn't just that I was attracted to him and the way he exuded passion in every facet of life, but he felt so ingrained in how it felt to live. When I thought about all of these accomplishments I wanted out of life, I envisioned him next to me at each one, cheering me on. When I thought about all of the lows and heartbreaks I'd yet to experience, I imagined him being the one to pick up all the pieces.

When I dreamt of what it would mean to be truly content with life, he was one of the reasons it seemed possible. Not because I believed in putting all of my faith in one man—I knew that would never be a possibility, nor was that something I wanted—but, rather, because he understood the importance of supporting someone to achieve their goals. And none of this started after that first kiss. It was an inherent part of our friendship all along.

His fingers glided along the skin under my shirt as it rose higher. I pressed forward into him, earning a groan in return that sent shivers down my spine, waiting to be captured by his hands.

"I need you to tell me you want this," he gasped, pulling away and leaving me breathless. "I'm not going to wake up and have you lying next to me regretting anything we did."

I shook my head, clutching his shirt until I was convinced it was seconds away from being ripped straight off his body.

"I could never regret this."

My eyes traveled back up to his after I slowed my breathing to something more manageable, knowing full well it wouldn't last.

"But only if you want this too."

He looked at me like it was the most ridiculous question he had ever heard. It was quite clear from this position how much he wanted this, but I couldn't formulate the words to express what I truly meant.

We were two people fighting against something, left alone to our own devices in this apartment. And no matter how many times I tried to tell him we were a bad idea, it did nothing to diffuse the tension between us.

Light the match, ignite the fuel, and explode into an uncontrollable ball of flames until we were a pile of ashes.

"Always," he said and pulled me back into him.

Some things could never be expressed by lyrical words or symphonic melodies. Some things needed to be felt. To be explored with a simple touch and encapsulated in the art of movement.

When I rotated my hips on top of his, pressing even further down until desire seemed too simple of a word for what our bodies felt, the pressure building in his shoulders reached an apex. While his lips continued their path down my jaw, his body reacted more forcefully, grinding hard until I couldn't breathe anymore. When his fingers grasped onto the bottom of my shirt, I pulled away so he could lift it off me.

His eyes never left mine before he pulled me down to him once more, recapturing my lips with his. The smaller the barrier between us, the further he explored. His hand blazed its way through the flames and fanned them higher until I was ready for this whole place to come tumbling down with us.

He lifted himself off the couch with me in his arms. Not one second passed where we weren't connected at some point. With his familiarity, he managed to navigate us into my bedroom, the door closing softly behind us. I dropped onto the mattress and pulled him closer until we were another tangled mess in my sheets.

Zachariah fumbled with his jeans while I maneuvered his shirt off his body, my hands marveling over the hard contours and warm hue of his skin. At some point, the rest of our clothes disappeared, too, tossed carelessly aside like the inconveniences they were.

There wasn't enough air in the room, not enough time for us to explore each other the way we wanted to. If it were possible to stop time so I could get lost in him for the rest of eternity, I'm sure I would've taken it. Now that this is where we'd come to with each other, I didn't want to remember a time when we weren't like this. I couldn't. This was the only Zachariah I knew anymore. The only version of us that mattered.

After tossing the packet aside and slipping the condom on, he looked down at me one last time, his eyes asking if I was sure if this is what I wanted.

I nodded and pulled his lips back down to mine, lifting my hips until the space between us no longer existed. Every gasp, every moan, he swallowed. Like a wave along the shore, he pushed and I pulled. And when we finally crashed, we came down hard and fast and dizzy. Because these waves of ours weren't just ripples along the water; we were a tidal wave.

Afterward, he buried himself into my neck, breathing deeply; exhausted. I clutched at him, held him so close that I never wanted to let him go. And when he pressed a kiss to my shoulder, whispering that he loved me, I sealed my fate by repeating those words back to him.