Forums » General Roleplay » Summer Soirée: Lakeside Soiree at Night [18+]

His broad frame stood comfortably rooted beside her, the crackle of fire painting subtle shifts of light along the line of his jaw, over the edges of ink that wove across his forearm like a map of every war he’d fought. His plate was long emptied, but he held it in one hand, as if unsure whether he planned to linger or leave.

He watched her for a moment—this woman who hosted strangers like family, who cooked with memory over measurements, who touched the locket around her neck as though remembering didn’t always hurt. He had seen the way her fingers pressed against it during the song. When she invited him to sit, he did. Slowly. Without ceremony. The chair creaked faintly under his solid weight as he angled it just enough to face her without crowding her space. One leg stretched out, the other bent, his forearm draped casually across his knee. He didn’t speak right away. Just let the silence breathe.

Then, a low chuckle left him—rough around the edges but authentic regardless.

“Swimming? Better be a strong grill waiting on shore if you want me to dive in.” His mouth quirked at the edge. It was the closest thing to a grin he ever really gave, but it softened the steel in his eyes.

“But yeah… you should host again.” He gestured with a slight tilt of his head—toward the food, the lights, the way music still hung in the air like a scent that didn’t want to leave. “You made something good here. Not just the food. The mood. The… whatever you have here.”

His gaze lifted briefly toward the fire. There was something about flame that always drew men like him in—men who knew what it meant to destroy, to survive, to rebuild with what little warmth was left.

“Lots of people feed others to show off. You feed people to remember.” His eyes met hers again—sharply, but not unkind. “That kind of cooking don’t come from recipes. Comes from loss. From love. From knowing what it means to go without.” He paused, just for a beat, before adding more lightly—

“Also helps that you don’t burn your greens like most folks do.” The corner of his mouth lifted again in the ghost of a grin.

When she asked his name, his response was simple—direct, like the man himself.

“Raiden.” A slight nod followed, as if offering the name were an exchange rather than a gift. “Used to do the grilling myself. Glad I wasn’t the one manning the flame.”

He leaned back a little, one hand bracing the armrest as he took in the sounds again—the laughter in the distance, the faint lapping of the lake, the afterglow of music still trailing through the night like a breath not yet exhaled.

“Whoever raised you—taught you right.”

He watched her as she spoke, noting the way her hand drifted near the guitar like it was second nature—an old companion she hadn’t needed to think about before offering it company. There was something effortless about the way she said it too. She could sing. Probably damn well, if her food was anything to go by. Women like her had soul built into every tendon, every breath. She didn’t wear it on her sleeve. She wore it in the pauses between words.

When she teased him, he huffed a quiet breath through his nose, more exhale than laugh, eyes shifting toward the flames.

“Nah. Not like that.” He leaned a little back in the chair, gaze lifted toward the lake as the breeze tugged the smoke in soft ribbons across the sky. “I don’t sing. Never learned to play either. But I DJ sometimes.”

The confession came low, casual, almost like it didn’t belong in a setting like this. As if turning tables and reading the energy of a crowd wasn’t the kind of thing you shared when firewood crackled and folks were thinking about sunsets and string lights. “Not clubs anymore. Got old quick. I just throw together sets. Mood-based. Beats that hold people a while. That sort of thing.”

He didn’t clarify what kind of mood. The way he said it made it clear they weren’t for dancefloors, not really. More like soundtracks to the parts of life people didn’t talk about. The in-betweens. The silences. The nights like this.

His gaze cut sideways, back to her. That playful flicker in her tone hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“But if you sing tonight, I’ll stay.” He tilted his head, considering her again in the glow of firelight. “If I may say, you seem like someone who doesn’t sing just to be heard.”

Lyra did not intend for her music to make everyone feel sad or heavy with emotion. She played from her heart, but sometimes, the magic she created seemed to have a mind of its own. It felt like her notes carried a weight she couldn’t control, especially when she softly stroked her violin, letting the gentle melody flow naturally. She glanced at the crowd, hoping they enjoyed the performance along with her and Adrian. Some people sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts, as if her music had touched something deep inside them. Lyra always poured herself completely into her playing, no matter how small or simple the audience. Her violin wasn’t just an instrument; it was a symbol of her past and her feelings.

That violin had been left by her father. It was a treasure that she never knew it was exist. Her mother hated the violin, hated it even more than she hated her. To her mother, the violin and the music it made seemed like a distraction, a waste of time. Her mother wanted her to be a pianist, to follow a strict path that her own mother had set out for her. The piano had been her mother’s dream, not Lyra’s. Their lives had always been about different hopes, different expectations. Lyra knew her mother’s disappointment ran deep, and she had no love for the rigid way her life had been shaped. Sometimes Lyra wondered what her life would have been like if her father had still been there, guiding her the way he wanted. But he was gone now, and the only thing left of him was that old violin, which she cherished more than anything.

Whatever disagreements or tensions had existed between her parents in the past, Lyra couldn’t find it in herself to like her mother very much. Their conflicts were part of her story. And when she felt overwhelmed or suffocated at home, she’d escape late at night, wandering aimlessly just to find a moment of peace. It was by the side of this quiet lake, away from the noise of her home and the weight of her family’s expectations, that she found some solace. Sometimes she’d even bring food to share, simple things like bread or fruit, just enough to soothe her hunger and her restless mind. Here, by the peaceful waters, the worries eased for a little while, and she could just breathe.

When the music finally ended, the applause erupted around her. Lyra lowered herself into a deep bow, feeling a surge of gratitude and joy. She offered a small, genuine smile to the crowd that had listened so intently. She was thankful they accepted her music, appreciated the sound of her violin, even if she longed for the day she could perform on a grand stage, under bright lights, with a full audience. That dream still felt distant, but it burned brightly inside her. Maybe someday, she thought, she would have the opportunity to show the world what her music truly meant.

“Thank you,” she said softly to everyone gathered before her, her voice almost lost in the quiet hum of the crowd. Her eyes then found Adrian, standing nearby with a gentle smile. She nodded politely and said, “Thank you for accompanying me.” His support, his presence, had meant more than she could say. The awkwardness that had lingered after her performance was slowly fading. Lyra felt a sudden wave of bravery, and she stepped closer to Adrian, offering him her appreciation for standing by her side. It had been an awkward start, but now she could see her companion more clearly; a steady supporter who had believed in her even when she doubted herself.

She looked around at the gathering, feeling grateful for the moment. For a long while, she was thankful for the small things. For Adrian’s company, for the music, for the quiet night. Her gaze landed on Hannah, who was still deep in conversation with Raiden, both of them caught up in their own stories. Lyra hesitated for a moment, then approached them carefully.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she began, her voice gentle but firm. “But I need to leave now. I wish I could stay longer, but I have a curfew I must respect. Still, I want to thank you, Hannah... truly. For your kindness, for sharing your homemade food with a stranger like me. It meant so much. Your generosity, your warmth. I hope happiness finds you in every step of your journey, and I truly hope our paths cross again someday. I’d love to stay in touch, talk again, maybe share more music or stories.”

With that, Lyra extended her arms, signaling a gentle hug toward Hannah. If Hannah accept it, Lyra would hold her tight. "I hope you and your twin stay happy always,” she whispered softly, patting Hannah’s back gently. Her warm hug conveyed her heartfelt wishes.

Releasing Hannah, Lyra stepped back, took a deep breath, and turned her attention to Adrian. She offered a respectful bow, clutching her cherished violin close to her side, her most precious possession. Her fingers nervously traced the instrument’s polished surface, a reminder of all she had been through and all she still hoped to achieve.

“Have a nice night,” she said quietly, offering her farewell. With one last look at her new friends and the peaceful surroundings, she waved goodbye and began to walk away. Her steps were slow but steady, her heart a little lighter than before. As she moved through the night, she carried the melodies in her mind, ready to keep playing, no matter where life took her next.

Adrian had never believed in fate, not in the romanticized way people liked to talk about it.

He had moved through so many homes during his adolescence that he stopped counting by the time he was thirteen. Faces changed. Expectations changed. Rules were rewritten in each household like contracts he never signed but was punished for breaking anyway. The only thing that stayed the same was the saxophone case he carried with him. It had been a gift from a social worker who didn’t stay long, just long enough to recognize the weight of silence in his voice and offer him something louder.

That saxophone became his first real language. It was not English. Not the formal tones of politeness he had to adopt to stay in strangers’ good graces. Just sound. Brass. Emotion.

It carried him through long nights and longer silences. Through bedrooms that never felt like his, through schools where he kept his head down until music class. It wasn’t until high school that he formed something resembling a connection—other kids with sharp edges and deep wounds, who somehow found each other between hallways and rehearsal rooms. For once, he had a band. A rhythm section. A reason to show up.

He’d never forgotten that feeling.

So when Lyra confided in him, admitted which instrument truly called to her, he hadn’t hesitated. He remembered the look in her eyes—shy but unmistakably yearning. Like the violin wasn’t just something she wanted to play—it was something that had been waiting for her.

Of course he helped her. How could he not?

Now, as the final notes of their duet dissolved into the hush of night, Adrian let the saxophone lower in his hands. His shoulders slackened with the slow, grateful sigh of someone who’d given everything they could through sound. He cast a sideways glance at Lyra, catching the slight tremble of joy in her smile as she bowed. She had played from somewhere raw. Somewhere real. And he knew that place well—he’d lived there.

“You played that like it was stitched into your ribs,” he murmured once they were no longer center stage, his voice low enough to be just for her. “I felt it. And so did our audience here.”

Adrian watched her step forward with that tentative grace of hers. When she offered him her thanks, he dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, that familiar half-smile curving his lips as if to say you didn’t need to. But he knew how hard it was to speak at all when you were feeling too much. Her gratitude meant everything.
“You didn’t have to say anything,” he said gently, his voice quiet so it didn’t stretch farther than it needed to. “But I’m glad you did.”

He stepped back as she approached Hannah and Raiden, letting her have that moment uninterrupted. The hug, the words—Adrian watched them like someone observing a gentle tide roll in and out. He’d never had the kind of family where goodbyes were handled softly. Seeing Lyra navigate one like this reminded him what it could look like. Warm. Graceful. Even sincere.

When her eyes found his again, he straightened slightly and returned her bow with one of his own—subtle, but full of respect. Then he tucked his saxophone under his arm and stepped up beside her.

“Wait up,” he said, not loudly, but with just enough intention to carry. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you walk through the dark alone, did you?”

He turned toward Hannah and Raiden, offering both of them a parting glance.

To Hannah, his tone shifted from playful to earnest. “Thanks for everything. That meal’s going to haunt me in the best way. You’ve got something special here—and I don’t just mean the food.” He gave her a nod of genuine respect, then tipped two fingers to his brow in a casual salute toward Raiden. “Take it easy, Tower.”

And with that, Adrian turned to follow Lyra up the path, the glow of string lights gradually dimming behind them as the sounds of the soirée faded into the hush of night.