The Unresolved Chord [M31/F32] [friends to lovers] [slow burn] [blowjob] [pussy eating] [missionary] [office sex if you count a recording studio as an office] [celebrity cameo]

TORI

The humming starts at exactly 6:02 AM. It’s the same four-bar loop he’s been obsessed with for a week, and it's drilling a hole in my skull.

“God, Ash, must you?” I snap, my voice rough with sleep. My ass is already numb from the passenger seat, and we’re not even out of Pennsylvania. Seven hours of this. Seven hours in this Subaru that smells like old guitar cases, stale coffee, and him.

He just grins, not looking away from the gray ribbon of the highway. “It’s a hook, Tor. It’s catchy. If you can’t get it out of your head it’s a good thing.”

“I can’t get it out of my head because you’re constantly humming the damn thing.” 

He sighs, a dramatic, long-suffering sound I know by heart. He’s been my creative partner—my work-husband, my other musical half—for six years, and I know this sigh. It’s the ‘Tori is being prickly’ sigh.

I am prickly. We’re driving seven hours on no notice to fill in for a band that got COVID, all for a gig at some tiny club in the East Village that probably won’t even cover gas. But… it’s New York. I can’t be that mad.

ASH

Despite what Tori says, it’s damn good hook. It’s memorable. She’s just grumpy. She hasn’t had her second coffee yet. You know, the one that actually makes her human. But she’s right. It is just a hook. It needs something more. It needs her, that discordant, minor-key thing she does that somehow makes everything make sense. I call it her grit, which either annoys her or pleases her, depending on whether she likes what she came up with. 

I glance over at her. She’s all restless energy, her dark hair already escaping its messy bun, her legs tucked up on the seat. She looks like a beautiful, pissed-off bird.

I hum the notes again and glance at Tor. She turns and glares at me. “Hey, it’s miles better than your ‘Sad Girl Shreds’ playlist. I see the corner of her mouth twitch. “Anyway, I’m pulling off at the next exit. You want your usual?”

TORI

My ‘usual.’ He knows I want a large black coffee with one raw sugar and a pack of peanut M&Ms. He knows that's my 'I'm stressed but also creative' snack. The fact that he just knows… it's so... easy. It’s why this whole thing works, why we’re a duo and not in a band or solo artists. 

My last boyfriend, Dave, spent six months bringing me caramel lattes, no matter how many times I told him I hated sweet coffee. He never really listened. Ash listens to the things I don't even say.

ASH

I pay for the coffee and snacks at the gas station and toss the M&Ms into her lap when I get back in. The car is quiet for a while, just the sound of the road and her tearing the crinkling yellow package. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window, but her right hand is tapping a rhythm on her knee. A fast, complicated, syncopated rhythm.

I hear it instantly. It’s in 7/8. She’s fighting the 4/4 time of my hook.

“Okay, what’s that?” I ask. “The tapping. That’s the grit. You found the grit, didn’t you?”

TORI

He heard that? From my knee?

This. This is what no one else gets. My ex-boyfriends would call it ‘fidgeting.’ Ash doesn't just listen; he hears the music in my head, even when it’s just a ghost of a rhythm in my fingertips. A thrill, sharp and bright as a plucked string, runs through me. It’s the thrill of being truly, deeply understood in the only way that matters. This is our magic.

“Maybe,” I say, a real smile finally breaking through. “Pull out my guitar, the beat-up acoustic.”

“I’m not sure you noticed, but I’m driving.” 

“You have longer arms than me, and I don’t want to spill my coffee.” 

Ash shakes his head and expertly maneuvers the worn case between the seats.

“Okay,” I say, tuning the low E string. “Sing your hook.” He starts to hum. “No, vocalize it. But in C minor. Now… what if right here... instead of resolving to the major, we just… hang? Let the vocal carry it... like this...”

I sing the note, a high, bluesy sound that bends and hangs in the air, full of tension and longing.

ASH

The next hour is a blur. The exit ramp, the bad coffee, the shitty gig—it all dissolves. It’s just us. We’re shouting, harmonizing, scribbling lyrics on the back of a gas receipt. It’s electric. She’s found the dissonance, the dark, aching chord that my simple melody needed, and now it’s ours.

When we find it, when the song finally clicks into place, the car falls silent. The air is still vibrating with the echo of the last chord. I look over at her. Her face is flushed with victory, her eyes are bright, and she’s completely unaware of how fucking incredible she looks.

“That’s it,” I say, my voice a little too loud. “That’s the song. Holy shit, Tori. We’re not just good, we’re geniuses.”

TORI

We did it. It's perfect. The creative high is better than any drug, better than any orgasm I’ve ever had. I look at Ash. His easy grin back in place. He’s a great partner. A great creative partner.

But that moment… our voices blending, the way he looked at me when surprised him and harmonized when he hit that high note… it felt like more.

I immediately, forcefully, push the thought down. No. Stop it. That’s the partnership. We’re a duo, and that’s the magic. You mess with that, you lose everything. It’s not worth it. It’s just the stress of the gig.

“Okay, it’s good,” I say, finally relaxing back into my seat, an empty bag of M&Ms in my lap. “But we’re not geniuses until they cheer. Now, put on my playlist. You’re going to love this sad girl.”

TORI

The last chord of "East River," the song we wrote in the car, rings out. For one, agonizing second, the world is pure silence. There’s just the hum of the amplifiers and the thud of my own heart in my ears. I can’t feel my fingers, my throat is raw, and I’m completely, totally empty.

And then, the sound hits us.

It’s not just applause. It’s a roar. I look at Ash. He’s drenched in sweat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated shock. He looks feral. He looks beautiful. He catches my eye through the blinding purple and blue lights and gives me a single, triumphant nod. We did it. That song we wrote on a fucking gas station receipt just killed.

I step up to the mic, my legs shaking with adrenaline. “Thank you, New York! You’ve been incredible. We’re Tori and Ash. Goodnight!”

ASH

My heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest. The noise is still ringing in my ears, the energy of a thousand people feeding back into us. I stumble off the tiny stage into the grimey, exhilarating darkness of the backstage hallway, and Tori stumbles in right behind me, laughing and completely out of breath.

“We’re fucking geniuses,” I pant, leaning against the cinderblock wall, just for her.

She turns, her face flushed and glowing, her eyes bright as spotlights. She doesn't say anything. She just launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck, her body light and sweaty, and buries her face in my shoulder.

I hold her, my arms instinctively wrapping tight around her waist. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest, or maybe that’s just mine. I can’t tell where one of us ends and the other begins. For this one, perfect, unguarded second, we’re not Tori and Ash. We’re not partners. We’re just… us. It’s the most terrifyingly perfect feeling I’ve ever had.

She pulls back, her hands still resting on my shoulders, her smile so wide and unguarded it punches the air from my lungs.

“We are,” she whispers.

And just like that, the moment breaks. She drops her hands, a flicker of something—awareness, fear—passing through her eyes.

TORI

His arms were so strong. His body was so warm. For one insane second, I just wanted to stay there. I wanted to pull his face down to mine and kiss him. Right there, in the smell of sweat and stale beer and victory. The thought is so loud, so visceral, it terrifies me.

That’s the adrenaline, I tell myself, stepping back, forcing a laugh that sounds too high. That’s all it is. It’s the show.

“Okay,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair. “I need a shower. I feel disgusting.”

“Yeah, me too.” He’s looking at me with an unreadable expression. “Seriously, Tor. That was… that amazing.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to us holding each other or the show. Dammit, Tori. Of course, he’s talking about the show. “It was,” I finally answer, grabbing my bag. I walk to my dressing room, and he walks to his. The door clicks shut between us, a small, definitive sound.

ASH

I’m half-dressed, toweling the water from my hair, when my phone buzzes on the counter. It’s our manager, Ben. The text is all caps.

BEN: WHERE R U? NEED YOU BOTH. FRONT OF HOUSE. NOW.

Shit. Did we run long? Is the club owner pissed? I pull on a clean t-shirt, my heart rate kicking up for a whole new reason.

I test Tori: Ben needs us. Now. Meet in the hall.

I press send and step out. She’s already there, her hair damp, her face pale and worried.

“What did we do?” 

“No idea,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Let’s go find out.”

We walk back into the main room. It’s mostly empty now, the staff clearing glasses. Ben is standing near the entrance. He’s with two other people. A guy in an expensive-looking blazer who looks like he owns things, and a woman. She’s tall, with an intense, kind face and slightly quirky glasses. She looks… familiar.

“Ash, Tori…” Ben’s voice is a strained whisper. “This is Paul Vance. And… this is Greta Gerwig.”

TORI

I’m sorry, what?

My brain just short-circuits. Greta Gerwig? Here? At our tiny, fill-in gig in the East Village? I must be hallucinating. I look at Ash. His mouth is literally hanging open. I’m pretty sure mine is, too.

Greta Gerwig smiles, a warm, genuine smile. “That was just… extraordinary,” she says, her voice exactly like it is in interviews. “Your sound. The way you two…” She gestures between Ash and me, a little wave of her hand. “The interplay of joy and pain. It's exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

The man in the blazer, Paul, steps forward. “We’re in post-production on Greta’s new picture. It’s an intimate story, a complicated one. And we need a song for the credits. A song that is the relationship. What we just saw on that stage… that was the exact thing we are looking for.”

This isn’t real. I’m still asleep in the Subaru. This is a stress dream.

Greta leans in, her eyes focused and serious. “We’d love for you to write it.”

The words just hang in the air. A Greta Gerwig movie. A theme song. This isn’t just a big break. This is the break. The one that changes your life forever.

“Yes,” Ash blurts out, finding his voice before I can.

“What my client means,” Ben squeaks, jumping in and smoothing his tie, “is that we are extremely interested in discussing this opportunity.”

Paul hands Ben a card as they turn to leave. I’m completely frozen. My entire future just tilted on its axis. I look over at Ash. He’s looking at me, his eyes wide with the same terrifying, exhilarating, universe-ending thought.

Holy shit. The stakes just went from making rent to making history. 

ASH

Is it strange that in that exact moment all I wanted to do was stare at Tori and see her full of joy that all the work, all the sacrifices, and all of her genius has paid off. You deserve this so much, I think, as she turns to me and smiles. 

TORI

The screening room in Los Angeles is small, dark, and freezing. It’s just me, Ash, and the producer, Paul, who’s scrolling through his phone, already looking bored. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. I’m sitting so close to Ash I can feel the warmth radiating off his arm. I’ve spent six years in his personal space—in cramped vans, on tiny stages, in shared rehearsal rooms—but this feels different. The darkness and quiet makes it intimate, charged.

The movie starts. It’s not a comedy. It’s not Barbie. It’s a raw, quiet, devastating film about a long-term relationship. The two main characters are musicians. My breath catches.

I’m watching a scene where they’re in their apartment, bickering. It’s not a loud, dramatic fight. It’s a quiet, intimate one, full of shared history. He’s annoyed that she keeps leaving her tea bags in the sink. She’s annoyed that he’s humming a melody that’s not quite right. It’s so real, so us, it makes my skin crawl.

Then, the scene shifts. They haven’t resolved the fight, but he sits down at an old upright piano and starts to play. A simple, searching melody. She stands by the door, her back to him, her arms crossed. Then, almost against her will, she turns, walks over, and starts to sing, her voice fitting into the spaces of his melody, correcting it, elevating it. The music is their apology. It’s their entire relationship, played out in chords and harmony.

A jolt, sharp and electric, goes through me. Holy shit. That’s… that’s us. That’s the song we wrote in the car. That’s him hearing the rhythm I was tapping on my knee. That’s our telepathy.

I risk a glance at Ash in the flickering light of the screen. His face is pale, his eyes fixed on the couple. He isn't just watching a movie. He’s watching us. And I know, with a terrifying, absolute certainty, that he sees it, too.

ASH

I’m trying to be a professional. I’m trying to focus on the vibe, the tone. I’m taking notes, but then that scene hits me. The bickering. It’s us. It’s her snapping at me about a chord progression and me sniping back about her "sad girl" playlist. It’s the shorthand, the brutal honesty, the way they communicate in a language no one else understands. 

And then they make up. Not with words. With music.

I feel a jolt of recognition so strong it’s like a physical blow. My god. That’s us. That’s our magic. That’s what we do. That’s what no one, not my ex-girlfriends, not my family, has ever understood about us. It’s this. This secret language.

I look over at her. Her eyes are wide, locked on the screen. She knows. She sees it, too. And suddenly, this isn’t about a song anymore. This is about us. Our one, protected, sacred space—our creative partnership—has just been exposed, held up as a mirror. And it’s reflecting back something I’m not sure I’m ready to face.

When the lights come up, Paul is typing on his phone. “So, that’s the vibe,” he says, snapping it shut. “We need a song that feels like that. Like a whole relationship in three minutes. You guys can do that, right?”

My throat is dry. I look at Tori. She looks completely shell-shocked.

“Yes,” she says, her voice a near-whisper. “Absolutely.”

TORI

We’re back in Pittsburgh. Ash’s home studio. It’s two in the morning, the floor littered with empty coffee cups, crumpled-up lyric sheets, and an electric tension so thick I feel like I’m breathing water. This should be easy. We just saw the movie. We are the movie. This song should be writing itself.

But it’s not. It’s hollow.

Ash is at the keyboard, playing a progression. It’s fine. It’s technically good. It sounds, on the surface, like a Tori and Ash song. But it’s empty. He’s hiding behind it.

He finishes the loop and looks at me, waiting for me to add my special part, to bring the grit. I can’t. I just shake my head, my arms crossed tight over my chest.

“What?” he asks, his voice already defensive. “That’s a solid start.”

“It’s… hollow, Ash,” I say, the words feeling sharp. “It’s not honest.”

I see him flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw. Honest? I can see him thinking. What does that mean? It’s our sound. He’s retreating. He saw what I saw in that theater, and now he’s pretending he didn’t. He’s giving me the same safe, easy progression we could write in our sleep. It feels like a lie.

“It’s not honest?” he says, his voice rising. “It’s a C-G-Am-F progression, Tori. It’s the foundation of half our songs. It’s what works. Why are you overthinking this?”

ASH

She’s pushing. Why? Why now? This is Greta Gerwig. This is our entire career. This is the one time we cannot afford to get… weird. We have to be Tori and Ash. We have to be the pros, the two-headed-monster, the creative telepaths. But she’s trying to make it personal. She’s trying to make it about us.

“You’re overthinking it!” I say, standing up from the keyboard, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “We don’t need to reinvent ourselves just because it’s a movie. We just need to deliver our sound! Why are you trying to make this so complicated? Why can’t we just stick to what works?”

Why are you pushing this? I’m screaming internally. Why are you trying to break the one thing that’s perfect?

TORI

He’s yelling. He never yells. The tension in the room is suffocating, it’s all the unspoken words from the plane ride, all the subtext from the movie, all the sexual energy from six years of forced platonic partnership, and it’s all boiling over, disguised as a fight about a chord progression.

"Because ‘what works’ isn’t working anymore! New York wasn’t an accident, and I’m not talking about the show and Greta Gerwig. I’m talking about the song. We wrote it differently, and I don’t know if it was the stress, the lack of sleep, or something else, But things changed, and it changed us for the better. I can’t sit here and write a song about a telepathic, intimate, all-consuming creative love with you… and pretend that’s all it is!"

I’m shaking, my fists clenched. He’s staring at me, his chest heaving, waiting for me to back down, to be the ‘cool girl,’ to just write the damn song.

“Because it’s not honest,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet, which I know hits him harder than a shout.

You’re not being honest, I’m screaming in my head. With me. With yourself.

I can't do this. I can’t write a lie.

I grab my jacket from the back of the amp, my movements sharp and jerky.

“Tori, don’t—” he starts.

“I can’t,” I say, cutting him off. “I can’t write to this.”

I walk out and slam the studio door behind me. I half-expect him to follow, to grab my arm. He doesn’t. I stand in the hallway, the silence of his house ringing in my ears, and I have no idea if I just destroyed our song, our career, or the most important relationship in my entire life.

ASH

The studio is empty. It’s been twenty-four hours since she slammed the door, and the silence is so total it has a sound. It’s the sound of failure. Of a promise broken. I’m staring at the keyboard, at the empty chair where she’s supposed to be. The song is dead. The entire project is dead.

And I know, with a clarity that feels like a shard of glass in my gut, that she was right.

The music was hollow. Because I was being hollow. I was the one being dishonest. I saw us on that screen—our magic, our secret language—and I got scared. I ran right back to the one thing I thought was safe: our old dynamic. I tried to hide us from ourselves. And in doing so, I’ve broken the one thing I was trying to protect. I can’t write this song without her. I can’t imagine writing any song without her.

My fingers are shaking as I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over her name. This is it. This is either the end of us or the beginning of something terrifying.

Ash: You were right. It's hollow. I was scared. Can we try again? Your way.

I hit send and feel like I’m going to be sick.

TORI

I’m curled up on my sofa, convinced I’ve just detonated my entire life. My career. My friendship. The one relationship that mattered. I’m crying, not because he was an asshole, but because I wanted him to be one. I wanted him to follow me, to yell, to prove to me that what we had was worth fighting for, that he saw what I saw in the movie theater. But he just let me go.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I slowly reach for it, terrified it will be Ash. Desperate it will be Ash.

Ash: You were right. It's hollow. I was scared. Can we try again? Your way.

I read the text once. Twice. My tears are for a different reason now, a dizzying, terrifying wave of relief. Your way. He knows what that means. It’s not just about a different chord progression. It’s about honesty. It’s about facing the thing we saw in that screening room. It’s about the mirror.

This is scarier than the fight. But I can’t run from it.

Tori: I'm on my way.

ASH

When she walks back into the studio, the air is electric. The anger is gone, but the tension is still there, humming between us, low and dangerous. She’s wary, her arms crossed over her chest. I don’t blame her.

I’ve rearranged the room. The keyboards, the computers, the amps—they’re all off. I’ve just put two simple stools in the middle of the floor, facing each other. The acoustic is in my hands. A single notebook is on the floor. No technology. No hiding.

“Okay,” I say, my voice sounding rough in the quiet. “No more hiding. You said it was dishonest. You were right. I was… I was trying to hide. But that’s not what the song is.”

I look her right in the eye, forcing myself to be as brave as she was. “Forget the movie.” She tilts her head not knowing where I’m going. I hold up my hand. “Just trust me.” She nods. “We’re not going to write about the couple in the movie.” 

TORI

He’s terrified. I can see it in the way he’s gripping the neck of the guitar, his knuckles white. But he’s not running. He’s here, open and vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen. This is the Ash from the car. This is the man who hears the music in my head.

My fear gives way to a strange, sharp focus. He’s right. This is the only way.

“Okay, Ash,” I say, walking over and taking my stool. The two feet of space between us feels like a canyon and no space at all. “If we’re not going to write about the couple in the movie.” I take a breath, the most dangerous question of my life is forming on my lips, and it’s dangerous because I already know the answer. “Who are we going to write about?” 

ASH

She’s asking me a question, but I know it’s actually an invitation. I put my fingers on the strings. I don’t play our old progression. I play something new. A minor chord, dark and questioning and full of the tension in this room. I look up at her, holding her gaze, and I sing the first line that comes, a rough, low confession.

“Was it a promise… or a secret… or a line we couldn’t cross…”

Her eyes. God, her eyes. She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t flinch. She’s right here with me. She’s in the fire.

TORI

The chord vibrates through my chest. He’s not hiding. He’s confessing. The music is our shield, our permission slip. My mind is racing, and I find the harmony almost without thinking, my voice breathy, fitting into the space he left for me.

“Six years of silence… afraid of the cost…”

My gaze is locked on his. This isn't a song. This is our conversation, the one we should have had five years ago. His eyes are so intense it feels like a physical touch. He's not just harmonizing; he's answering me. He’s answering the question we both asked over and over again but never heard. 

He strums again, a little harder, the tempo pushing.

“I read the book of you, memorized every page…”

“But we stay in character, stuck on the stage…” I sing back, the lyric a painful, honest truth.

The music swells. The lyrics are pouring out of us now, a torrent of every unspoken, forbidden thought.

“I’ve always wanted to…” he sings, his voice cracking with a raw emotion that’s not performance, “just see what’s in your eyes…”

“I’ve always wondered…” I answer, my voice trembling, “what it feels like when you…”

I stop. I can’t finish the line. The air is too thick, the admission too real. My eyes drop to my hands, my hair falling forward like a curtain.

ASH

She stops singing. The music hangs in the silence, an unresolved chord. The only sound in the room is our breathing, shallow and fast. She’s hiding her face, but I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.

This is it. This is the honesty. This is the song.

I have to know. I have to see her.

I slowly, silently, put the guitar down on the floor. She's in her chair, I'm in mine. I lean forward, bridging the small, agonizing gap between us.

“Tori,” I whisper.

She looks up. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted. She’s not my partner. She’s not my friend. She’s the only person in the world.

I’m an inch away. I can feel the warmth of her skin, the soft exhale of her breath. My entire universe narrows to this one point, this one, inevitable, terrifying second.

TORI

He’s leaning in. It’s happening. After six years. He’s going to kiss me. He’s finally going to kiss me. My entire body is a single, screaming nerve, and it’s all shouting YES.

But as his lips are a millimeter from mine, a cold, sharp panic, familiar and gutting, cuts through the heat.

The music. The song. Greta.

If we do this, if we cross this line for real, and it goes wrong… it’s over. Everything. This magic, this telepathy, this thing that makes us us… it will shatter. It will be replaced by awkwardness, by resentment, by the ghost of what we had. It will be destroyed.

Just as his lips are about to touch mine, I turn my head, the motion jerky, agonizing.

“Ash,” I whisper, the word breaking. “We can’t.”

Please don’t listen to me. Please, just do it.

ASH

Her words hit me like a physical blow. "We can't."

I freeze, my body locked, an inch from her face. I can see the tears welling in her eyes, the agony of her decision, and I know she’s right. She’s always been the one to protect us.

I pull back, and the space between our chairs feels like a thousand-mile-wide chasm. The rejection is a cold, sharp ache in my chest.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice hollow, unrecognizable. I clear my throat. “You’re… you’re right. The partnership. It’s… it’s everything.”

I look away from her, at the guitar on the floor. We did it. We wrote the song. It’s perfect. It’s honest. It’s the best thing we’ve ever done.

And it has cost us everything.

ASH

It’s been a full day since she walked out, and the silence of the studio is absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket. The song is sitting right there on the hard drive—90% finished, brilliant, and completely un-saveable. It’s missing its ending. It’s missing its resolution.

I’m staring at the empty stool where she always sits, her coffee-cup ring still on the side table. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in a self-imposed hell, coming to a single, gut-wrenching conclusion.

She was right. I was the one who was dishonest. I was the one who got scared when I saw our reflection in that movie. I saw our magic, our telepathy, and I was so terrified of naming it that I tried to lock it back in its "work-only" cage. I was the one who broke it.

I can’t write this song without her. The thought is so clear, so final, that it stops my breath. It’s not even a creative admission. It’s a fact. I can’t write any song without her. I can’t imagine my life without her.

My fingers are shaking as I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over her name. This is it. This is the last chord. It’s either the end of us, or it’s the beginning of... something else. Something terrifying.

Ash: You were wrong. The song's not finished.

I hit send and feel the blood drain from my face.

TORI

I’m on my couch, convinced I’ve just committed career suicide. I didn’t just walk out on a song. I walked out on Greta Gerwig. I walked out on Ash. I walked out on us. My phone buzzes on the coffee table, the sound so violent it makes me jump. I lunge for it.

Ash: You were wrong. The song's not finished.

I read the text once. Twice. My tears start again, but this time they’re for a different reason. A dizzying, terrifying wave of hope. He’s not talking about the song. Not really. He’s talking about us. This is scarier than the fight. This is the surrender.

Tori: I'm on my way.

ASH

When she walks back into the studio, the air is so thick with unspoken words it’s barely breathable. I cross the studio in two strides. I’m standing in front of her. She smells like... Tori. Like vanilla and guitar strings and safety. My hand comes up. I tangle my fingers in her soft hair and tilt her head back. My other hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against me. I feel her sharp, sudden inhale.

I kiss her.

It's not a kiss. It’s six years of unspoken, repressed, agonizing want. My mouth is desperate, hungry, claiming hers. This isn't my buddy. This isn't my partner. This is the other half of my soul, and I’ve been starving. My tongue tastes her lips and then her tongue, and it’s no longer a kiss, it's a song. She moans into my mouth, her body melting against me, her hands grabbing my shirt. I feel the hard, immediate press of my cock against her stomach. 

TORI

He’s finally, finally kissing me. And it’s a million times better than my dreams. It’s raw, and it’s him. It’s Ash, but it’s an Ash I’ve never known, unleashed and full of a demanding passion that I’m meeting with my own. His taste is intoxicating. I moan, pressing myself closer, needing to feel all of him. And, oh my god, do I feel him. His cock, which I’ve dreamt about and--although I would never have admitted it to myself--I’ve fantasized about, is pressing against me. 

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his lips open, his eyes burning with desire. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and sits me on the edge of his workstation, scattering lyric sheets across the floor.

He’s standing between my spread legs. His hands slide up my thighs. I can feel how hot his palms, even through the material of my jeans. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my jeans, his gaze locked on mine. "I've been dreaming about this," he whispers. He doesn't rip them off. He unbuttons them slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, and pulls the zipper down with an agonizingly slow zzzzzzp.

As he slowly undresses me, I whisper, “So have I.”

He tugs my jeans and panties down my legs in one motion. He tosses them aside, and then kneels.

My heart stops. He looks at my pussy, exposed and glistening in the dim studio light. The smell of my arousal, sharp and sweet, fills the air between us. He looks up at me, and his smile is the smile of hundreds of nights and hundreds of stages, a smile of us knowing and connecting on stage. It bursts my heart. But then… he buries his face in me.

ASH

She’s so wet. The taste of her is a revelation—musky, sweet, and absolutely addictive. I try to be gentle, but I’m ravenous. I want to taste all of her. Immediately. I’m making up for years. I need to touch every part of her with my tongue. I lightly flick my tongue against her clit. I circle it, then suck it, my hands gripping her thighs, holding her open for me. I can feel her body tense, her fingers twisting in my hair, pulling me closer. It’s not just pleasure; it’s music. I’m setting a rhythm, a driving, relentless beat. I’m playing her body, and she’s screaming my name.

TORI

His mouth is electric. His tongue is a bass line, a perfect, driving beat against my clit that’s making my vision go white. I’m close, too close, too fast. I can feel the orgasm building, a wave of heat that’s about to crash.

“Ash!”

He pulls back, leaving me suspended, panting, on the very edge. He stands up, his cock straining against the fly of his jeans. He kisses me again, and I taste myself on him. It’s the most decadent, intimate flavor in the world. He rips his own shirt off over his head, then works at the button of his jeans.

I’m too impatient. I push forward, grab his hands away, and unfasten them myself. I pull down his zipper, and he’s free. He’s hard and hot and real. I wrap my hand around his cock, and it’s like my hand was made to hold him. I stroke him once, and a low groan tears from his throat.

I push him back and slide down to kneel in front of him. I take his cock in my hand and just lose myself in the feeling of it. It’s so hard and yet so soft. I rub the head of his cock against my lips. Against my cheeks. I slide it all over my face wanting to just FEEL it everywhere. I kiss the head and then take him inside my mouth. 

Ash moans as I slide him in and out, and my orgasm again builds as he takes my hair in his hands and starts to thrust into my mouth. He’s gentle and not so much fucking my mouth as exploring it.

ASH

I love the feel of her tongue. The feel of her lips. I’ve watched those lips move for years, producing them most extraordinary music that made my heart hurt at its beauty, and now they are making my heart beat fast with pleasure. I slowly pull out, and she looks up at me. We are so connected and in tune that I know what those eyes are saying. They're saying “fuck me,” and I realize it’s the only thing I’ve ever truly needed. 

I slide down to my knees to face her.

TORI

His hand is against the back of my head as we kiss as he leans forward. He is slowly lowing me to the floor. I lie back and stretch and spread my legs. He is kneeling between them, his hard cock glistening in the soft lights of the studio. He leans forward, and I close my eyes taking it all in. 

This is the stage.

ASH

I enter her slowly, and it’s like every nerve is connected to her in some way. The pure pleasure of feeling her pussy pressed around me as I slide deeper and deeper is a feeling of… completion. Of a chord finally resolving. She’s warm and wet and unbelievably tight, clutching me, her body welcoming me home. I watch her face as I slide deep into her. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her expression one of pure, agonizing bliss.

I pull out, almost all the way, just to feel the exquisite torture of pushing back in. She gasps. This is our rhythm. I start to move. Slow. Deliberate. I’m setting the tempo.

TORI

I feel every deliciously agonizing moment of him slowly sliding into me. It’s all I can feel. He’s purposefully focusing all of our pleasure on just that—his cock slowly sliding in and out. He’s setting the tempo, and I follow without thinking. Our bodies, like our voices, just know. He speeds up, and my hips are already there, meeting his thrusts. He changes the angle, and I’m already arching into him. This isn’t just sex. We’re composing.

He leans down, and his mouth finds my breast, sucking my nipple in perfect time with his thrusts. His hand finds my clit, his thumb starting its own relentless rhythm. Cock, mouth, thumb. He’s twisted above me and playing me like he plays the guitar, with a virtuosity that is breathtaking. It’s a three-part harmony, and I’m coming apart.

“Ash, please, I’m—”

“I know,” he groans. He’s pounding into me now, a driving, powerful beat. He’s fucking me hard, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

ASH

I can feel her every breath. I can feel the tensing of every muscle. It’s like her body is mine. Her orgasm is building, her pussy is squeezing my cock. She’s screaming my name, and it pushes me over the edge. I feel my own release building, a tidal wave of six years of waiting.

I come with a deep shout, emptying myself into her. And just as my muscles pulse, my cock throbbing inside her, I feel her own orgasm seize my cock, tightening around me as her body convulses around mine. It’s the final, perfect harmony.

TORI

We collapse, a tangled, panting, sweaty mess on the studio floor, surrounded by our instruments, amplifiers, and sound-proofed walls. I smile. Thank god for sound-proofed walls. 

He’s lying on his back, his arm heavy and perfect across my waist. The moment is too perfect. I don’t want to ruin it and am too terrified to speak.

“So… now what?” he whispers, the old fear just a tiny, fading echo.

I hear the question. Did we just ruin everything? I lift my head, my hair a wild, damp mess, my body aching in the most wonderful way. I look at him, at his beautiful, worried face. I finally realize something important. There’s nothing to ruin. We are exactly where we want to be. A slow, incredibly happy smile spreads across my face.

“Now what?” I repeat. “I don't care.”

And as I say the words “I don’t care,” an unbidden thought enters my mind. It’s a perfect harmony of lyrics and music. It’s so clear. It’s RIGHT THERE.

I scramble to my feet, naked and glorious in the dim studio light.

ASH

I just watch her, my heart so full I think it might burst. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She scrambles to my feet, and I’m terrified that she’s having regrets and will rush out of the room, leaving me. “Tori…?”

“Shhh,” she says. She doesn’t rush out of the room. She walks over to the guitar stand, her body still glistening and naked, and picks up my acoustic. She slings the worn leather strap over her shoulder, the dark wood of the guitar barely covering her breasts.

I just stare, my voice thick with awe. “You… naked… playing my guitar.” I let out a shaky laugh. “That is, without a doubt, the single hottest thing I have ever seen.”

She just strums a single, perfect, resolved C-major chord. It rings out in the quiet room.

“We need an ending for the song, Ash,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “And I found it.” 

I look at her, this incredibly sexy woman standing there playing a guitar completely naked, and as she turns to me, this perfect joining of us, our music, our desire, our love, all laid bare just for me. She says, “WE found it.”

TORI

The theater is vast and dark, the air hushed. I should be watching the movie, this film that has consumed our lives for the last six months, but I can't. I'm watching Ash. He’s sitting next to me in a suit that I know he hates, his eyes fixed on the screen, his profile lit by the flickering images. My hand is in his, our fingers laced together on the plush velvet armrest. I feel the steady, reassuring tap of his thumb against my finger.

The whirlwind since that day in the studio has been insane—a frantic, joyful blur of recording sessions, meetings with lawyers, and a new record deal. We finished the song, the real, honest version, in a single, breathless take. But all of it feels secondary, like noise happening in another room. The only thing that has felt truly real is this. His hand in mine.

ASH

I’m pretending to watch the movie, but all my senses are tuned to her. The scent of her perfume. The soft sound of her breathing. The way her hand feels, small and warm, anchored to mine. My mind flashes back to that moment on the studio floor—the raw, terrifying honesty, the way she looked, naked and holding my guitar, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The song that came from that moment... it was the best, most honest thing we've ever written. It was the truth.

Now, the movie is ending. The final, heartbreaking scene fades to black. The theater is suspended in a moment of perfect, respectful silence.

And then, I hear it.

The sound of my own acoustic guitar, the simple, minor chord we found in my studio, fills the vast, dark room.

TORI

Our song begins. My voice, breathy and vulnerable, weaves with his, our harmonies as interlocked as our fingers. It sounds... perfect. It’s the sound of our six years of silence, of our fear, of our final, explosive surrender. It’s the sound of us.

The credits begin to roll. I see our names appear on the screen, a line of white text that changes everything:

Original Song Written & Performed by Tori & Ash

A tear slips down my cheek. I’m overwhelmed, not by the screen, but by the hand that tightens on mine. I turn to look at him.

ASH

I feel her turn and I look away from the screen. In the dim glow of the credits, I see her face. The tears on her cheeks. The smile that's just for me.

This song might be a hit. It might win awards. It might change our entire career. But as I look at her, I know, with an absolute certainty that settles deep in my bones, that it doesn't matter. None of it does.

All that matters is her. Is us. 

And at that moment I feel it. She is tapping her finger onto the back of my hand, a syncopated beat. She’s writing a song as the credits roll. I squeeze her hand. I know that song.

It’s the one that will never end.