It began with a letter.

Teddy had taken to leaving small notes for her—tucked between pages of poetry, slipped beneath scones in brown paper, folded like secrets in her coat pockets.

But this one was different.

It wasn't playful or witty.

It simply read:

"Come to The Blue Note after closing. No crowd. Just you. –T."

Evie traced the ink with her fingertip, the corners of her mouth lifting in quiet wonder.

She'd spent her afternoon pacing the library in circles, alphabetizing the same three shelves, unable to concentrate on a single sentence. Nora Mae gave her a knowing look and didn't ask questions—just handed her a ribbon for her hair and told her not to be late.

The Blue Note was nearly dark when she arrived.

Only a single row of candles lit the room, casting golden flickers across the bar and the stage. The chairs were stacked. The tables bare. The jazz posters on the walls looked like ghosts from another life.

But Teddy was there.

At the piano, as always—but dressed for something different. A deep blue shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, and no audience in sight but her.

She stepped inside, heart fluttering like a page caught in wind.

He looked up and smiled. "You came."

"I always do," she whispered.

He stood, pulled out a stool for her right beside the piano bench. "I wrote something. For you. It's... not finished. But maybe it doesn't have to be."

Evie sat, breath held.

And then he played.

It wasn't a grand melody.

It was quiet. Thoughtful. A little unsure of itself at first—like morning sunlight trying to break through clouds.

But then it grew warmer.

Wistful. Gentle. The kind of tune that curled around the heart and stayed there. The kind of music that didn't ask to be understood—it just was.

Evie closed her eyes, and it felt like he was telling her every unspoken thing.

That he saw her. That he treasured her. That every letter, every walk, every soft moment mattered.

When the final note faded, she opened her eyes, blinking back something bright and unshed.

Teddy didn't speak.

He just turned to her and offered his hand.

"Dance with me?"

They danced slowly, barefoot on the worn wood floor, surrounded by candlelight and the faint scent of polish and dust.

He held her like he'd been waiting to—for months, maybe longer. One hand at her waist, the other gently wrapped around her fingers.

No music played now. Just the memory of the song, echoing in both their hearts.

Evie leaned her head against his shoulder. "That melody... it felt like a story I didn't know I needed."

"It's yours," he murmured. "Every note. You've been writing it without knowing."

They swayed in silence.

No rush. No fear. No need for more than this moment.

And when he pulled back—just far enough to look into her eyes—he didn't ask. He waited.

Evie smiled, soft and sure.

And kissed him.

It wasn't dramatic.

It was steady. Warm.

The kind of kiss that feels like the exhale after a long, long breath. Like two people finally realizing they were always meant to find their way here.

And when they parted, Teddy rested his forehead against hers and whispered,

"You're my favorite story."

Evie smiled through her tears.

"And you're the music I didn't know I'd been writing."