Zechariah pulled off his other glove with his teeth. His fingers meandered across the keys, searching for the notes to old songs. Claire de Lune..? A few notes in, and he ceased. What about Pachelbel’s Canon in D? How about not? Pachelbel was boring.

… He found the melody easily, even if he fumbled on the other hand at first. Damn it.

There was a movement he caught from the corner of his eye. That familiar face turned her way, hands pausing over the keys. He tilted his chin up as though she were the intruder, and then went back to playing.