I see red. And white. And yellow. Phosphene levels are in overdrive tonight. Strobe lights, pyrotechnics—it's all a colorful mess, as if someone had spilled neon paint onto a canvas. I remember mixing watercolors and acrylics, dipping the brush with bristles soft as an infant's hair... Here I am, musing about infants at a metal concert.

Kevin didn't care when my eyes checked out, years ago. He saw me, while I could barely make out his face. He didn't flinch at guiding me—neither on the first date nor whichever number this is. We've lost track, and thank goodness for that.

I can feel everybody getting up to dance. The industrial drums and zig-zag riffs are infectious, as are Till Lindemann's vocals. Kevin taps the armrest, singing along. Says he took lessons and can understand almost every word. Time to give Braille a try. Kevin thinks so, and I'm grateful we have such discussions without dancing around the issue.

Dancing: That's what I want. Kevin grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. The room pulses with that unmistakable drumbeat to Du Hast, as the crowd chants along. Kevin's voice stands out, singing "you have me" without the band's signature ironic twist.

Kevin's soothing tone and firm fingers interlaced with mine painted a picture more vivid than all the throwaway compliments I'd heard from guys I had previously seen—seen being the operative word—for what they were, not the mask they wore. They commented on my beauty but couldn't manage basic respect. Kevin isn't quick to gush about my looks. What's the point? I can't tell the difference anymore.

Those other guys were strangers. I could read the charm in their eyes, glowing with cockiness. Kevin is different: He won't make GQ's cover, nor is it his ambition. Each time we get close, I sense his athletic frame. If the dark-haired Skater Ken doll came to life with brains, humor, and heart, that would be Kevin.

The bass line thrums through my ribcage like a second heartbeat, and suddenly I'm not thinking about Ken dolls or past disappointments. Kevin's hand finds the small of my back, steadying me as bodies press closer. The crowd has become a single organism, pulsing and swaying, and for once I don't feel separate from it.

"Willst du bis der Tod euch scheidet," Kevin shouts near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. His pronunciation is clumsy but earnest, and I can hear the grin in his voice. The crowd roars the response.

This is what I've been missing—not the visual spectacle, but this. The way Kevin's fingers drum against my spine in time with the music. The way strangers' elbows bump mine without apology, because we're all too lost in the moment for politeness.

Kevin spins me, clumsy but confident, and I laugh—actually laugh—something I realize I haven't done much lately. Not polite chuckles perfected for awkward social situations, but the kind that bubbles up from somewhere I'd forgotten existed. My phosphenes create their own light show behind my eyes—a personal concert within the concert.

"You're glowing," Kevin says, his mouth close to my ear again, and I know he doesn't mean it literally. But I feel it anyway, the way the music has lit something inside me that's been dormant too long.

As the last notes crash and fade, the crowd's energy shifts—conversations resuming, the shuffle of feet, the clink of bottles. Kevin doesn't immediately let go, and I don't move away. We stand there, both breathing hard from the exertion and excitement.

"You know what I love about you?" he says, his voice rough from shouting along with the music. "You don't pretend things are different than they are."

I almost laugh at the irony. "Trust me, I spent plenty of time pretending."

"Yeah, but not with me." His hand finds mine again, our fingers interlocking with practiced ease. "Remember our second date? When you told me point-blank that the romantic candlelit dinner thing was basically useless for you?"

I do remember. How I'd braced myself for his disappointment. Instead, he'd suggested that Ethiopian place where you eat with your hands, where texture and spice become the whole experience.

"Most guys would have taken that personally," I say.

"Most guys are idiots." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Besides, watching you experience food that way—it's better than any candlelit dinner I've ever had."

The opening chords of the next song begin, something slower. The crowd settles into a different rhythm, swaying rather than thrashing. Kevin's arm slides around my shoulders, and I rest my head against his chest.

"Kevin?" I say into his shirt.

"Yeah?"

"When did you know? That this was..." I gesture vaguely between us.

He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer. "When you corrected my German pronunciation that first time. You said 'Rammstein' like you actually cared how it sounded, not like you were just trying to impress me. And then you asked me to say it again so you could hear the difference." He pauses. "Nobody had ever listened to me that carefully before."

Something warm unfurls in my chest. I remember that moment too—how intent he'd been on getting it right.

"I thought you were just being patient with the blind girl," I admit.

"Nah." His hand moves to my hair, fingers gentle against my scalp. "I was being patient with someone who actually gave a damn about getting things right. There's a difference."

My mind drifts to last Tuesday—Kevin at my apartment, trying to help reorganize my kitchen after my roommate moved out. I'd been fine with my system: everything in precise locations. Then Kevin arrived wanting to "optimize" things.

"The spice rack could go here," he'd suggested, moving jars around. "It's closer to the stove."

I'd listened to him destroy months of careful organization. Instead of snapping—my usual response when people rearranged my world—I took a breath.

"Kevin, stop."

The clinking stopped. "What's wrong?"

"Come here." I'd guided his hands to the cumin cabinet. "How long did it take you to find this spot?"

"Maybe five seconds?"

"It takes me two. When you move things to make them logical for you, they become impossible for me."

The silence stretched. Then Kevin said, "Shit. I'm sorry."

But here's what made Kevin different: He put everything back exactly where it was, asking me to guide his hands to precise spots. Then he asked, "How do you want me to help?"

Not "What can I do?" But how do you want me to help? As if my method mattered.

"Hey," Kevin says, pulling me back to the present. "Where'd you go?"

"Tuesday," I say. "The kitchen thing."

He laughs. "I was such an ass."

"No, you were trying to help. That's different." I lean into his embrace. "You know what nobody ever asks me? What I miss most. They assume it's sunsets or movies. But you know what I actually miss? Driving. Just getting in a car and going wherever I wanted."

Kevin is quiet for a moment. "That's why you got weird when I offered to drive you everywhere, isn't it?"

I nod. "I thought you were trying to become my chauffeur."

"And now?"

"Now I know you just wanted an excuse to spend more time with me. And that you're terrible at parallel parking."

"Hey, that curb came out of nowhere."

"Curbs tend to stay put, Kevin."

He spins me slowly, and I feel our easy rhythm—both finding the beat together. It's how we navigate everything: grocery stores where he reads labels while I judge ripeness, restaurants where he's learned which cuisines translate best to my world of texture and flavor.

"Jessica," he says, tension in his tone.

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking about something. My job. The promotion they offered me. I turned it down."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Kevin, no. You can't—"

"Wait, let me finish." His arms tighten when I try to pull away. "I didn't turn it down because of you. Not the way you're thinking."

"Then why?" But I'm afraid I know. The job would mean moving, leaving everything I've carefully constructed here.

"Because I realized something. I kept thinking about coming home to an empty apartment every night. And it wasn't the apartment here I was picturing. It was any apartment, anywhere, without you in it."

I want to argue with him, to tell him he's being stupid, throwing away his career. But there's something in his voice that stops me.

"I'm not saying I want to stay in this city forever. But I realized that wherever I go, I want it to be somewhere we both choose. Together."

All I can hear is Kevin's heartbeat against my ear. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want to move in together. Not because you need taking care of—you're more capable than half the people I work with. But because I want to wake up next to you. I want to figure out how to arrange furniture so it works for both of us."

My throat feels tight. "Kevin..."

"And I'm saying that when the next opportunity comes up—and it will—we decide together. We figure out what that means for your work, your independence, the life you've built."

I feel tears threatening—not sad tears, but the kind that come when something you didn't know you wanted suddenly becomes real. "You've really thought about this."

"I've thought about everything. Your place has better acoustics, so we'd probably start there. And you'll probably want separate bedrooms at first. And I need to learn Braille, not just because it would help, but because I want to read the same books you do."

"You hate reading."

"I hate reading boring shit. But if you're reading it, it's probably not boring."

I turn in his arms, my hands finding his chest. "This is terrifying."

"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

I think about sharing space with someone again, about the vulnerability of letting someone that far into my carefully ordered world. About building something new together.

"Good terrifying," I say finally. "But Kevin? Next time you make a major career decision, we talk about it first."

He laughs. "Deal. But Jessica?"

"What?"

"Next time someone offers me a job in another city, I'm going to ask you to come with me. Not because you have to, but because I want to."

The crowd erupts as the song reaches its peak, but I barely notice. I'm thinking about futures I'd stopped letting myself imagine, about the difference between someone taking care of you and someone choosing to build a life with you.

"Ask me," I say, standing on my toes to get closer to his ear.

"What?"

"Ask me now. About Portland. Ask me what I would have said."

There's a pause, and then Kevin's voice, warm and uncertain: "Jessica, would you have come with me to Portland?"

I smile against his neck. "I would have said it's terrifying and complicated and probably a terrible idea." I pull back so he can hear me clearly. "And then I would have said yes."

The final song begins—something slower, almost tender by Rammstein standards. The crowd has thinned, die-hard fans claiming space closer to the stage while others drift toward exits. Kevin and I stay where we are, swaying together in our small pocket of the universe.

"You know what's funny?" I say, my head against his shoulder.

"What's that?"

"I used to think concerts were something I'd lost. Like, what's the point of going to see a band when you can't actually see them?" I pause, listening to Till's voice weave through the melody. "But this—being here with you—it's not about seeing at all."

Kevin's hand traces slow circles on my back. "What's it about?"

I consider this, feeling the music pulse through the floorboards, the warmth of his body, the shared breath and heartbeat and moment. "It's about being present. Together. In the same space, experiencing the same thing, even if we're experiencing it differently."

"I love how you experience things," he says quietly. "You notice stuff I miss completely."

"Like how your voice sounds different when you're happy. It gets lighter. More expansive."

"See? I would never know that about myself."

The song begins winding down, and I know the concert is nearly over. Soon we'll navigate the crowd, find Kevin's car, drive home through late-night streets. But right now, we're suspended in this moment—the music, the darkness that doesn't matter, the future we've just committed to building together.

"Kevin?"

"Mmm?"

"When we move in together, can we get a really good sound system?"

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Planning to throw a lot of parties?"

"No. I want to be able to play you music the way you experience it. Loud enough to feel in your bones." I pause. "And I want you to describe the album covers to me. All of them. Even the ones you think are ugly."

"Especially the ugly ones," he agrees.

The last notes fade away, and the venue erupts in applause and cheers. Kevin and I separate just enough to clap, but stay close, his arm around my waist, my hand on his chest. The house lights come up—not that it makes much difference to me—and the crowd begins its slow exodus.

"Ready to brave the parking lot?" Kevin asks.

"In a minute." I turn toward the stage I can't see, where the band is taking their bows to a crowd I can feel but not observe. "I want to remember this."

"What specifically?"

"All of it. The way the music felt. The way you sang along off-key to the German parts. The way you didn't try to describe what everything looked like, you just let me experience it my own way." I squeeze his hand. "The way it felt to say yes to something scary."

Kevin brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "Come on," he says. "Let's go home and start figuring out how to rearrange your spice rack."

I laugh, letting him guide me toward the exit, through the slowly moving crowd. "Our spice rack," I correct him.

"Our spice rack," he agrees, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

As we walk, I listen to conversations flowing around us—people discussing favorite songs, making plans, sharing the experience we've all just had. Each voice tells a different story of the same evening, each person taking away something unique from the same songs.

That's what I love about music, I realize. And maybe what I'm learning to love about life with Kevin. We don't have to see the same things or experience them the same way. We just have to be willing to share the space, to listen to each other's versions of the story, to build something together that's bigger than what either of us could create alone.

The cool night air hits us as we emerge from the venue, and Kevin's hand finds mine again, sure and steady. Behind us, the last strains of conversation and laughter fade as the concert becomes memory. Ahead of us, the rest of our lives wait to be discovered.

"Ready?" Kevin asks.

I squeeze his hand, feeling the calluses on his fingertips from years of guitar playing, the familiar warmth that's become my anchor. "Ready."

And for the first time in a long time, I really am.