Heart By Heart Chapter Seventeen: The Life We Built
Heart By Heart Chapter Seventeen: The Life We Built
From the outside, their life looked like something out of a dream. The kind you only half-remember after waking. Soft edges. Warm light. Familiar rhythms. They shared a toothbrush cup, a calendar on the fridge, and a shoe rack that never stayed organized. Most mornings started the same: Kat in one of his oversized shirts, coffee brewing, music playing low. Joe barefoot in the kitchen, humming a melody that hadn't made it into a song yet.
There were Post-its on the cabinets.
Inside jokes scribbled onto receipts.
Her perfume on his hoodie sleeves.
His guitar picks in the laundry.
Like how she always poured his second cup of coffee without asking. How he always pulled her into a spin when the microwave beeped. How she hummed when she did her eyeliner, and how he always kissed her temple before a show.
And they had love. Still.
That was the most important part.
There were nights they laughed until 2AM, tangled on the couch in a pile of pillows and takeout boxes. Nights they slow-danced barefoot in the hallway just because the lights were off and the music felt right. Nights she whispered things against his neck that made him want to write a hundred songs all at once.
And most days, he knew she loved him too.
But lately, there were moments.
Like when she lingered in the shower a little longer, and came out with red-rimmed eyes. "Just tired," she'd say, wrapping herself in one of his old sweatshirts. "The water helps."
Like when she started taking more work calls in the other room. Not secretive. Just... separate. She said it was deadlines. Time zones. Big projects.
She still cuddled up beside him afterward. Still kissed his cheek. But Joe noticed the way her phone never left her side.
Or how her "I love you" still came every night... but some nights, it came after a pause. Soft. Automatic.
The love was still there.
But it felt like she had—just slightly.
One morning, she was making oatmeal at the stove in her robe, humming to herself, hair messy and skin glowing in the window light.
Joe came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her shoulder.
She leaned back into him, smiling.
"Smells like cinnamon," he said.
"Because it is," she teased. "Genius observation."
He grinned. "You're cute when you are sassy."
Kat laughed, setting her spoon down and turning in his arms. "You're cute when you cling to me like a backpack."
"I am your backpack," he said, voice low, leaning in to kiss her.
She kissed him back, warm and lingering, arms sliding around his neck.
And in that moment, everything felt right again.
But then, a few days later, she skipped a gig.
Headache. Exhausted. Sorry, babe. Kill it tonight. I love you.
Joe smiled at the message. Told her it was okay.
But when he walked onstage, he looked toward the front left corner anyway.
Out of habit. Out of hope.
She still showed up the next week. Still clapped. Still kissed him after.
But she stood near the bar now. Not the front. Not their spot.
He told himself it was nothing.
Still, when he played her a new song in the living room—one he'd written with her in mind, all bare feet and reverence—he watched her reaction a little more carefully than usual.
"That was sweet," she said, curled up on the couch. "Very... soft boy of you."
Joe laughed. "Soft boy, huh?"
"I mean that in the best way."
"You used to call it soulful."
Kat smirked and tossed a pillow at him. "Don't be sensitive."
But that night, as they got ready for bed, he caught himself staring at the back of her head while she brushed her teeth.
Trying to remember the last time she stole his hoodie without asking.
Later that night they relaxed and Joe wrote in his songbook.
The record player spun low in the background, some dreamy guitar instrumental playing on vinyl, its scratchy warmth wrapping around the room like a blanket.
Joe sat cross-legged on the floor with his notebook resting against one knee, pencil tapping lightly as he searched for the next line. A half-sipped cup of coffee sat beside him, long forgotten.
Behind him, Kat was stretched out on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt, her bare legs tangled in a throw blanket. She twirled a piece of his hair around her finger, then smoothed it down slowly, again and again.
"You keep doing that," Joe murmured, eyes still on the page, voice low and half-smiling.
"I know," she said lazily. "It's soft."
Joe glanced over his shoulder, curls bouncing slightly as he tilted his head back to look at her. "Maybe that's the lyric," he said. "You distract me dangerously."
Kat smirked. "Sounds like a problem."
"It is," he said, turning back to his notebook with a smile she couldn't see — the kind he got when she filled up his whole head without trying.
Her hand drifted lower, gently combing through the back of his hair again, and he closed his eyes just for a second. Let it settle.
"You're quiet," she said after a moment, her voice soft like it didn't want to break whatever spell they were in.
"Just thinking," Joe replied. "About how I always write better when you're nearby."
He tapped the pencil once, then scribbled something new. Kat peeked over the edge of the couch, reading upside down.
"Is that a line about me?" she teased.
"They're all about you," he said, not looking up.
Her fingers paused in his hair.
Joe turned, fully now, resting his arm along the side of the couch and meeting her eyes.
"I don't think I've ever been this in it before," he said. "Like... I used to write about love the way people wrote about oceans. Pretty, big, impossible. But with you? It's different. It's specific."
Kat blinked, stunned by the softness in his voice, the honesty in his face.
He smiled again, this time slower. "It's scrambled eggs with cinnamon. Your lipstick on my coffee mug. You playing with my curls while I write."
He reached up, laced their fingers together, and kissed her knuckles.
"It's you," he whispered. "It's always been you."
Kat didn't say anything. Just pulled his hand gently to her chest and held it there like an anchor.
And in that quiet, golden moment, Joe leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes, letting her warmth and the weight of the moment hold him steady.
The next morning, he made her pancakes.
Sliced strawberries the way she liked. Played her favorite vinyl in the background. Left her coffee in the floral mug she claimed the first week she moved in.
When she walked into the kitchen, hair damp from her shower, still buttoning her blouse, she paused at the counter and smiled.
"Course I did," he said, flipping one. "It's a Thursday. Big day energy."
Kat stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "I love you, you know that?"
He nodded, kissed her hand.
He felt it in the way she curled into him at night, in the way she kissed him behind the ear when he made her laugh. In how she still reached for his hand in the dark without looking.
But sometimes—quietly, barely—Joe noticed the spaces between those things. The pauses. The moments that used to be filled with certainty, now softened around the edges.
But lately, he found himself holding her a little closer, just in case.
