The evening sun slipped lazily beneath the horizon, casting a golden hue across Aiden Clarke's room. His curtains danced in the breeze, letting in soft, scattered rays. The mood was perfect—quiet, nostalgic, and just the right touch of inspiration.
Aiden leaned over his desk, scribbling furiously into his black notebook. His fingers were stained with ink. His guitar lay across his lap, a few chords still vibrating through the air.
He was writing a song. And it wasn't just any song.
It was about *her*.
Elena.
He didn't even bother lying to himself anymore. She was the muse behind every note, every lyric, every damn breath he took when he picked up his guitar these days.
The chorus came to him like a whisper:
**"You're a fire I watch from afar,
A star I could touch, but not hold.
You laugh like the sun,
But your love's not mine to unfold..."**
He paused. The weight of his words hung heavy in the room.
He strummed the final chords, recording everything on his laptop's interface. Then he adjusted his mic, cleared his throat, and began to sing softly—his voice raw, mellow, aching.
He poured every ounce of himself into the performance. No autotune, no flashy edits—just him, his guitar, and everything unsaid.
When he was done, he sat back with a breathless smile, and without overthinking, uploaded it to YouTube.
Title: *"Fire I Can't Touch"*
Description: *"For anyone who's ever loved in silence."*
He shut the lid of his laptop just as his phone buzzed.
*Elena.*
> *Hey boo, watcha doin'?*
Aiden snorted, a half-smile on his face.
"Speak of the devil," he muttered.
Without replying, he tapped her contact and pressed "Call."
She picked up immediately.
"El Clarka!" she greeted in a sing-song voice.
"Lana Banana," he replied, grinning. "Finally caught you at a moment that doesn't involve you typing away at your receptionist desk."
She laughed. "Oh, please. That place isn't that bad."
"How was the shift?" he asked, stretching out on his bed.
"It was alright," she said, and he could hear her rustling through clothes in the background. "Exhausting though."
"What're you doing? Sounds like you're fighting with your closet."
She groaned. "I'm trying to find something cute… but also not 'trying too hard'… to wear for tomorrow's coffee makeup thingy."
"…Coffee makeup thingy?"
There was a pause.
"You haven't told me about this yet," he added.
"Oh right," Elena said like it had just slipped her mind. "So… Mr. Lancaster—Sebastian—asked me out for coffee tomorrow."
Aiden sat upright so fast his phone nearly fell.
"…Wait. Wait, wait. Say that again."
"I'm going for coffee. With. My. Boss."
"Your boss, as in *Sebastian Lancaster*? As in *Mr. Tall-Dark-CEO-I-spilled-coffee-on*?"
Elena laughed. "Yes. That boss."
Aiden was quiet for a beat too long.
"Aiden?"
He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Just making sure I wasn't hallucinating. So he just… what? Asked you out?"
"He said it was to repay him for the coffee incident," she said. "Nothing formal or date-ish. Just coffee."
"Riiight." Aiden's voice was light, but anyone who knew him well enough could detect the edge beneath it. "And did he say what happens if you spill tea next? A five-course dinner and engagement ring?"
Elena burst into laughter. "Oh my God, stop!"
"I'm just saying!" he protested. "I know guys like him, Elena."
"Oh, come on," she said, still giggling. "He's been pretty respectful so far."
"*So far*," Aiden repeated. "Just… be careful, okay?"
"I will," she said. "But what do you think his *motive* is, though?"
Aiden sighed, lying back again. "Honestly? Maybe he's bored. Maybe he's genuinely nice. Or maybe…"
"Maybe?"
"You know how those rich people act. They're weird sometimes."
"Wow," Elena chuckled. "Aiden Clarke, son of a millionaire, calling other rich people weird. Bold of you."
"Yeah, but I'm the good kind of rich. You know, still eats bread and noodles. Still humbles himself with public transport on occasion."
Elena laughed harder. "You're ridiculous."
"But I *got you,*" he said suddenly, his voice dipping softer. "And I'd never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?"
She was quiet for a second, then answered gently, "I know, Aiden. You're my safe place."
The room fell into a soft pause. They both felt it—words left unsaid, hovering.
Elena broke the silence. "Anyway, I'll be careful. Promise."
"Yeah, you better be," Aiden said, forcing a playful edge back into his voice. "Or I'll have to storm the company dressed as a janitor and spy on you."
She laughed. "You'd make a terrible janitor."
"You wound me."
They both smiled on opposite ends of the phone.
"Anyway," he said, "I gotta prep for tonight. Me and the guys are heading to the club—gonna let loose, get some drinks, dance like idiots. You know, recharge."
"On a weekday?"
"Don't judge me," he said. "It's part of my creative process."
"I wish I could come," she said with a yawn. "But I'm spent. I'll probably pass out right after this call."
"You're working too hard, Lani."
She sighed. "Yeah, well. Dreams don't pay for themselves."
There was silence again, this time warm.
"Goodnight, El," Aiden said eventually. "Text me if anything feels off tomorrow. Even if it's just an awkward coffee order."
"I will," she promised.
"And… I uploaded something tonight," he added quickly.
"Oh? What kind of something?"
"A song. You'll know it when you hear it."
"Am I gonna cry?"
"Maybe."
"Then I'll listen when I wake up," she said, her voice growing sleepier. "Thanks for calling. You're the best."
"I know."
She laughed softly.
"Goodnight, Aiden."
"Goodnight, Elena."
And with that, she hung up.
Aiden stared at the ceiling long after.
Downstairs, his boys honked from the driveway.
He grabbed his jacket and keys, threw on some cologne, and checked his phone one last time.
The YouTube video was gaining traction. Hundreds of views already. Comments flooded in.
But the only one he cared about?
Was the one she hadn't left yet.
He closed his door behind him and walked out into the night, trying not to think about Sebastian Lancaster.
And Elena Morrison.
Together.
In a café.
Tomorrow.