bibigo lover ,, 🎣🥟

It’s only then that you step aside, with a curt “Great.” Just when Sebastian thinks he’s gotten rid of you, he’s displeased to see that you’re tracing his steps all the way to the front of the club. You’re practically his shadow under these low blue lights, hugging his back at a distance. Still, he makes an effort to open the door for you and keep it held open, coat hanging off his open hand.

Once outside, the humid evening air shrouds your body. Sebastian undoes another button on his dress shirt, white tank peeking out from beneath it. Then, he turns to you with a look up and down. “Your car…?”

“Around the corner,” you answer. It seems unsatisfactory to Sebastian, because he’s poking his tongue into the inside of his cheek. This just means you’re going to be glued to his side for longer than anticipated (and you’ve well surpassed the reasonable amount of time).

“Funny. Me too,” he says. It doesn’t sound so sincere. You’re the one to lead now, with brisk steps towards the street corner and taking a steep left. Your car, as it happens, is the closer of the two—Sebastian’s Buick convertible parked comfortably behind it. You’d had a good guess that it belonged to him, style and all. Before he can find his way to the driver’s side, you’re taking your phone out of your pocket, typing away at the keyboard, and flipping the screen. It displays an MP4 file. Sebastian’s eyes flit down. As pensive as he is, Sebastian lets you hold the phone close to him.

It’s Miles Davis in black and white, trumpet clutched in his nimble hands. An inkling of a projector light can be seen beaming a picture onto the wall in front of him—a scene from Ancenseur pour l’échafaud (Elevator to the Gallows), playing just out of sight. And Miles Davis plays his trumpet along to the movement of each shot, fingers pressing feelingly on the valves. Sebastian’s furrowed brows dispense all irritation. You’re playing his favorite—and so, he watches with the patience of a saint, taking in the moving image of this man and his art. It’s jazz and cinema, and it works.

The sound echoes out from your speaker to the empty street. It overshadows the sounds of car horns and late-night sirens. He can’t deny the perfection that pervades through this old, documented clip. Once the video ends, you’re slotting your phone into your back pocket. Sebastian is broken out of that trance, and that stern crease between his brows returns again. “I run a business now. I can’t just run off.”

“Your club is empty on Monday nights. So, I can take you Mondays.” You cross your arms over your chest. “If you want, you can come right back, make it in time for a half-shift. Don’t think you’ll need to, though.”

“That’s facetious.” Sebastian rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, bare forearms peeking out. You can only hope that he’ll think you over.

“It’s honest.” You dig a hand into the bag hanging off of your shoulder, carefully procuring the contents. You give Sebastian a big stack of papers bound with plastic rings; it’s the script for your already-shot feature film. You want him to read it for context, get taken with the story if he can. He looks at it like you’ve handed him a bomb; you have to ignore the way he reads over the title and credit just beneath it. “My card’s inside. And our office is a good fifteen minutes from here, minus traffic.” You’re digging your car keys out next. “Just give it a try.”

—

It’s the first and last time you’re thinking of chasing after a guy like Sebastian. All things considered, you don’t think he deserves the chase. Upon first impressions, he’s a little brash. Rude, really—you can’t sugar-coat that. But, there’s that genuine part of him buried beneath the remarks and low-blows you know you’ll inevitably get along with. It’ll be a process, you’re sure, but at the least creatively rewarding. If he decides to sign.

An assistant buzzes him in. You can tell it’s Sebastian from the way she giggles all lightly, and the way he plays whatever line he wants to on her. Then, he’s peeking around the corner of your office space. It’s a little nicer than he expected, a little cozy, actually. Sebastian lays the bound script gently down onto your desk. “My ex is a big movie star.”

“Hm.” You narrow your eyes at him, standing there in front of your workspace. There’s a plush chair right next to him, easy to pull out and sit down. Sebastian doesn’t choose to.

“That’s why I don’t want to give you the yes,” he says, hands in pockets. It’s absurd to you. You nearly want to clobber him for even bringing this reason to your attention. You wish he would just tell you he thinks your writing is subpar. That would, in all ways, justify his incapacity to compose your soundtrack. But it’s got to be an ex-girlfriend of all things.

You tap the tip of your shoe on the ground a few rapid times. Then, decidedly, you push the script back in Sebastian’s direction. “You don’t think you could make a good score, then?”

He scoffs. “What?” Now, he decides to take a seat in that chair. His gray-blue dress shirt strains against his arms as he pulls it in closer to your desk. The sight of him getting all rattled makes you a little pleased.

“It’s not because your ex-girlfriend’s a household name. It’s because you think you won’t be able to feel it. Because you’re… incapable to,” you assess. “It’s jaded. Cute.”

Sebastian laughs, “Now, I know you’re a real sucker for romantics. But this—” He waves an open palm towards you, and the way his eyes glint with an air of discomfort makes you feel back a little bit.

“I’m not trying to therapize you, Seb. I just want good music.” The way the nickname rolls off your tongue makes him cross and uncross his legs in the seat. You carry on. “I’ll send you the rough cut. Just watch it, and text me if you want to make the score.”

—

Sebastian texts, of course, a couple days later. You’re eating breakfast in your studio apartment, trying to get an early start. The notification from his unknown number lights up your phone with a belligerent couple of buzzes: Very Casablanca. / That’s a joke. Don’t get offended. Then, a video comes in. First, Sebastian takes his phone and places it on top of a side table, right by his piano. You get a good angle of him and the keys.

You can’t tell what this is supposed to be. The video, you check, is a good five minutes long. He waves for a second, before placing his hands down on his knees. Though alone at the dining table, you mutter a soft “What?” You blink at the screen, then prop it up against your coffee mug. Sebastian’s low voice reverberates around the walls of your apartment.

“You know about The Queen’s Suite? I’m assuming you don’t. You could text me otherwise. Long story short, Duke Ellington met Queen Elizabeth in 1959. They got along, flirted really, and he got inspired to put together this six-part record for her—in tribute to her–with Billy Strayhorn. There’s some really good work there. His best, really. I’ll send you a link to listen to the whole thing. Anyway, I thought I’d play you a song from the suite. And you tell me if it sounds like something similar to what you’d want in your movie. I’m trying to get a feel for the style you want, and I think this should work quicker than you trying to describe it to me.”

He’s brushing his palms on the fabric of his dress pants, presumably to get ready to play. He taps the first few notes, and you pick up your phone to watch closer. Watching Sebastian in this light—playing the keys, not just announcing the band—conjures up this tight feeling right in between your ribs. You hate to say that he looks elegant playing the piano, arms tight and well-accustomed to the chords. It’s natural for him. He lets the feeling of the song, of Duke Ellington and the Queen, carry him through each chord.

After the video’s up, you shoot Sebastian a text back: yes to this. / do me a favor and think up how big your band might be? need to figure out the budget. Sebastian sends back a thumbs up and a Yes boss. You have to wipe off the soft smile growing on your face. He surprised you a little, though your expectations were hardly high.

The next couple of weeks are a solid back and forth. First, you and Sebastian decide to stay out of the office on those Mondays, go to a coffee shop nearby (your favorite). You sit together, deliberate on each scene one by one—the ebbs and flows needed in each beat, what styles of jazz need emulating. One afternoon, Sebastian asks if you two can work in the back office together, just in case he’s needed for the current set. You end up watching a Godard film together on your laptop, and a whole bunch of clips from other old romance thrillers.

He almost always takes the work home, works out a few decent melodies on his old piano, sends them to you in voice memos. You give him your honest opinions, he factors them back into the work. You’re surprised to tell the rest of the office that Sebastian Wilder has been very cooperative in your post-production process. You don't think he expected to like you this much.

He’s spent most of his time in that jazz club trying to create some semblance of a life. Some semblance of a routine he could be satisfied with. With or without her, that ex he refuses to say anything about. It feels like you’re doing a good service getting him out sometimes, just so he’s not so buried in the work. Sebastian’s no longer filling the time organizing set lists months in advance, or trying to scope out backup musicians he’s got no real need for. He’s starting to spend it more on you—and the score, obviously—but he’s spent a decent amount of overtime entertaining your little outings. He sits at the table, and you work for a few good hours. Sebastian listens to you with that fond look on his face every time you talk about your film.

—

He calls you at odd times. Like now, you get a ring to your phone just after brushing your teeth. It’s seven o’clock, and you don’t have to be awake for another couple hours. Work has you trained into being an early riser. Sebastian worked on those first demos for hours last night; you woke up to a good couple of audios of him battering away at the piano. You know why he’s calling now. You answer with a click. “Hello?”

“How’d you like the first act?” Straight to the point.

You tilt your head, putting him on speaker as you get dressed. “It’s great…” You’re staring at the seconds tick up on the timer for your call, buttoning your shirt, silent for a good ten seconds. You hate to tell him—

“It needs strings, doesn’t it? I knew it.” Sebastian curses under his breath, and then goes silent. You think he must be scribbling something down on paper with a short wooden pencil. It’s good. He’s working at it as much as you’d like him to. “You get up early,” he notes.

“I’m busy all the time, weekend or not. Post-production’s a killer, and we’re working on the festival circuit for another one of our films. E-mails to be sent.”

“Hardworker,” Sebastian hums absentmindedly. He must still be taking notes on the page, marking up where the composition is lacking. The little remark, though passing, feels all wrapped up in admiration. The thought that he might praise you again in that muttered tone makes a gentle tingle shoot down your spine.

“You’re doing well on time, you know,” you speak into your phone. “You don’t have to rush it.”

The line goes quiet. You’re hearing a whole lot of static. Then: “I’m not rushing it. Trust me. Next week, I’ll probably lose momentum, and then you’ll never hear the end of it.” Sebastian’s only being bashful. Truthfully, you think he must be feeling a little inspired to put these compositions together. If you’re lucky, he’ll have fallen in love with the score as it’s being made; by the end, he should be proud of it.

“Well, just know I’m happy with it so far.” The praise should go a long way, you think.

“I am happy you’re happy with it,” Sebastian murmurs. You’re trying not to swoon. The grip your hand has around your phone screen softens. What are you doing? Sebastian and his pissy attitude and his music and the way he speaks to you. It’s been softer, lately. Comfortable, not as pushy as when you’d first met. His guard’s a little lower than it had been.

You take your empty dishes to the sink, phone pinned between your ear and your shoulder. Once you’ve got free hands, you’re putting Sebastian on speaker. He’s still on the line, muttering under his breath about motifs. “Seb?” You hear him hum. “Do you want to go to a gallery this weekend?” you ask, resisting the urge to knock your forehead against a clenched fist.

Sebastian thinks on it. “Oh… Like in the movie?” The gallery you’ve got in your head is a little bit nicer and a lot bigger than the one you’d filmed in last year. He doesn’t need to know that quite yet. “Is it a date?” he asks.

You pick at a shallow chip in your fingernail, trying to stay levelheaded. “Do you want it to be a date?” you ask him. It’s a leading question. You’re both putting yourselves in hot water now. No going back. Sebastian laughs an airy laugh, the kind that makes you toss your head back and shut your eyes. You’re trying your best not to regret the question.

“I think you know the answer.” No, Sebastian’s saying. No, I can’t—and it’s not because I don’t want to.

“Don’t be blasé. I’m asking you…” You tilt your head. “…on a completely professional outing.” You can hear Sebastian let out a shuddered breath. It reaches quietly past that telephone static, and it makes you grin. “Come on. Call it method composing. We’ll go over to Pasadena, look at some paintings. It’ll be fun,” you tell him.

“For who?” Your lack of response tells him that it’s better just to surrender. It can’t be that bad to go to a gallery with you. It’s just art. “Okay,” he surrenders, “Yes, let’s do it—just give me a time so I can tell the guys I’ll be in late.”

—

You don’t know how you end up driving the two of you over. Sebastian makes some silly excuse about his chronic carpal tunnel, having spent the whole week trying to finalize the first act for you. When you pull up to his apartment, a brick building not far off from the club, you have to gawk a bit. You’ve never seen Sebastian wear anything like this before—a dark-green linen button-up and creme-colored linen pants. There’s a pair of slick black sunglasses on his face to match. He looks cleaned up and well-fit for a vacation, nothing like his usual club-wear.

You roll down your window to greet him. “It’s not a date,” you say, your own sunglasses and a wide grin adorning your face. Sebastian opens the passenger-side door with a straight look on his face. Though he’s trying not to entertain the comment, it’s clear that he’s biting back a smile. 

The two of you are driving headfirst into traffic on the freeway, which makes for a decent amount of silence. There’s engines revving on all sides, a decent amount of honking characteristic of LA. You have your radio dialed into a local station, all jazz. Sebastian seems amused by this, and the way you crank up the volume. He pokes. “You can play whatever you wanna play.”

“What—I thought you’d like it.” You adjust your rear view mirror once your line of cars slows to a stop. In your peripherals, you can see Sebastian twiddling his thumbs in his lap. Is he nervous? It’s impossible to tell.

“I know the radio host and he has good taste. So, I do like it,” Sebastian chuckles, “I’m just saying that I listen to other music. Won’t burst into flames if you play something other than jazz.”

“Okay.” You blow out a soft breath. “Why don’t you pick up my phone and take a look through my playlists? We’re not gonna be there for another thirty minutes.” You click off FM and click on bluetooth, handing Sebastian your phone with a haphazard type of your password. Eyes on the road, you wait for him to go through your taste in music. He has, without the shadow of a doubt, opinions. You’re simply waiting for them to be processed.

Sebastian lands the big question a few seconds later: “Is this dad rock?”

You readjust your hands on the wheel. “Pft. You’d know.”

He’s quiet for a second, thoughtful, before he’s turning his head with an affronted “Hey!” This is probably the first time you’ve taken a jab at Sebastian’s age. Before then, it’d been some obvious fact of the matter, unspoken since you’ve started on the score. It’s been clearest most going out to the cafe to work and catching those intrigued looks from fellow customers. There’s a… decent gap. It’s not beyond you or anyone with eyes. And, clearly, you’ve hit a nerve with Sebastian, too. “I’d know. I’d know?” he repeats after you. The disbelief in his voice makes you flash your teeth in a satisfied grin. He’s so easily bothered.

—

The walk around the lawn outside alone is enough to make you feel nourished. It’s just beautiful out. You’ve barely even made it across the outdoor garden, and there’s this brighter feeling about you both. You skip over from walkway to walkway, talking about the score and Sebastian’s progress. Then, his club. Your filmography. He asks about your family. Later, it’s nothing at all—the sound of birds batting their wings, other chatter of other museum-goers, and soft wind. You’ve got to turn a blind eye to the way that you keep catching Sebastian looking down at you, gauging your reaction to the scenery.

Amidst the green, there’s lily-white marble. Surrounded by four columns, Venus sits atop a natural formation of rocks, small tufts of flowers and leaves shrouding beneath her feet. Chiffon fabric shrouds her lower half, and her plush, nude body seems relaxed under the sun. A winged Cupid tiptoes at her side, wingspan no greater than the goddess’ forearm. He holds a blindfold across her eyes, and though her vision is veiled, Venus smiles.

Sebastian seems intent on skipping past this particular piece.

The rest of your walk across the wide lawn leads you into an outdoor gallery of sculptures, all the way up to an old fountain. Stone fish spew water down each ornate tier of scales, clamshells, and waves; the water is tinted mossy green, with lily pads grown on the soft-rippling surface. There’s an empty bench right beside it, tucked away without much of a crowd.

Sebastian sits first. The two of you sit a foot away from each other, one leg crossed over the other. The shade of overhead branches protects you from the hot sun, and you can see each warm gust push the shadows of leaves left and right at your feet. “So, you liked her a lot, then?” you murmur. Sebastian always gives himself away in one way or another. 

Now, he fixes the sunglasses hanging just over the buttons of his shirt. Carelessly, Sebastian asks, “Who?” You give him a tilt of your head, as if to say, you know. It’s useless to play it like he doesn’t know who. Sebastian’s jaw tightens. He’s gritting his teeth together and trying his best to seem fine about it. “She was great. I wish her the best,” he says, hands scrunched up on his lap. It doesn’t have to be as serious as he’s making it.

“Why’d she break up with you?” There’s no other conceivable reason besides Sebastian acting out of turn. You hate to view him in such a light, especially after everything. But you think you know him well enough to establish baseline truths about what happened. It was Sebastian’s undoing.

“I was a shitty partner. I wasn’t supportive when I should’ve been, and when I decided to be, it was too late,” Sebastian tells you. “I said things I shouldn’t have. Really—you’d probably wanna give me a right hook if I repeated it to you.” He’s digging the soles of his black dress shoes into the damp soil below the bench, flushed with embarrassment.

It worries you a little, the thought of that defensive side of him welling up and leaking into the romance. But you’re still there on that bench with him, wondering what it was like. How he was like. Still, you keep your humor.  “Shocker.”

“Thanks.” He could roll his eyes. “That’s very nice.” The breeze catches against his collar, and Sebastian takes his sunglasses into his hand. He doesn’t put them on, only rolls the pair around in his palm. He doesn’t want to catch your eye, and so he keeps it on the tinted lenses.

“Well, it’s not like you’ve got to say sorry to me. Or, to her. It’s done, you know?” He nods at your words, as tough-love as they might be. “Not saying it’s cut and dry, but you’ve gotta get over being miserable sometime.” 

He looks up, finally, with that wide-eyed disbelief. “I’m not miserable,” Sebastian assures you. Pushing forty, enshrouded in the best of LA night life, and desperately single—but not miserable. It’s unbelievable even to himself, and still, he’s holding onto the defense like it’ll mean something.

“Well, you never take time off,” you counter, sweet and skeptical.

“Neither do you,” Sebastian shoots back. You can’t deny it. You work as much as he does, and though it’s in a different capacity, it’s all the same. You work more than you live. In a sense, it’s good that you’re both taking the time off now. Together. Killing two birds with one stone.

—

Your walk inside the gallery is a little more quiet. It’s an efficient means of cooling down from your time in the garden. You both make ample use of the AC, waving out the fabric of your shirts and keeping a slow pace towards the indoor art. The oil paintings, though varying in subject and period, have a graceful nature about them.

There’s a gap of time where you float away from Sebastian to do your own wandering. There’s something in the way the lathered strokes of oil paint make you feel. Desolate one moment and whole the next. You’re already thinking about what the next big project is, the next big film. The gallery inspires you, as it always does, to do better. To make better. The likelihood of Sebastian being on whatever you make next is zero to none. You think you might as well enjoy this as it happens, whatever it is with him.

The minute you wander back to Sebastian, you find him sitting on a bench at the bottom of the main stairs. The hallway is drenched in the same lily-white marble of that statue outside. Sebastian’s not looking at any pieces in particular. He’s just sitting there, shrouded among those small groupings of visitors, staring at the walls. He clasps his hands together, elbows resting on his knees, pensive.

You cut into his solitude with a tap on the shoulder. He looks up at you with a curt nod. “You getting bored on me?” you ask Sebastian. After the rounds you’ve made around this gallery, you wonder if he’s been waiting for a while now.

“Of course not,” he says. “Just thinking.” Characteristically vague. He’s not giving you much to work off of, and so you’ve got to make your assumptions.

“About the ex.”

“About my life,” he corrects you, “It’s just… different than it was five years ago. It’s different than it was five months ago.” Five months—when he signed onto that contract for you. He carries on, “It’s good. I like making it out of Seb’s now and again. I like writing music, I like working on your score, and…”

He quiets down and you pick the trail right back up. “…You like the movie.”

“Yes,” Sebastian chuckles. “I like your movie, and it reminds me what it's like to be less miserable. The romantic parts are… nice.” He goes quiet for a moment, trying to deliberate whether or not he should carry on. When he sees that curious glow on your face, and the way you bat your eyes, Sebastian murmurs, “When was the last time you…?”

The question dries out before Sebastian can finish it. The last time you fell in love. You’re not sure how to answer him, because the answer is that you haven’t. After spending all this time working on a fundamentally romantic movie with Sebastian, you’re having to admit that you’ve got no clue what it’s like. It’s a strange position to be in. That mix of sheepishness and shock swirling in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

“Oh. Well, that’s fine,” he assures you. “It just surprises me, that’s all. ‘Cause, the way the scenes are written out…” he adds, “And you’re always dishing out advice.”

“Don’t be a dick.” He puts his hands like he’s begging you to stand down. You still have that fiery attitude pent up from earlier, and he’s not trying to exacerbate it any further.

“And I’m surprised because you seem like a catch,” he adds, “Happy?”

“Seb,” you groan. You can see everything that he wants to say laid out in the way his face contorts into that worried frown. He wants to tell you that you’re so busy and you’re young, that someone’s going to come along—to take you around, to please you, to make you feel like it’s worth not drowning in work. Maybe he wishes it could be him, but he’s too scared to hurt you in the way he’s certain he can. Sebastian doesn’t say a lick of this, and still you can see the unformed version of these thoughts worn on his face.

Sebastian only shakes his head, sliding a hand into the pocket of his linen pants. “Romantic score for a romantic mind.” He takes out a pair of wired earbuds, unraveling the wire, plugging the jack into his phone, and offering one end to you. You look at him like he’s out of his mind, and he urges it closer. “Take it, please.” When you wedge the earbud into your ear, he lets out a soft breath.

It takes him a second to click play. The first half of the songs, you recognize. Sebastian has sent you bits and pieces of each of them before, and hearing them together isn’t anything new. After the fourth, though, you find yourself taking in these slower melodies—the kind that lull and flutter of keys, the kind that makes your heart swell. It’s a song for the motion picture. In the last song, two minutes left in the memo, there’s a faint layer of Sebastian humming in the backing track, gentle and loving; it barely reaches past the insistent presence of the piano, but his vocals are still audible. You’ve never heard him sing. It’s enough to make your eyes widen, and Sebastian makes an exerted effort to turn his head in the opposite direction.

You take the earbud out of your ear and hand it back to him gently. Your fingers connect together gripping around the wire, and you’re quick to let it go. “You finished the first act.”

Sebastian nods, “Mhm—surprised?” It sounds ten times more quiet without his demo playing off in your ear. There’s a litter of visitors trickling in around you both, and you have to straighten out your posture. You’d forgotten that you weren't just working.

“No. I knew you’d probably get it done,” you shrug. The smile plastered on your face gives you away. Sebastian made the palpable beauty of a score, and you can see the film coming together with his music. “You sang.”

“It needed the emotional weight,” Sebastian insists. “I just thought I’d toss it in, try it out. Obviously, we’ll  substitute my vocals for somebody more adept.”

“I like it as it is. It’s… you.” Decidedly, you add, “And it sounds good.” His knees knock against your own in this gentle urge for you to stop flattering him. Though, he should know that you wouldn’t play up the compliment; it’s what you think is best for the score, and it’s secondary that you wish Sebastian would sing more. On stage to a crowd, or to you, anything’s good as long as he does it again.

—

The sun’s low by the time you both make it out of the gallery. It casts a soft glow on both of your faces, and the pace back to the car is leisurely. You’ve had a good day, and you hardly want it to end. You give Sebastian’s shoulder a bump with your own, walking across the gravel lot. “Bet you’re feeling ready to go home and compose that second act.” That would make this a successful outing, you think. 

“Still got work tonight,” Sebastian shakes his head. “In the morning, though. Probably get up early and give you a call.” He rounds the driver’s side of your car, just to open the door for you. You slow at the other side of the car door, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. Sebastian’s arm hanging off the doorframe, backlit by the sun. His eyes are trained on you, waiting with a soft clench of his jaw for you to get inside.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Sebastian murmurs. Though it should be easy for you to get angry at the way he says it—the ego, the presumption that you could want to kiss him—you’re settled only by the fact Sebastian looks ruffled. Almost jittery, if you look close enough. He just wants you to get in the car, and so, you stand still there with him, divided only by the door.

You tilt your head in a testing way. “I didn’t say anything about you kissing me.” Sebastian tries to look past you at the trees or something of the like, but it’s inevitable for his eyes to meet yours. It’s the consequences of his actions.

“Well,” Sebastian sucks in a deep breath, “You’re looking at me like you’re worried about it.”

You scoff at him, “I’m looking at you like I always do.” Sebastian nods: Case in point. You shake your head, asking sharply, “—Who’s therapizing who?” And he seems to cave into your rigid expression with a shake of his head.

“I’m not doing… that. I’m just trying to make sure that the, uh, the boundaries are clear. They’re set,” he says. “No professional lines crossed.” Sebastian still has that heavy lean on your car door, as if he’s anchoring himself onto it.  Finally, you think you’ve gotten enough of extracting that nervous energy out of him. Really, you understand what he’s trying to say; it’s just easier on you to keep him high-wired.

With a wag of your finger at Sebastian, you utter, “You know what, Wilder? Maybe you just don’t have the kind of foresight that I do.” You grab at the inner handle of your car door, nodding for him to get off.

“I’m really not—” Sebastian watches as you seat yourself in front of the wheel. As soon as he lets go, you’re shutting the door with a stern tug. “—going to,” you hear his muffled voice say on the other side of the glass. Sebastian rounds the front of the car with a quick clench and unclench of his hand. Getting in the car beside you isn’t as easy as it was when you first picked him up. You’re too quiet shoving your keys into the ignition and twisting. It terrifies Sebastian. You start the car up—sunglasses moved from atop your head back over your eyes.

And you still put on dad rock. You can hear that soft-puffed breath Sebastian lets out when he realizes that you’re not nearly as solemn as you’re making it out to be. You’re pulling out of the parking spot with an inkling of a smirk on your face, all high and mighty. Finally, you give him what he wants: “You’re terrible at taking a joke.”

Sebastian scoffs, “You’re just terrible.”

—

Chipping away at the songs means that you’re spending a little more off-time at his apartment, letting him play the piano for you. It’s mostly reprises now, a couple of new melodies. The epilogue track is nearly done on Sebastian’s end, and you provide minimal help at this point in the process. All you’ve been doing the past couple of days is sit with him. He’s already heard every critique of yours inside and out, already tailored the score to your liking. It’s just a matter of making it through to the end.

His apartment has vinyl covers decorating the walls above his couch, cherry wood furniture. He must like this style. It’s reminiscent of Seb’s, though, this feels a little more personal. There’s photos around—his sister’s wedding, baby pictures of his niece, and newspaper clippings on the opening of the club. “What do you think about a special screening?” you ask one session, seated at the piano bench looking at these frames on the wall.

Sebastian’s off in the kitchen, whipping up two cups of coffee. He shouts from there, a raspy, “What?”

You raise your voice a little higher. “Your stage is big enough to fit a projector screen. And I’m sure that it’ll draw in a crowd. Good for business.” He’s quiet for a second. You wonder if he’s thinking up a more gentle way to say no to you. He comes out of the kitchen with the cups, placing one on the side table next to his piano and the other in your hands.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, “We don’t really do that kinda thing.” There it is.

“Come on. Everyone’s going to want to hear the score you put together. And the band would be really happy about it, too.” You take one generous swig of the coffee before placing it down.

“You haven’t even met ‘em yet.” Sebastian starts fiddling with the keys again, continuing on some melodic tangent he’d tried to get away with earlier. It still hasn’t got

the right rhythm yet, sounds like a garbled mess—still beautiful but not yet cohesive.

“It’s natural,” you say, “They probably want to bring their loved ones to show off the work. It’s their’s, too, you know.”

He brings the mug up to his lips with a hum, taking a slow sip with his brows furrowed. “…Would you ever consider making a couple DVD’s? A lot of these guys are old school. They’re the type to still have players at home, and they’ll probably like having the memorabilia.” You’re grinning too wide—and somehow, it’s contagious. The corners of his lips turn up, and the two of you are sitting with your soft smiles on the piano bench with Sebastian wondering where your head’s at.

You laugh softly, cracking away at your knuckles. Matter-of-factly, you tell him, “You want the screening, Seb.” He doesn’t understand the logic of it all, brows knitted together in soft confusion.

“I said yes to DVDs.”

“Which we’ll distribute,” you agree, “At the screening.”

Sebastian’s so easily convinced. With a sigh, he places his mug down back on the side table and trades it out for a three-quarters used No. 2 pencil. At the corner of his manuscript paper, propped up on the lip of the piano’s music rack, he writes—screening August. check w. Matty. “Happy?” Sebastian asks you.

“Super.” You knock your shoulder against his. “If it helps, I can cough up some funds for catering. I know a few good places—”

“No, no. My club, my treat.” Sebastian raises the small pencil up and tucks it over his ear. “We’ve got a back kitchen for a reason.” You’re sitting too close together, he realizes it quickly, straightens up towards the piano, and starts laying his fingers on the keys again. You’re always too close. He makes a good effort to ignore it, but you both always end up the same way. Inevitable. “So, we’re at the part where they waltz. You want something slow?”

He is kissable. You’d noticed it those months ago, meeting him that first night at Seb’s. Dark blonde hair combed back, save for the little loose strand hanging over his forehead. All ego and smug grins—refusing the attention. He was different, then. Walled off. And now, he’s right in front of you with this plain-white t-shirt, not nearly as dressy as he is at work. Homely and sweet. As disagreeable as he wants to seem, Sebastian has a soft spot for you and a soft spot for your film. It’s a labor of love.

—

Mid-recording, you decide to take a behind-the-scenes video of Sebastian. It’s more for yourself than anything else. You watch it right before bed, after coming home from a 10-hour recording block with the band. It’s the fifth so far, and you’ve only chipped into a small section of the full score. Sebastian seems in his element with the whole arrangement. He has his band, a group of regular performers from Seb’s, all collected into the recording booth. Your film plays on a screen mounted to the wall. This is the only time Sebastian won’t perform on the keys—because he’s got to conduct. He was picky selecting the piano player, making sure it’d be someone who could match him in the job he would’ve done.

You jokingly asked Sebastian if he’d let you record a clip of him on your phone—as candid as possible, just him conducting one number. “I really want to remember these sessions,” you’d told him, “And it’ll be just like Miles Davis.” Two good reasons—the best reasons to Seb—for you to record the video, from a short bench to the side of the band, arms held up for that long two and a half minutes.

You’re playing it back now, tucked underneath your sheets and awaiting another early call time. Sebastian flashes a closed grin just over the lens of your camera, straight at you. Then, he’s rolling up his sleeves to prep for the number. You can see the fabric of his dress shirt tighten at his biceps as he fixes up the height of his music stand. Sebastian checks the band, gets each of those hearty thumbs up. Then, he asks, with a gesture of his hand, if the sound engineers can click play on that clip on the wall. The overhead lights of the recording booth dim, and it’s there.

You can’t see it framed in this video, but you know it by heart. Your two leads in an art gallery, stumbling through a second date. They’re both strange, jangly creatures in the way they don’t know how to act around one another. It’s a sweet, little scene—and the composition Sebastian has fixed up matches one-to-one with the dialogue. Even while conducting, he watches with care, alternating his attention between the sheet music and the leads. There’s something behind his eyes. Something tender in the way he’s watching these scenes—your scenes. You’re watching the playback now with the same expression you did in the recording booth: a budding smile at the softer version of him that comes out only with music. 

When the song’s up and the overhead lights get turned up, Sebastian looks down at you. “Okay,” he says, “That’s all you’re getting out of me.” He’s trying to be bashful, covering up the lens of your phone camera. The video ends with the blur of his palm. You can barely remember what happened after you slid your phone into your back pocket. Probably a full reset, second go-around for the same scene. You’re glad to have captured this short perspective of Sebastian, the whole two and a half minutes, uninterrupted. Miles Davis—jazz and cinema. You’ve seen it on him lately, and you love it.

You think you’ll watch this video once or twice more before you go to sleep.

—

The screening’s a hit. All kinds of people from the neighborhood come in to watch the movie, some of Sebastian’s folks and some of yours. Before and after the film, you’re both expected to get up on stage to do your little pitches and thank you’s. Your speeches go quicker than his, quickly and humbly thanking everyone for coming out. Sebastian, characteristic of the club owner, does a whole lot more to single out each member of the band. Their families, as expected, are in attendance, children and grandchildren grouped at each table. Sebastian is sure, especially, to thank them for supporting the band for an undertaking like a feature-length score. They’ve all done an impossible thing together, and it’s beautiful. He’s happy to have let Seb’s open as a movie theater for one night only.

By the end of it, you’re watching Sebastian get shrouded in his own separate pod of musicians, who keep patting him on the back and telling him that he did swimmingly. Oddly enough, they all seem to make their rounds to you. It’s not until you get closer that you realize that Sebastian’s been pointing them in your direction.

“C’mon, it’s not all me,” you hear him say, “You’ve got to give credit where it’s due.” You tug at the back of his dress shirt, and Sebastian’s looking down at you with his brows raised. “…And this is where it’s due.” He gestures his open palm over to you. If you’re not mistaken, there’s a reddish tint to his cheeks, barely visible under those low lights of the club. He’s been caught.

“You’re the one who’s been getting Sebby out of the club.” you hear one man say. The nickname makes you chortle. And another goes, “Obviously. Just look at ‘em.” Whatever that means. You have to give Sebastian a soft pat on the back, seeing as he’s got an open hand covering his eyes. He’s patently embarrassed by these old-timers trying to nudge you both in the right direction.

“The cast wants to do shots, so I thought I’d make my rounds instead,” you murmur to him.

“Well, do you wanna do the shot?” Sebastian asks, edging his body closer to you. You feel a little rude to be taking him out of this big group, but then again, you’re not the one pulling him. You’ve got his attention.

“Brought my car,” you say, “Rookie mistake.” It’s just around the corner, parked neatly in front of his own. You’re starting to wish that you grabbed a rideshare over instead, but instead, you’re sectioned apart with Sebastian and the other oldies.

He taps his shoe on the wood floor, mulling it over. “…Just wait for me. I’ll drive you home.” Sebastian figures this out pretty easily. He’ll take your keys, drive you back to your apartment, get a rideshare back to Seb’s. It isn’t a problem for him. “It’s your day, too,” he tells you, “Go have a good time.”

Daringly, you lean up to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re being way too nice to me.”

He stills under the motion, letting you give him that soft pat on the chest. You can hear a couple of wolf whistles as you make your way away from his jazz-group and towards the bar. Sebastian’s trying to quiet them, to no avail. You feel yourself chuckling as you toss the searing-hot vodka into the back of your throat. You’ll only do this one, then chat around at Seb’s with everyone sweet enough to stick around. It’s a great celebration for the perfect film.

—

Sebastian keeps to his promise, after a whole night keeping his eyes on you, to drive you back to your place. By now, you’re well-sobered up and it’s quieter, just the two of you. After a big night like that, you’re grateful that you and Sebastian are able to settle in silence—interrupted only by the city’s after-midnight police sirens. You’re keeping your thoughts to yourself in this unequivocal moment of peace, interior of the car seeing a rhythmic sheen of streetlights through the side windows.

The radio in your car turned onto that old jazz station. Figures. You’d left it on jazz even when Sebastian wasn’t in. Now that he’s driving your car, the kind of music you’ve been listening to during off-hours is abundantly clear. You swallow back the joke of knowing somebody who knows the radio host. It’s been a decent means of feeling closer to Sebastian, and he must know it, too. He turns the knob up a bit on the volume. This combination of Sebastian, his pricey cologne, the night and Nat King Cole, all feels apt. A good send-off.

He speaks first, halfway through the ride home. “So, uh—thank you. I already said it when we were onstage, but I’d do it again if you ever…”

“No, yeah. You’d be at the top of my list,” you agree. There’s a good shot you’ll see each other again for another screening—especially if the film makes a good run in film festivals. But it still feels different. After tonight, there’s no certain and definable reason for you to spend time with one another. Sebastian goes back to his jazz club, and you go back to writing more movies. After tonight, it’s done. “You gave me a really good score, Seb. I hope you know how happy I am with it.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say a thing. Only tilts his head right for a moment to catch a good look at your face. You grin and he grins. Sebastian readjusts his hands on the wheel, keeping that soft smile faced towards the windshield. You know where he stands. Grateful that you scoped him out, downright indebted that you signed him on. “I thought it would’ve been harder,” Sebastian admits.

“Well, you were hunched over your piano for a good couple of months, Seb.”

“No,” he laughs, “I mean, it didn’t take much to get there.” Emotionally, not so incapable as he would’ve expected from himself. He reminds you, “Jaded. You called me jaded and you were a little bit right.”

“I was right,” you repeat after him. It must feel like pulling teeth for him to admit it aloud. To say, without hesitation, that you knew exactly where he stood when you met him. You still decided to stick around—even with his faults.

“I did all that work of driving over to your office just to say no.”

“You could’ve just rang my phone.”

“I felt like seeing you,” Sebastian says. “It’s not very nice to break things off with a call.” The tease isn’t nearly enough to cover up the truth of it. He stuck to you, too.

Sebastian has to parallel park into an empty gap of cars in front of your place. With his hand up behind the headrest of your seat, you’re trying with the utmost effort not to look as flustered as you feel. Sebastian’s making an effort not to look at you either, so you suppose it’s even. The two of you fail to exchange any words slotting into the parking spot. Sebastian is quick to get out of the car, so he can open your door for you. It feels too charged, getting out of the car to face him.

The air is generously cold tonight. For once, the Los Angeles air is dampening that heat from your body. Sebastian shuts the car door behind you with a soft click and follows you onto the curb. He stops just at the lip of the stairs leading up to your apartment. It’s like there’s a barrier set there; he’s not quite able to cross it. Sebastian can only look at you with that pensive look on his face. “Here.” He has your car keys in his hand, hanging them out for you to grab. You do, with a swift hand and whispered thanks.

This is it. He did what he said he was going to do: drop you off, safe-and-sound. Now, it’s time for him to hail a ride back to Seb’s, help close up, drive back to his own bachelor pad. You should feel disappointed that Sebastian’s not jumping to confess—to say that he wants you, even if you’re younger and even if you’ve got a lot of career to go. You want him to admit that he’s spent all these hours each week watching you with the tenderness he could only reserve for someone he cares about. You know he’s thought about it before. But Sebastian is too quiet for you now to hope any further on it, and it must be better to give it up.

You give him a peck on the cheek and rush out a mumbled “Goodnight, Seb,” before jogging up the stairs to your place. Your plans for the night are sealed: chug a glass of water, take a quick shower, and sleep in all tomorrow. The keys to your apartment are already out of the bag, and you’re twisting them into the lock. He’s not walking; the supervision is nice, but not completely necessary.

Finally, Sebastian shouts out. “Wait.” You pivot, slow and steady, to a good view of him from your doorstep. He has his hands slotted into the pockets of his dress pants, looking down at his shoes, then back up at you.

“I screwed it up with Mia, but I wouldn’t take it back,” Sebastian says. “You should know that.” He’s never said her name out loud before, at least not to you. You’d heard it offhandedly from musicians during those early demo recordings and pretended not to hear it. He said her name to you—surrendered it over to you. It’s a life that could’ve been, and Sebastian doesn’t have a need for it anymore.

It’s torturously slow the way you saunter up to him. You descend down the steps and end up squarely on level ground. It’s dead on your street at this late hour, and Sebastian can only stand there—unsure of the safest way to go about this. Whatever this is. Then, you’re reaching up to plant a hard kiss to his jaw. His stubble scratches against your lips, and you can feel that nervous twitch his mouth makes in response. 

Your hands drag down the fabric of his suit, feeling Sebastian’s chest puff out with the deep breath he takes in. For the first time since you’ve met, you’re not taunting him. “Are you worried it’ll go bad?” you ask. It’s like you’re talking about spoiled fruit. He has to shut his eyes and hang his head at the absurdity of it all. You’re giving him the in, and he’s stalling.

“I don’t want to screw it up,” Sebastian says. “I like it more when I’m working for you. Means I can make stuff that’ll make you happy without it getting complicated.” It’s been complicated since you signed him on. But you’re in no hurry to correct him.

It’s your turn to get all sheepish. “I don’t wanna keep paying you to hang out with me, Seb. Not discounting the composing, but all those cafe visits and the gallery, I mean—” You’ve done the equivalent of dating him with a composer’s salary factored in.

“Trust me, I get more out of it than you do.” Sebastian assures you. The second you see him so much as glance at your lips, you’re lifting your head to meet his. The first kiss you think that you would’ve had with Sebastian—him pressing his lips against yours in an almost petulant way—is nowhere to be found. He’s handling you like glass. Sebastian has his hands ghosting just over your hips, taking whatever you’ll give him. He doesn’t put in an ounce of force beyond matching that languid movement of your lips.

You pull back with a huff. “Kiss me harder, Wilder.”

“M’kay.” You don't have to tell him twice. Sebastian is wrapping his hands around your back, pulling you against his chest and rubbing his thumb over the lower-end of your spine. By comparison, you kiss Sebastian with very little reservation. After all these months working with each other and watching each other—and doing little beyond that—you feel insatiable. Your hands come up into his blonde hair and you’re inclined, in some thoughtless motion, to tug hard. Sebastian shudders and that dull sting only coaxes him closer against you.

Neither of you are having much regard for the setting. It’s late and you’re still outside of your front door. Anybody could walk by and you can’t care much because Sebastian is cupping your face in his hands and you feel like your ears could start ringing. After a certain point, it’s every pent-up emotion from the last half-year getting let out in rough palms and squeezes. The kisses are getting so heavy, swollen lips moving in sync with one another. “Is this okay?” Sebastian asks. His voice sounds so low and raw, words crackling. Still worried.

You only nod, reaching your hands just underneath his suit jacket. The polyester clinging to his body warms your cold fingertips. With a few heavy breaths, you finally land a determined, “Do you wanna come in?”

Sebastian is so close—so close—to saying yes. You can see it in the way his blown pupils trace over your face, trying to determine if you’re being reckless or just flat-out wanting. Then, Sebastian knocks his forehead against your shoulder with a groan. “I… can’t. Left my car at the club and I think someone’ll jack it if I leave it overnight.” He takes a step back from you, scrubs his hand over his face. “I would. Really, I would.” He seems all guilty now, fixing the fold of his collar with a sigh.

You have to laugh a little bit at his disappointment. “Well, it’s not like I’m going to rescind the offer. You could always just come back tomorrow.”

“Tomrorrow?” A little grin makes its way onto Sebastian’s face. You’d still want him tomorrow, the day after, the week after—and so on. He’s satisfied with that possibility of keeping a sturdy block of your time, staying with that post-production routine you’ve so been clinging to.

“Tomorrow morning. Or,  noon—whatever. Just call me when you wake up and we’ll go grab lunch or something.” You tilt your head up to give him one hard kiss, before straightening up his tie and nudging him backwards. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Of course, hon.”

It slips off Sebastian’s tongue far too easily, and you nearly want to smack him on the arm. “Hey,” you scold. “We’re not there yet. You’ve gotta warm up to it.” Work for it, you mean to say. You’ve only made out once, only just now, and Sebastian’s already getting comfortable. As serious as you want to be about it, the way he’s looking at you is making your cheeks feel white-hot. 

“We’ll workshop it,” he says, “Okay.” Sebastian nearly stumbles off the curb trying to give you a suave wave back. You’ll be sure to bother him about it tomorrow, when he thinks you haven’t given it much thought.

With a wide grin on your face, you’re quick to turn back around and trek up the stairs. Your keys are still in the knob, and you’re quick to twist them and step inside. By the time you’re turned around, Sebastian is already crossing the street and making his way towards the corner. Predictably, he’s going to walk a few blocks to blow off some steam. “Goodnight!” you shout across the way, and seeing the back of Sebastian, giving you one last raised wave with his head hung, you shut the door.