His face was calm, unreadable, but his closeness was anything but casual. He leaned slightly forward, his shoulder brushing hers as his long fingers danced over the keys, guiding her stumbling melody into something steadier, something whole.
Athena swallowed, her throat dry. Her mind screamed at her to shift away, to reclaim her space, to stop reacting to him. But her body betrayed her, rooted to the bench as though the weight of his presence had pinned her there.
She hated it. She hated how her chest was betraying her with its sharp, quickened rhythm. She hated how good the music sounded with him there, completing what she had begun. And worst of all, she hated how a part of her didn't want him to stop.
The piano sang beneath them, their hands brushing once, then twice, lingering longer each time. She told herself it was coincidence, that it was only the closeness of the bench, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips suggested otherwise.
