The city was a bruise that night, its sky swollen with clouds that wept a steady drizzle, turning the streets into a mirror of flickering lights. Mann walked beside her, his boots splashing through puddles, his hand brushing hers until he dared to clasp it. Her fingers were cool, delicate as a bird's wing, and he felt her pulse beneath his thumb—a steady thrum that sang to him, Cassette, Cassette, Cassette. She didn't pull away, just glanced at him with those gray-green eyes, a smile tugging at her lips like a secret she wasn't ready to share.
They'd met again after the bookstore, a chance collision outside a library where she'd been clutching a tattered Keats, and he'd offered to carry it for her. Now, under the rain's soft percussion, their steps synced, and he marveled at her—her hair plastered to her cheeks in dark tendrils, her green sweater clinging to her shoulders, her breath fogging in the chill. She was a melody he couldn't shake, a tune that looped in his veins, and he'd follow it anywhere.
"You're quiet tonight," she said, her voice a velvet rasp that cut through the patter of rain. She tilted her head, water dripping from her lashes, and he wanted to catch each drop with his tongue, to taste the storm on her skin.
"I'm listening," he replied, squeezing her hand. "To you. The way you hum when you're nervous—three notes up, one down. The way you stir your tea counterclockwise, like you're unwinding time. You're a song, Cassette, and I'm learning every verse."
She laughed, sharp and bright, and it pierced him, a sound he'd kill to bottle. "You're strange, Mann," she said, but her eyes softened, and she stepped closer, their shoulders brushing. "I like strange."
They stopped under a streetlight, its glow casting her in gold and shadow, and he saw her quirks unfold like petals: the way she nibbled her lower lip when shy, leaving it pink and swollen; the way she tucked her hair behind her ear only for it to fall again, defiant. He reached out, slow as a prayer, and tucked it back himself, his fingers lingering on the curve of her jaw. Her skin was warm despite the cold, and she didn't flinch—just watched him, her breath hitching.
"Read me something," she said suddenly, nodding at the Keats he'd slipped into his jacket. "Out here, in the rain. Make it feel alive."
He pulled the book free, its pages damp but intact, and flipped to Ode to a Nightingale. His voice trembled as he began, low and reverent: "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…" The words wove through the drizzle, and she closed her eyes, swaying slightly, as if the poem were a thread pulling her closer. He stepped into her space, his free hand sliding to her waist, and kept reading: "Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget…"
She opened her eyes, and they were inches apart, her breath mingling with his. "Your beauty's a wound I'd bleed for, Cassette," he murmured, abandoning the book to cup her face. The rain streaked her cheeks like tears, and he couldn't resist—he leaned in, slow and deliberate, and kissed her.
Her lips were a revelation, salty from the rain, urgent against his, and she pressed into him, her fingers clutching his jacket as thunder growled overhead. The world shrank to her—her taste, peppermint and storm; her heat, seeping through his clothes; her sigh, a note that vibrated in his chest. He deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in her wet hair, the other pulling her flush against him, and she melted, her body a soft curve that fit his edges. It was their first kiss, and it felt like a vow, a seal he'd never break.
When they parted, gasping, she rested her forehead against his, rain dripping between them. "You're good at that," she whispered, her voice shaky, and he grinned, wild and unmoored.
"Only with you," he said, brushing his thumb over her swollen lip. "You're my muse, Cassette. My forever track."
She didn't question the nickname—didn't hear it, maybe, over the rain—but it thrummed in his skull, a chant that anchored him. They walked on, her head tipping to rest on his shoulder, and he felt invincible, her weight a tether he'd die to hold.
Later, in his apartment, the rain still drumming against the windows, he invited her in to dry off. The space was small, cluttered with books and candles, the air thick with the scent of wax and leather. She shed her soaked sweater, revealing a thin white shirt that clung to her, and he swallowed hard, his pulse a frantic beat. "You'll catch cold," he said, handing her a towel, but his eyes lingered—her collarbone, sharp and delicate; her arms, freckled like a star map.
She smirked, catching his stare. "You're not subtle, poet." But she stepped closer, dropping the towel, and tugged him toward the couch. "Warm me up, then."
He didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his lap, her thighs straddling his, and kissed her again, slower this time, savoring every inch. His hands roamed her back, tracing the knobs of her spine, and she arched into him, her fingers threading through his hair. "You're my map, Cassette," he whispered against her throat, "every line a road I'd follow to ruin." He peeled the damp shirt from her, kissing the scars she'd hidden—a faint slash on her ribs, a burn on her shoulder—each one a story he'd rewrite with his lips.
Her breath hitched as he pressed her down onto the couch, his body hovering over hers, reverent and hungry. "Mann," she gasped, her hands sliding under his shirt, nails grazing his skin, and he shuddered, her touch a spark that lit him ablaze. He kissed her chest, her stomach, her hips, worshipping every curve, every tremble, until she pulled him back to her mouth, their kisses a desperate dance. Their bodies tangled, skin on skin, her sighs a melody he conducted with trembling hands, her warmth a fire he'd stoke forever.
When they stilled, breathless and entwined, she curled against his chest, her heartbeat syncing with his. "This feels… big," she murmured, tracing circles on his arm. "Like it could swallow me."
"It will," he said, kissing her hair. "I'll make sure of it, Cassette. You're mine to keep spinning."
She drifted to sleep, her breath soft against his neck, and he stayed awake, watching her, memorizing the rise and fall of her chest. The rain had stopped, leaving a hush that felt sacred, and he slipped outside, the night cool against his flushed skin. He found a tree near his building, its bark rough under his fingers, and pulled his switchblade from his pocket. With careful strokes, he carved their initials—M and a swirling C—into the wood, the sap bleeding like a promise. "No one will unspool us, my Cassette," he whispered, pressing his lips to the cuts, tasting earth and resin.
Back inside, he slid beside her, pulling her close, her body fitting his like a missing piece. She stirred, mumbling his name, and he smiled, dark and certain. This was love—raw, consuming, a tape he'd play until it snapped. And if the world tried to stop it, he'd rewind it with blood.
The world shrank to her-peppermint and storm flavor; his body heat that seeped beyond clothes; the tune of her sigh that vibrated against his chest. He deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in her wet hair, the other pulling her flush against him, and she melted, her body a soft curve that fit his edges. Their first kiss and it was like a vow, like a seal he'd never break.
It was gasping for breath when they parted, and she leaned her forehead against his—the rain ran between them. "You're good at that," she said in a quivering whisper, and he grinned, wild and unmoored.
"Only with you," he said, his thumb brushing over her swollen lip. "You are my muse, Cassette. My forever track."
She had never questioned the name or perhaps hadn't even heard him over the rain, but it echoed in his skull like some chant of an anchor. They walked on with her head tilting on his shoulder, and he felt like he could quite literally take-the-world-on-his-shoulders.
He invited her in to dry then, that evening, when it still drummed on the windows. The room was small, full of books and candles, and the thick air was smelling of wax and leather. Then she took off her drenched sweater to reveal a thin white shirt that clung to her, and he had a hard swallow, his heartbeat racing. "You'll catch cold," he said as he handed her a towel, though his eyes roamed over her collarbone, sharp and delicate; her freckled arms like a star map.
She smiled, catching the look he gave her. "You're not being subtle, poet." The towel dropped as she moved closer and janked him toward the couch. "Warmed me up, then."
He didn't hold back. He pulled her over his lap, thighs straddling his, and kissed her again this time slowly, relishing every bit of it. Our hands roamed along her back, accompanied by the drag of fingers tracing the knobs of her spine, and she arched into him, threading her fingers through his hair. "You're my map, Cassette," he whispered against her throat. "Every line a road I'd follow to ruin." He peeled the wet shirt off her, kissing the scars she'd hidden - a faint slash on her ribs, a burn on her shoulder - each a story he'd rewrite with his lips.
Her breath caught in his kiss when she fell down on the couch, a body hovering over hers-with holiness and hunger. "Mann," she gasped, nails sliding under his shirt, attacking his skin, and he shuddered, her touch a spark that lit him aflame. "His kiss surrendered honors-smelling like fire in the chest, on the stomach, and every curve and twitched hips-worshipping the offshoots that will pull him back to the mouth of the shivered, desperate dance below. And there were bodies tangled-skin on skin, every sigh a melody that was conducted with trembling hands, warmth as fire he would stoke forever.
When they stilled, breathless and intertwined, she curled against his chest, her heartbeat syncing with his. "This feels big," she murmured, tracing circles on his arm. "Like it could swallow me."
"It will," he said, kissing her hair. "I'll make sure of it, Cassette. You're mine to keep spinning." She drifted into sleep with her breath warm on his neck while he stayed awake, watching her, memorizing the rise and fall of her chest. The rain had washed into silence, a silence that felt sacred, and he slipped outside into the night cool against his flushed skin. He found a tree not far from the building, its bark rough under his fingers, and pulled out his switchblade. He carved their initials through the bleeding sap like a promise and whispered to himself, "No one will unspool us, my Cassette," pressing his cuts with his lips, tasting earth and resin.
He moved inside and slid beside her, pulling her close, fitting like a missing piece. She woke, muttering his name and he smiled-dark and self-assured. That is what raw, devouring love is-a tape he will play till it slices. And should the world try to stop it, he would rewind it with blood.