Author's Notes: Angstangstangst. Because lbr, it wouldn't be me if it weren't. This wouldn't leave me alone after 1x02. I really love second-person pov too and it's rare that I use it, so I'm glad it seemed to want to work for this fic! Also, I have to admit, it's pretty cool to write the first Rayna/Deacon fic I've seen. And as always, critiques welcomed and appreciated!


When you sing with him, you remember why you love him.

You remember being twenty-three and loving him fiercely. You remember the way his eyes on you made you feel like the only woman in the world, and the way you he made you feel love through his songs.

They're about you, after all.

You remember when his lips were yours, and you remember stealing kisses in between songs, much to the delight of the audiences, and how it was never an act, never needed to be an act.

There's a reason you don't play these songs anymore and it has surprisingly little to do with fact that you have more successful material now (which is what you tell people anyway). You just don't do these thingswith him and you know that, so you wonder what made you agree to it tonight. Maybe you thought everything you've ever felt for him was pushed so deep down that it'd never come bubbling back to the surface, and the flame was burned out long enough with no hope to be rekindled. Or maybe you just didn't think at all.

Either way, when he joins you with his harmonies, it all comes rushing up the surface and suddenly the faces in the audience blur and you're ten miles away from everyone else in the room. Everyone except him.

But you're not twenty-three anymore and you're not supposed to love him and feel all these things. And he's not supposed to be looking at you like that, either. Like he knows all your ins and outs and all the things you try to hide. Part of you thinks he might be doing it on purpose but then you remember how he was never able to hide anything from you. He's always been a terrible liar.

You pray that no one notices and if they do, that they chalk it up to nostalgia. Maybe it is just nostalgia, and once you go back home to your husband and your children, it'll all be gone and you can just tell yourself you got swept up in the moment and that's all it is.

The song ends and you breathe a sigh of relief, the sound of the applause snapping you out of your reverie, but there's a flash of blonde bolting out the door and you realize how stupid it was to think that nobody witnessed what happened up there.

It's going to go away now, it was just the song getting to me, you try to assure yourself but it ends up sounding more like a plea and it only gets worse when he takes your hand in his.


Later, when he offers to drive you home and you let him, it still hasn't gone away and that's when you start to think you're in trouble.

"I wish we hadn't done that song," you admit.

You don't want this, don't want to love him, don't want that door to be wide open again. There shouldn't even be a door.

"What are we gonna do now?" he asks and that's when it goes from bad to worse. Now you can't just sweep it under the rug pretend it doesn't exist, because he feels it too and that means it's a real thing.

You don't trust yourself tonight and it's always been easier to run, anyway, so you do.


It was one song. One stupid little song.

Sometimes that's all it takes.