I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 105 : Songs, Silences, and Almosts
Jon's Perspective
The dance had officially ended, the lights dimmed, the music faded, and the gym doors closed behind us. Yet somehow, as I drove through the quiet streets that stretched beneath a blanket of stars, the night still hummed with energy. Not the kind that pulses through speakers or flickers across dance floors, but something softer. Warmer. Like the afterglow of laughter that lingers long after the joke.
Sam sat beside me in the passenger seat, her heels discarded, toes curled against the dashboard, legs tucked up slightly beneath her. Her dress had shifted as she settled in—creased at the knees, a little bunched at the sides. But if she noticed, she didn't care. And honestly, she'd never looked more beautiful to me. Not in the polished, picture-perfect way she had back at the dance, but in this undone, unfiltered state—like this was the real her. The version you didn't get to see unless you earned it.
I loosened my tie, let it hang around my neck like a forgotten ribbon, and focused on the road ahead. The headlights cut through the darkness, carving tunnels of light through otherwise empty streets. It felt like we were the only two people still awake in the world.
Then—because the universe has a sense of humor—a familiar sound crackled through the car's speakers. That absurd, overplayed pop anthem from earlier in the night came on. The one with the laughably bad lyrics, the shamelessly catchy beat, and the chorus that refused to die.
I didn't even need to say anything. She turned to me, and I was already looking at her.
"I swear, if you sing this—"
Before I could finish the warning, she launched into the chorus with full force. Off-key. Loud. Unapologetically terrible.
"OHHH-WHOOOOA WE'RE NEVER LETTING GO—!"
I groaned, grinned, and gave in. There was no point fighting it. I threw my voice into the mess of it, just as tuneless and theatrical. We weren't trying to sound good—just trying to out-silly each other.
The car transformed into a concert venue designed by chaos itself. I pounded the steering wheel like it was a drum kit in a stadium show. She waved her shoes around like they were microphones straight out of a cheesy music video. Our harmonies were abysmal. Our energy? Unmatched. For a few glorious minutes, the world outside didn't exist. It was just us and that stupid, addictive song.
But somewhere between the second chorus and the overly dramatic bridge, something shifted.
Beneath the laughter and exaggerated singing, I felt it—a strange, liberating kind of peace. A weight lifting. Not the heavy kind that comes from heartbreak or grief. Just the everyday pressures, the expectations, the need to perform. With her, like this, I didn't feel any of that. I didn't have to be charming or clever or cool. I could be exactly who I was—goofy, awkward, unfiltered—and that was enough.
That was everything.
When the final note faded and the song finally gave us mercy, we didn't speak. We just laughed. Not polite chuckles, but full-body, can't-breathe, ridiculous laughter that made our eyes water and our sides ache.
Eventually, the laughter settled into silence, the kind that feels more like music than any song ever could.
I pulled up in front of her house, where the porch light cast a golden glow across the walkway. The engine's quiet hum gave way to stillness as I turned the key. Without thinking, I stepped out, walked around the car, and opened her door. A small gesture, maybe. But one that still meant something.
"Thank you, sir," she said with a crooked smile, stepping out, barefoot and radiant.
We stood there for a few seconds, maybe longer, suspended in the gentle night breeze, neither of us quite ready to cross the threshold between this moment and the next. I could feel something unspoken hanging in the air—an invisible thread tying us to a truth we hadn't said aloud.
"Thanks for tonight," she said, her voice softer now. She hesitated, looked down, then back up at me with a kind of quiet courage. "I… uh…"
I turned to face her more fully, watching her expression shift as she searched for the words.
"I… liked it."
Simple. Tentative. But layered with meaning.
There it was—that heartbeat of silence. That sharp, delicate edge of almost. The space between what we feel and what we're ready to say. And I knew what she meant. Even if she didn't spell it out, I understood. And I think she knew I understood. Neither of us pushed it further. We weren't quite there yet. But we were near. Close enough that it felt like the start of something real.
"Me too," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
She let out a short laugh, half-relieved, half-embarrassed. I smiled. She nudged me gently with her elbow. I caught her hand without thinking, held it for just a moment, then let go—like if I held on too long, the moment might shift, might mean something too big for tonight.
"See you tomorrow?" I asked, suddenly unsure how to end a night I didn't want to end.
"You better," she replied, that spark in her eyes returning.
I stayed there, watching as she walked up to her door. She turned back once before going inside. I waited until she was gone before climbing back into the car.
I didn't turn the radio back on. I didn't need to. The night still echoed in my head—off-key choruses, soft laughter, quiet truths, and that unspoken something just shy of love.
Closer than ever.