Chapter Text
Your fingers glide across the piano keys like something divine is moving through you. Each note curls into the air, filling your small apartment until it feels alive.
The sun shines through the floor to ceiling windows in a warm golden light. Dust floats in the beams, catching in the glow, and the keys flash gold where your fingers dance.
You lose track of time like you always do when it’s just you and the piano. The world outside fades, the hum of traffic, the faint buzz of the air conditioner. And then, without warning, it falls apart. The melody that felt like it was going somewhere suddenly collapses under your hands.
The final chord trembles, uncertain, and then dies. Silence stretches for a second too long. You exhale, sharp and frustrated, and let your palms slap against the keys. The resulting clang slices through the air like a scream.
“Ugh,” you groan, pressing your forehead against the cool keys. “Come on. Think.”
Your voice bounces against the cracked plaster walls. Even your old apartment feels like it’s sighing with you with each breeze passing through the thin beams. You shift on the creaky piano bench and glance around the cluttered office space. Stacks of old sheet music lean dangerously close to the edge of the piano, half-filled notebooks scattered between them.
Your gaze lands on one page in particular, the one your drunken boyfriend had doodled on after a few too many beers. He’d scratched out your name and scrawled in his messy handwriting—Ace of All Music. You can still hear him giggling like a school girl that night. Swearing it would be your stage name when you made it big.
A small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.
But it fades when you look back down at the blank staff lines waiting for inspiration that never comes. The silence mocks you louder than the scribbles do.
You lean back with a sigh and rub your temples. “What the hell happened to you?” you mutter to no one
The creative block isn’t new, but lately, it’s felt different. Every time you sit down, it’s like your brain goes static. The melodies that used to pour out of you like second nature have been replaced by silence. You hate it. Music is supposed to be your lifeline, not your prison.
Your mind drifts to the past, the way it often does when frustration settles in. You remember the shouting, the slamming doors, the nights you’d lie in bed with your pillow pressed over your ears so you wouldn’t hear your parents tearing each other apart. You’d been thirteen when your mom decided enough was enough and divorced your dad. Packing you into the car and driving away from Louisiana. Away from home.
Illinois had been cold in every possible sense. The gray skies, the unfamiliar faces, the absence of the smell of rain on the bayou. You hated it. But even then, you clung to the one thing that always made sense—music.
It was what brought you back to Louisiana. Studying in Music Production so one day you could support other artists and even yourself.
Your Grandpa Henry’s voice echoes in your head now. “If the world starts yellin’ too loud, Birdie, drown it out with a good song.” He'd say with a crooked grin, using the nickname he gave you.
You can still see him in the back of your mind. The deep laugh lines, the white hair sticking out from under his old fishing cap, the trumpet shining in his hands. He was like a musical magician. Every time he played, the world seemed to pause to listen.
You were eight when he sat you down at this same piano, the one you’re playing now. “Go on,” he said, tapping one of the keys. “Don’t think about it. Just feel it.” And somehow, you did. The note had trembled, wobbly and unsure, but the look of pride on his face had made it feel like the most beautiful sound in the world.
You smile faintly at the memory, but it twists into an ache. He’s been gone for years now, and you still half expect to hear his trumpet drifting through the window on humid nights.
You close your eyes and whisper, “You’d tell me to stop overthinking, huh, Pop-pop?”
Silence answers. You sigh and lean back again, staring up at the ceiling. A water stain shaped vaguely like a cloud stares back. “Perfect,” you mutter. “You’re mocking me too.”
A door clicks open behind you.
“Tea for the tortured artist?” comes Rhett’s voice, smooth and teasing, that familiar southern voice wrapping around you like a melody of its own.
You look up as he steps into the office. Hair messy from a shower, curls catching in the light. He’s holding two mugs, steam curling up between his fingers making you smile wide.
The goofball you met at a bar close to campus. Rhett had swept you off your feet at his kindness and love for music as you. Now going on three years, you can't believe all you both have went through.
He sets one on the piano beside you, then leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “You’ll figure it out, Ace. You always do.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, sure. Maybe I should just give up and go write jingles for cereal ads.”
Rhett grins and slides onto the piano bench beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “You know, that doesn’t sound that bad. You could make ‘Coco Puffs’ sound like a Grammy contender.”
You side-eye him. “You’re hilarious.”
Rhett chuckles, low and warm, thumb brushing across your knuckles. His touch always carries that steady rhythm. “Hey, you’re just tired. Been cooped up here for days, sugar. You need to get out.”
You sigh. “You mean like to your show tonight?”
He smirks, caught. “I wasn’t gonna say it like that, but yeah.”
You tilt your head toward him. “You ready for it?”
That hesitation, the one he tries to hide, flickers across his face. “Yeah, toooootally…”
“Rhett.” Your voice sharpens slightly. “What happened?”
He winces, scratching at the back of his neck. “So… Jennie’s sick. Strep. She’s out for the count.”
You stare at him. “And?”
“And…” He gives you that boyish grin you know too well. “We might need a backup singer.”
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
“Come on, Ace, sugar, honey. You’ve got a gorgeous voice!”
Your eyes roll as a groan echoes past your lips. Your damned mother made you take choir in high school because she saw it as 'more attractive' then blowing a trumpet. And ever since Rhett heard you one day, by accident, he insisted you be in his band but you always refused.
You raise a brow. “Everyone meaning you.”
“Still counts,” he shoots back instantly, grinning wider.
You can’t help but laugh despite yourself. He takes that as an opening.
“Just this once, and I'll change the schedule so all you have to sing is one song. I promise I’ll never bug you again if you do it.”
You give him a long look. “You said that the last time when we did Karaoke.”
“This time I mean it. Cross my heart.” He even makes the motion, dramatically tracing an X over his chest.
“Uh-huh.” You narrow your eyes. “You’re not guilt-tripping me with that puppy face again.”
“Who, me?” He flashes the grin that melted you the first night you met. “Never.”
You stare at him for another few seconds before finally sighing. “Fine. But if I mess up, you’re buying me a year’s worth of chocolate.”
“Deal,” he says instantly, holding out his pinky.
You roll your eyes but hook your pinky with his anyway. His hand lingers in yours, thumb brushing over the small scar on your knuckle from a broken string years ago. You wonder if he even knows you notice that.
“Life’s pretty good, huh?” you murmur after a moment, eyes still on the piano.
“The best,” he answers softly. “’Cause you’re in it.”
You bump his shoulder playfully, but you can’t fight the warmth spreading in your chest.
The jazz club is alive before you even step inside. The soft glow of yellow bulbs, the chatter of regulars, the faint hum of bass and brass tuning up. It all hits you the second the door swings open.
Rhett holds it for you with a small flourish. “After you, m’lady.”
You laugh under your breath and step in. The air smells like bourbon, old wood, cigarette smoke, and a hint of something sweet. The stage is small, just big enough for the band, but the energy buzzing around it makes it feel grand.
You help Rhett unload his guitar case and cables while the rest of his band trickles in.
Casey, the drummer and Rhett's best friend, waves as he sets up. He’s short and stocky, with a shaved head and a laugh that could shake the room. “Ace! You finally let him drag you outta the house!”
You smirk. “Figured I’d make sure he doesn’t break another amp.”
“Hey!” Rhett protests. “That was one time!”
Lila, the pianist and Rhetts cousin (your new bestie too). Is towering woman with sharp eyeliner and a personality just as bold. “I heard you’re singing tonight. Thank fuck. Finally giving us something worth listening to, huh?”
You groan. “Don’t you start.”
The siblings Theo and Anjel, the quiet sax player and eccentric trumpeter, gives you and encouraging smile from behind their mouthpieces. “You’ll be great,” Theo says simply. His voice is soft, almost shy. Anjel agrees with him with a wink. "Totally!" Rhett met the two in college.
You offer them a grateful smile. “Thanks, Theo, Anjel.”
They all fall into the rhythm of setup. Checking cables, tuning instruments, exchanging jokes and small talk. You find yourself laughing more than you have all week, the tension in your shoulders loosening bit by bit.
When the lights dim and the first few tables start filling, you can feel the air shift. The room goes from casual noise to that buzzing, anticipatory quiet that only happens right before the music starts. You’re perched at a small table near the front, drink in hand, watching Rhett adjust his mic and the one next to him that would be yours.
He glances toward you and winks. You roll your eyes, but your heart skips anyway.
Casey counts them in with a steady tap of the sticks, and the first song rolls out smooth and slow. Rhett’s voice threading through like smoke. You sway a little, completely lost in the rhythm. It’s moments like this that make you remember why you love music, why you never gave up on it, even when it hurt.
You rest your chin in your hand, smiling softly as you watch Rhett.
The first set finishes to soft applause, glasses clinking, laughter threading through the hum of conversation. Rhett flashes you that crooked grin from the stage, the one that means come on, you know what’s next.
You shake your head, mouthing I hate you, but stand anyway. The crowd’s murmurs rise as you approach the small platform, the lights catching in your hair, your pulse beating against your ribs.
Rhett steps back to make room, adjusting the mic stand to your height. “Alright, folks,” he says, that easy charm coating every syllable. “We’ve got a special treat for y’all tonight. This woman here—” he gestures toward you, grinning “—she’s the reason half our songs don’t sound like garbage.”
Lila whoops from the back, and Casey taps his sticks in mock applause. Theo gives a tiny blow of his sax, grinning softly. And Anjel in tune with his trumpet.
You groan. “You’re impossible.”
The crowd laughs, warmth rippling through the room like a shared secret.
Rhett leans close, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You’ll do great, sugar. If it helps think about when it was just us singin' the song in the kitchen, okay?"
You can still see that night. The messy countertops, Rhett preparing the side salad as his hips swayed a goofy way in time with the music. While you were trying not to laugh while singing through your nerves. You’d ended up burning the chicken, but the song had sounded perfect.
You take a steadying breath now, wrapping your fingers around the mic.
Casey counts them in with a sharp tap-tap-tap-tap, and the room hushes. The first few notes drift out from Theo’s sax, smooth and golden, curling through the haze like smoke.
Rhett starts singing first, his voice low and easy, warm as bourbon. “She gets too hungry for dinner at eight…”
You smile despite the nerves. Your cue comes, and you step into it like slipping into a current. “I never bother with people that I hate…” You smile as the crowd smiles back, calming your nerves. "That's why this chick, is a tramp!"
The crowd quiets even more, like they don’t want to miss a note. The band swells behind you, Theo’s sax and Anjels trumpet weaving between your voices. You feel the rhythm anchor you, Rhett’s eyes locked on yours across the mic stands. His smile is small but electric, proud in that way that makes your chest ache.
You swing into the chorus together, voices blending effortlessly. For the first time in months, the music feels alive again. Real. It’s like something long dormant in you flickers back awake, rising with the melody.
You both hit the final line. “That’s why the lady is a tramp! And the crowd bursts into applause. The sound rolls over you, bright and overwhelming. You bow awkwardly, laughing, your cheeks flushed.
Rhett laughs too, brushing his hand against your back as you step offstage. “Knew you’d kill it, sugar."
“Yeah, yeah,” you say, waving him off, but you can’t stop smiling. “Don’t expect an encore.”
Lila smirks as you pass her. “Too late. You’re part of the band now.”
“Over my dead body,” you shoot back, and she cackles.
You make your way back to your table, heart still racing. The energy in the club is different now, it feels lighter.
A waiter with slicked-back hair and a gold name tag walks over. "On the house,” he says, setting a glass in front of you with a faint smile.
You blink. “Oh, thanks...?”
He jerks his chin toward the stage where Rhett’s tuning his guitar again. “Your man’s got good taste.” He winks and walks off before you can reply.
You smile to yourself and lift the glass, the ice clinking softly. It smells faintly floral, some kind of lavender gin cocktail. Not your usual, but you take a small sip anyway, the cool sweetness sliding down your throat.
The band starts the next number, Rhett closing his eyes as he plays. You watch him for a while, chin resting on your hand, letting the warmth settle through you. Everything feels perfect. Maybe tonight was what you needed all along.
Then you take another sip.
And that’s when it starts.
It’s subtle at first, the faint tingling at the back of your throat. You cough lightly, more out of habit than concern. But then it spreads. A burn, sharper than alcohol, crawling down your chest like liquid fire.
You frown and glance at the drink, heart starting to pick up pace. Maybe I drank it too fast? Maybe the gin’s just stronger than I thought?
You try to brush it off, turning your attention back to the stage. But your vision feels…off. The lights seem a little too bright, the edges of the room softening, colors blending.
You blink hard. You whisper, your voice shaky. “T-that’s not r-right.”
You reach for your water, but your fingers tremble so badly the glass nearly slips. Your skin prickles as a cold sweat breaks out across your back.
Rhett’s voice cuts through the haze, warm and clear. But yet, it sounds like it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel. You blink again, trying to focus on him, but the room wavers like heat off asphalt.
You cough again, harder this time, and your throat constricts. The burn turns to panic. You can’t get enough air.
Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong.
You push up from your chair, gripping the table for balance. The legs scrape loudly against the floor. No one really looks over at the sound, too wrapped up in the music. You try to call Rhett’s name but it comes out as a choked whisper.
You take a shaky step toward the door. Then another. The floor tilts beneath you and you catch yourself on a nearby stool. “Excuse me,” you manage to gasp to no one in particular. “I-I n-need s-some a-air.”
You push through the side door, stumbling into the alleyway. The night air hits you like a slap. Cool, damp, full of city smoke and rain. You brace against the brick wall, coughing, clawing at your throat.
“What-what the h-hell,” you gasp, your voice hoarse. Each word feels scraped raw. The burn spreads, your stomach twisting, your heart pounding out of rhythm.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe, trying to think. Go back inside. Find Rhett. Tell someone. But when you turn toward the door, your vision doubles. The ground seems to lurch beneath you.
Your knees buckle. You catch yourself on the wall, fingertips scraping the rough brick, your whole body trembling. You can hear the muffled thump of the band still playing inside, music spilling faintly into the alley like a cruel echo.
You stagger forward, desperate to reach the back door, to get help, to—
The world sways violently. The alley stretches and twists like it’s melting, sound distorting into a low, humming static.
You whisper his name once, barely audible. “Rhett…”
Then your strength gives out.
You hit the ground, your cheek pressing against cold, damp pavement. The last thing you feel is the faint vibration of the music through the earth beneath you.
The air shifts. Gravity doesn’t feel right anymore. The ground isn’t the ground anymore. The hard concrete against your cheek falling away. You’re weightless, suspended in darkness, sound warping and folding in on itself.
The suddenly—you fall through nothing.
The rush of air stops as suddenly as it began and you crash hard against wood. A groan escapes you before you even realize you’re conscious. You blink, but the darkness is almost total. Except for faint slivers of reddish light flickering somewhere above.
Something clatters nearby, a metallic sound echoing too loud.
Then, a deep voice, rough and irritated, cuts through the haze.
“What the fuck?”
And then everything goes black again.