I slip out of bed, leaving my feet bare against the cool floor. My yoga pants and oversized shirt are comfortable enough for wandering, and I'm not trying to make an impression. Just need to move. To breathe air that doesn't taste like confusion and desire.
I move through the common areas, looking for signs of life. The kitchen is empty. The living room abandoned. Even the gym, which usually has at least one of the brothers working off energy at all hours, stands dark and still.
Then I hear it.
Faint. Distant. Coming from the far end of the corridor that leads to Maksim's private space.
Music.
More specifically, piano.
The melody is hauntingly familiar. It takes me a moment to place it, and when I do, pressure builds in my chest.
Chopin. The same piece that was played at the charity gala. The same music that made Maksim freeze like a man watching ghosts materialize from thin air.
I move without conscious decision. One foot in front of the other, drawn toward the sound like a moth to flame.
The corridor is long. Moonlight spills through tall windows, casting silver rectangles across the hardwood floor.
With every step, the music grows clearer. More heartbreaking. Played with technical precision that somehow carries devastating emotion in every note.
I reach the door at the end of the corridor. It's slightly ajar.
Silently, carefully, I turn the knob and push it open enough to see inside.
My lungs forget their rhythm.
Maksim sits at a grand piano, silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows. Moonlight through gauze curtains paints everything in shades of silver and shadow. No other light. Just him and the instrument and the music pouring from his fingers like grief given form.
His expression is tormented. I can see it even in profile, even in near-darkness. The set of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands move across the keys with a familiarity that speaks of years of practice, years of passion, years of loss I don't understand.
I stay frozen in the doorway, barely breathing, afraid to disturb whatever ritual this is.
The music is beautiful. Achingly so. Each note placed with precision, each phrase shaped with the kind of emotional depth that comes from suffering transformed into sound.
I want to go to him. Want to wrap my arms around him and wipe away the pain I see written in every line of his body.
Suddenly, a note rings out wrong. Sharp and jarring, breaking the melody like a bone snapping.
Maksim's hands slam down on the keys. A discordant crash echoes through the room.
Then he roars.
Fury and anguish combined. He lunges up from the bench, kicks the piano stool so hard it flies across the room and crashes against the wall with a crack of splintering wood.
He stands with his back to me, facing the windows, hands fisted at his sides. His breathing is ragged. His shoulders heave.
I don't think. I just move.
My bare feet make no sound on the carpet. I cross the distance between us in quick, silent steps.
Then I wrap my arms around his waist from behind and press my forehead against his back.
He stiffens instantly. Coils for action, muscles tensing like a predator preparing to strike.
But he must recognize me. He relaxes incrementally.
I feel the tension drain from his shoulders. Feel his hands come down to rest on top of mine where they're clasped at his stomach. Feel his breathing slowly even out as we stand there together in moonlight and silence.
