lungs

Felix can’t tell you he loves you.

Well, not yet. Not because he’s not sure, or because he’s scared—even though he is. He doesn’t want to scare you off. You with your bright eyes and silvery, warm laughter, your gentle hands that touched him only every so often. Hands he wished would touch him more often. He was only here to help you get home. He had to remember that.

Right now, you’re sat side by side on a piano bench, elbows bumping and knees pressed together. Felix had asked if you wanted to hear something he’d been practicing (though he left out the fact that he only practiced it for you). The amber candlelight flickered, shadows coming and going, dancing across the room. Your face cast in a velvety, warm light that made Felix’s heart ache. His eyes lingered on the shadow of your lashes against your cheek, and oh, how badly he wanted to be allowed to want it—to want you.

You cleared your throat, snapping him out of his daze. Felix quickly sat up straight, mumbling a quick apology and flipping through the sheets of music sitting in front of him. You cracked a joke, but he barely heard it. He swallowed thickly, his hands kneading together in his lap. He’d played in front of you plenty of times, but this was different. He so desperately wanted your approval, your praise. With one final look up at you, he brought his hands up to the keys.