Chapter 3 Whispers and Vinyl

The next morning, Jane woke up to the sound of birds and her cat, Muffin, nudging her arm for breakfast. But her thoughts weren't on cat food or the weather. They were on Damien.

She tried to tell herself that it was silly. That he was just a neighbor, and that yesterday didn't mean anything. But something about the way he'd looked at her, the warmth in his voice when he said her name, it clung to her thoughts like perfume.

She opened her curtains and, without meaning to, glanced next door. There he was again-this time in a gray tank top, mowing his lawn. His arms flexed with every push of the mower, and Jane had to bite her lip to keep from smiling like a lovesick teenager.

"You're ridiculous," she muttered to herself.

But her heart didn't seem to care.

She spent the rest of the day cleaning the kitchen but found herself pausing by the window far too often. That afternoon, when she walked to her mailbox, she caught Damien doing the same.

Their eyes met again.

"Hey, neighbor," he said with a crooked smile.

"Hey," she replied, suddenly aware of her messy ponytail and old sneakers.

"You free tonight? Thought you might want to hear that Nina Simone record we talked about."

Her stomach flipped.

"Sure," she said, trying not to sound too eager. "I'd love that."

That night, Damien lit a few candles, and Jane sat on the floor of his living room surrounded by records, warm lights, and the scent of cinnamon incense.

Nina's voice filled the space, smooth and rich.

They didn't talk much at first. They didn't need to.

Music said the things they didn't yet have the courage to.

Then he asked, quietly, "So what's your story, Jane Whitmore?"

She told him about her childhood, her small dreams, her failed engagement, and her fear of becoming invisible.

He listened.

Really listened.

And then he shared his own.

How his father had worked two jobs to put him through college. How being the only Black teacher in a mostly white district wore on him some days. How music kept him sane.

Their stories wove together like threads of the same cloth-different colors, same fabric.

At one point, Jane reached for a record and brushed against Damien's hand. He didn't pull away.

She looked up.

He looked down.

The air thickened.

Slowly, he leaned in.

She met him halfway.

Their first kiss was soft. Tender. A question and an answer all at once.

When they pulled apart, Jane felt dizzy-and not from the wine.

She smiled. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

He grinned. "Probably."

They laughed, but it didn't erase the weight between them. It only softened it.

Later that week, the whispers began.

Mrs. Callahan told the mailman. The Bakers whispered behind coffee mugs. Her mother called, asking why she hadn't been to church in two Sundays.

Jane pretended not to notice.

But Damien noticed.

One night, as they sat on her porch, he said, "Are you sure about this? About me?"

She looked at him, her fingers wrapped around his. "Are you?"

He didn't answer with words. He kissed her again.

And that was enough.

For now......