Chapter 1: Hands on Her Neck
The studio hummed, a low thrum of synths left on standby, the air thick with the ghost of feedback and the stale, sweet smell of old whiskey. A single bare bulb threw long, dramatic shadows against walls lined with cracked vinyl sleeves and leaning guitar cases. Half-empty coffee cups dotted every surface, islands in a sea of scribbled-on notepaper.
On the worn leather couch, the edges still warm from hours of use, Henry and Ella were a tangle of limbs and quiet exhaustion. Her head rested against his chest, rising and falling with his breath; his hand absently stroked the line of her arm. The last hour had been all loose harmonies and whispered lyrics, a song about friction and silence that had left them both hollowed out and buzzing.“That line,” Henry said, his voice a soft rasp in the quiet room. “Your hands, the suggestion of a fence around my throat.”
Ella didn’t move, but he felt her breath catch. “Too much?”
“No.” His fingers trailed up from her arm, over the ridge of her collarbone, coming to rest not on her throat, but beside it, his thumb brushing her pulse.It hammered against his touch. “It’s just very specific.”
She was silent for a long moment.The synth drone seemed to grow louder. “It’s honest.”
Henry shifted, looking down at the top of her head. Dark hair with sun-bleached streaks fanned out across his threadbare t-shirt. “So be honest with me now.Not as a lyric.What do you like, Ella?