The button gives.
I feel it part beneath my thumb—a small surrender of metal and thread—and the fabric opens like a confession. Her sound cuts through the studio's hum, low and raw, not quite pain, not quite pleasure, something unguarded I've never heard from her. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her forehead presses so hard against my collarbone I feel the bone of her skull, the weight of her leaning into me like she's forgotten how to stand alone.
The recording light blinks red. I know it's catching every sound: the rasp of her zipper, the hitch of her breath against my chest, the way her name sits unspoken in the space between us. I don't rush. I trace the waistband of her trousers, my knuckle grazing the fabric's edge, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin barrier beneath. She trembles—a fine, continuous tremor that runs through her shoulders, her ribs, the hand still clutching my shirt.
Her breath comes shallow against my collarbone, each exhale a little broken. I slide my hand lower, palm settling against the damp heat at the junction of her thighs, the fabric between us thin and useless. She presses into my hand, a small, desperate movement, and makes that sound again—the one that isn't pain, isn't pleasure, just need.
"Jason." Her voice cracks my name, rough and stripped of armor. Not a command. Not a plea. Something between—a word she's holding out to me like a key.
I hold still, feeling her pulse against my palm, the weight of her trust in every shallow breath. The recording light keeps blinking. The studio hums its fluorescent silence. I don't move. I let the moment stretch, let her feel me waiting, let her know I'm not going anywhere until she tells me what she needs.
Her hand slides from my shoulder to my wrist, fingers tracing the veins there, settling over my knuckles. She doesn't push. She doesn't pull. Her thumb finds the edge of my hand and presses, a small, deliberate pressure—stay.
I press back. Just enough. Her hips shift, a fraction of movement, and I feel her breathe against me like she's been holding it for years.
The recording light blinks. The silence between us is heavier than any music we've made.
Her hand slides down my chest, fingers trailing through the thin fabric of my unbuttoned shirt, tracing the line of my sternum. I feel each knuckle press against my skin, deliberate and slow, like she's reading me through touch alone. My breath catches, and she notices—I feel her smile against my collarbone, a small curve of heat.
Her hand keeps moving. Across my stomach, past my belt, settling at the waistband of my jeans. She doesn't undo it. She rests there, palm flat, thumb tracing the edge of the denim, and I feel the weight of her deliberation in every millimeter of stillness.
Then she guides my hand lower.
Her fingers close around my wrist, the same wrist she held in the live room when she taught me the chord, and she pulls my palm down along her body—past her hip, past the open button of her trousers, past the waistband's edge. She presses my hand against her, palm flat against the damp fabric of her underwear, and I feel the heat of her through the thin cotton, feel the shape of her, feel her breath stop as my fingers settle into the curve of her.
She doesn't speak. Her hand stays over mine, holding me there, a command without words. I feel her pulse against my palm, quick and shallow, and I realize she's trembling again—not from cold, not from fear. From this. From trust given without armor.
I don't move. I let her feel me waiting, let her feel the weight of my hand against her, the heat of my palm cupping her through the fabric. Her hips shift, a small, involuntary movement, pressing into my hand. She makes that sound again—the one that isn't pain, isn't pleasure, just need.
My thumb traces a slow arc against her through the cotton. She arches into the pressure, her forehead pressing harder against my collarbone, her fingers tightening around my wrist. I feel her breath against my chest, ragged and uneven, and I know she's holding back something she's not ready to give voice to.
"Elena." I say her name low, feeling it settle between us. She doesn't respond, but her hips press into my hand again, a silent answer. I trace another arc, slower this time, and she shudders against me, her whole body leaning into my touch.
The recording light blinks red above us, capturing every breath, every tremor, every unspoken word. The studio hums its fluorescent silence. And I hold her there, my hand against her, her hand over mine, both of us suspended in the weight of what we're not yet ready to name.
Her breath steadies against my chest, slow and deliberate, like she's relearning how to breathe with someone else holding the rhythm. I don't rush. I don't ask. I just stay, my palm warm against her, feeling her trust settle into something solid between us.