He's not my dad

part 9

Chuck’s studio was exactly what I expected—raw brick walls, low lighting, the faint smell of smoke and something clean beneath it. Minimal furniture. A worn leather sofa. Floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city like it was something to be conquered.
The door barely shut behind us before his mouth was on mine again.
This kiss wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was hungry.
His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my jaw as if he needed to feel that I was real. I responded without thinking, rising onto my toes, fingers fisting in the fabric of his jacket. There was no hesitation between us, no polite pause. Just heat and momentum.
I could feel him everywhere—his body close, solid, unyielding. My back hit the wall, the cool brick a sharp contrast to the warmth of him. He broke the kiss only long enough to rest his forehead against mine, breath heavy, uneven.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice rough.
I laughed softly, breathless. “You haven’t even started.”
That was all it took.
His mouth traced along my jaw, down my neck, lingering just long enough to make my knees weak. My hands explored him with equal curiosity—broad shoulders, strong arms, the tension humming beneath his skin like he was barely holding himself together.
Every touch felt deliberate. Reverent. As if we were both memorizing each other through skin alone.
He guided me toward the couch, movements unhurried but sure, like he already knew where this was going and wasn’t afraid of it. I straddled him without thinking, the position drawing a low sound from his chest that sent a thrill straight through me.
His hands slid along my sides, thumbs brushing bare skin where my dress rode up. I shivered—not from nerves, but anticipation. From the way he looked at me like he was starving and I was the only thing on the menu.
“Still don’t know you,” I whispered against his mouth.
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You know enough.”
We kissed again—deeper this time, slower, as if savoring it. Time blurred. The city outside disappeared. There was only warmth, breath, the press of bodies moving closer and closer until there was no space left to close.
His hands stilled, just for a moment, resting at my waist, grounding us both.
“Stay,” he said quietly. Not a command. Not a question.
I didn’t answer with words.
I kissed him back, harder this time, and the rest of the world faded out completely.

.....

My phone alarm went off like a gunshot.
I shot upright, heart racing, the unfamiliar ceiling sending instant panic through me. Exposed brick. A skylight. Sunlight slicing across the room.
Oh God.
I wasn’t home.
I tangled in sheets that definitely weren’t mine, my dress nowhere in sight except for a flash of red draped over the back of a chair like evidence. My stomach dropped as reality came crashing in.
“I have to be at work in two hours,” I blurted out. “I don’t even have clothes. I don’t even have shoes. I—”
Chuck didn’t even open his eyes.
“Morning to you too,” he said lazily, amusement thick in his voice.
I swung my legs off the couch—because of course we’d ended up there—and ran a hand through my hair, which felt like it had been styled exclusively by chaos.
“This is not funny,” I insisted. “I’m wearing a ballgown. That’s not exactly business casual.”
He cracked one eye open, took me in slowly, then grinned.
“I disagree. You look phenomenal.”
I groaned. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said, finally sitting up. “But relax. Have a coffee. I’ll sort you out.”
“You cannot possibly have anything suitable for me to wear,” I said flatly.
He stood, stretched like a man entirely too pleased with himself, then turned back just long enough to press a slice of toast between my lips and shove a mug of coffee into my hands.
“Eat,” he ordered lightly. “Panic later.”
Then he disappeared toward a narrow hallway, already rifling through drawers.
I stood there blinking, toast halfway to my mouth, coffee warming my palms.
Despite myself, my shoulders relaxed.
The studio felt different in daylight. Softer. Lived-in.
I wandered slowly, taking it all in. Guitars lined one wall—some pristine, others scarred and worn like they’d lived full lives. A stack of amps sat near the window, cords coiled like sleeping snakes. Posters and framed vinyls filled the walls, names and faces I half-recognized, the kind of memorabilia you didn’t buy—you earned.
Music sheets were scattered everywhere. Scribbled notes. Lyrics crossed out and rewritten. A battered notebook lay open on the coffee table, a pen balanced across the page like it had been abandoned mid-thought.
He wasn’t just someone who liked music.
Music was the place he lived.
I smiled into my coffee, warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with caffeine.
From the bedroom, his voice drifted out. “Okay, don’t laugh.”
“Oh, I’m definitely laughing,” I called back.
He reappeared holding a bundle of clothes—oversized but clean, black and soft, like they’d been worn a hundred times and loved for it.
“Temporary solution,” he said. “You’ll survive.”
I raised an eyebrow. “This is you being helpful?”
“This is me preventing you from sprinting to work in couture,” he shot back.
I took the clothes, fingers brushing his, and something quiet passed between us. Not lust this time. Something gentler. Easier.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning more than just the clothes.
He smiled—not cocky, not teasing. Just real.
“Anytime, Taylor.”
And somehow, in a stranger’s studio apartment filled with guitars and morning light, the day didn’t feel quite so terrifying anymore.