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đź–¤ *Chapter Two: "Strings in the Dark"*
Melanie didn't plan on staying long.
The bar was rough around the edges — concrete walls, scuffed stools, the kind of place where the floor stuck slightly to your shoes. But the music…
God, the music.
It didn't ask anything of her. It just *was*. Loud. Cracked open. Free.
And then *he* stepped off the stage.
Guitar slung over his back, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched like the night owed him something. Hobie Reyes didn't just walk — he *moved* like chaos wrapped in denim and smoke.
He brushed past a few people without a word, headed for the back of the bar, and just as Melanie was about to leave, their eyes met again.
He stopped.
"You gonna stare or say something?" he asked.
She blinked. "You looked like you had something to say first."
Hobie tilted his head. "Maybe I was waiting to see if you were real."
Melanie snorted softly. "What makes you think I am?"
A beat. Then he smirked — slow, crooked. Dangerous.
"Guess I'll have to find out."
---
They talked.
Not about love. Or music. Or betrayal.
But about strange things — things that tasted like truth when spoken aloud.
He told her he hated love songs. Said they were just lies wrapped in a chorus.
She told him she used to write poetry in the margins of textbooks when she was twelve, and once burned a whole notebook because her mother found it and said, *"You feel too much for someone your age."*
"Maybe that's why your hands shake a little," he said quietly.
She blinked. "They do?"
Hobie took her hand. Just held it. No pretense. No moves.
"Not when I'm holding them," he said.
That moment could've meant everything or nothing. But it felt like a door cracked open. Just a sliver of something she hadn't felt in weeks:
*Choice.*
---
The next time she saw him, it wasn't by accident.
She went back to the bar — Tuesday night. The band was rehearsing.
It was loud. Raw. A mess of cords and shouting and laughter. Nothing like Miguel's wine-soaked silences and curated playlists.
Hobie caught sight of her and smirked like he'd expected her.
"Thought you said you don't hide," he teased over the guitar buzz.
"Maybe I just wanted to hear the truth shouted for once," she said, folding her arms.
He tossed her a mic.
"Let's see if you can scream it back."
---
Melanie stood on stage, not singing — *not yet*. But when Hobie started playing, everything in her ribs cracked open like thunder.
He wasn't flawless. He missed chords. He cursed mid-riff. But he played like the music owed him blood.
And Melanie?
She felt alive again.
Not desired. Not broken.
Just… present.
---
Later that night, as they sat on the hood of his car eating fries from a paper bag, Hobie finally asked:
"So, what happened with the professor?"
Melanie stared up at the sky — a sky too wide for answers.
"I was someone else's unfinished sentence," she said. "And I'm tired of being punctuation."
Hobie chuckled low. "Then let's make you a headline."
He didn't kiss her.
But she wanted him to.
Not because she needed to feel wanted.
But because *he didn't need her to be anyone else*.
---
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The night got colder, but Melanie didn't move.
She and Hobie sat side by side on the hood of his beat-up car, the city breathing somewhere in the distance, the last echo of rehearsal ringing in her ears. Her fingers were greasy from fries and ink-stained from the pen Hobie had given her.
"Write something," he'd said, passing her a crumpled notebook with a half-used page. "Anything. Doesn't have to rhyme. Doesn't even have to make sense."
She wrote in silence.
A few lines. Then crossed them out. Then wrote again.
Finally, she handed him the page.
He didn't read it out loud. Just nodded once and folded it into his jacket pocket.
"I don't keep things unless they hit," he said.
"And that did?"
He looked at her — really looked. "Like a brick to the chest."
Melanie felt something shift in her spine. Like maybe the version of herself who apologized for needing too much had finally stepped aside.
"You're trouble, Hobie Reyes."
"Same to you, Melanie Davis."
For a moment, they were quiet. Not awkward. Just full of too many things they weren't saying.
"You ever gonna kiss me?" she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Hobie shook his head. "Not tonight."
She arched a brow. "Why not?"
"Because you'd taste like him," he said.
It wasn't cruel. Just honest.
Melanie blinked. Then nodded.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel rejected. She felt *seen*.
---
That night, she went home alone — not because she had to.
But because for the first time in weeks, she *chose* to.
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