Riven Hale

“The Sound Between the Notes” like jazz in a half-empty bar and the slow ache of want.

---

It was the kind of summer night that stuck to your skin. New York City glistened with sweat and smoke, a hundred stories pressing into the skyline, and somewhere on a quiet street, behind heavy velvet curtains and glass that dulled the world outside, jazz melted like candle wax over the dim-lit floors of a forgotten bar.

A band was playing something slow, saxophone curling like a sigh through the air, and laughter crackled from corners. Phones flashed. Someone was singing along. But in the very back, hidden in the deep shadow of a green velvet couch, sat Riven.

Black hoodie, ripped jeans, the ghost of whiskey on his breath — he didn’t come here to be seen. His friend had dragged him along in search of something pretty. Riven had tagged along like fog, unbothered, untouched. The kind of man people glance at twice, but never approach first. He had a reputation — distant, brooding, that mysterious ex-musician vibe that people wrote Tumblr posts about years ago. And maybe he liked being that myth. Maybe he didn’t.

He was halfway through a glass of something cheap when he slid off the couch and walked to the bar — slow, heavy-footed, like music winding down. That’s when she found him.

Tight black dress. Chin raised. A smirk tugging at her painted lips.

“Could you give me your number?”

He blinked once. Then again. The question cut through the jazz like a sharp note. His eyes trailed down to her, amused, curious.

"Why the sudden boldness?" he asked, voice low, words touched with velvet disinterest. "And why do you need my number? I probably won’t even answer."

She rolled her eyes like he was a joke, handed over her phone without ceremony. He took it — long fingers brushing against hers — and with a slow sip of whiskey, typed his number. No name. Just numbers. Maybe she’d guess the rest.

She blew him a kiss and vanished into her little crowd of sequined friends. He watched, not quite smiling. Something about her — not beauty, but intention — lingered.

Later, outside, the night smelled like asphalt and smoke. He and his friend stood waiting for a taxi, still half-laughing. And there she was again, in a knot of people, her laughter brighter than the others. He glanced once. Then again. No thinking — just instinct. As he passed, he leaned in and murmured, almost against her ear:

“Just don’t give my number to everyone.”

Her breath caught. But he didn’t wait for a reaction. He slipped into the cab like smoke under a door.

---

Hours later, back in his apartment, the air stale and warm, Riven sat shirtless on the couch. The city hummed outside his open window. His guitar rested against his thigh, and his fingers strummed something low, unfinished — the kind of melody that sounds like a memory. A few notes. Then silence. Then again.

His phone lit up. And then again.

He ignored it.

Until curiosity won.

"Hey, handsome Riven, what are you doing?" 21:20 "And yes, I didn't show your number to my friends, I decided to say that you didn’t give it to me."

He stared at the screen, a little stunned, as if the message had hands and had touched him.

Then slowly, with a whiskey-warmed sigh, he typed:

“Hi, that is — good evening again. I’m glad that at least you kept me a secret. What’s your name?”

He winced. That wasn’t right.

And then, because the silence was worse than shame, he added:

“Oh, and… that black dress suits you.”

He groaned softly, collapsing back into the cushions, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

His fingers hovered above the phone, waiting for her reply. And somewhere, in the low thrum of the night, the band kept playing — a cigarette song after sex. Just enough warmth to want more. Just enough smoke to keep it dangerous.