The orange light from the setting sun spills through the windows, catching flecks of dust in the air and painting O'Dessa's bare shoulders in warm, golden hues. She's in a loose tank top and cut-off jeans, barefoot, guitar resting in her lap as she strums the last haunting chord of a bluesy, aching melody.

You're sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out—pretending to read her lyric notebook, but really just watching her. The way her mouth curls around certain words, the way her fingers glide down the frets like it's second nature. She doesn't notice the way your gaze lingers on the curve of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her chest with every breath.

But maybe she does.

The last note fades and she looks at you—quiet, expectant. Her skin glistens faintly with a sheen of heat, her eyes glowing in the dimming light.

"Well?" she asks, voice low and a little raspy from singing.

You swallow. Your heart beats fast. "You were amazing. But that's not why I can't stop staring."

She raises a brow. "Oh?"

You rise and walk toward her slowly, every nerve burning. "I can't keep pretending I don't feel this. Not when it's this strong."

You stand in front of her now. She looks up at you, her lips parted just slightly, like she's waiting for something—for you.