“Easy there, little rats,” Nyxx says good-naturedly, gently disentangling himself from grasping hands. “What’s the first rule?”
“Respect the space, keep the peace!” they chorus.
A girl with a half-shaved head steps forward, tugging down her sleeve to show a tiny flute tattoo on her wrist. “Got this after your Denver show,” she says shyly. “It’s stupid, I know—”
“Not stupid,” Nyxx interrupts, his grin softening. “That’s art. You made my music yours. That’s the whole point.”
Beside her, another fan pulls something out of her backpack and flips open a sketchbook, cheeks flushed. “I—I draw the band sometimes,” she stammers, turning it around. A messy pencil sketch of Nyxx, mid-solo, fills the page. It’s rough, passionate, alive.
He takes a long look, then grins. “Damn, that’s good. You caught it—the part that’s chaos and joy all at once.”
The girl beams, her face transforming. “You mean it?”
“Completely.” He taps his temple. “That’s how it starts. You see it up here before anyone else does.”
Something shifts inside me as I watch him—no arrogance, no distance, just this easy generosity. He’s supposed to be larger than life, but right now he feels… real. And that might be even more dangerous.
I blink—then smile as the chaos settles into a neat, buzzing circle. He’s not commanding them; he’s connecting with them.
“And who’s this?” one asks, eyeing me.
Nyxx slings an arm around me, warm and possessive. “This is the ridiculously talented Anastasia Ashcroft. She’s teaching me about sophistication.”
“Clearly it’s working,” I mutter, earning laughter. The tension melts away.
“You a musician too?” someone asks.
Before I can answer, Nyxx jumps in. “Only one of the best classical flutists alive. You should hear her—angels would take notes.”
My cheeks heat. “You exaggerate.”
“I don’t.” His tone drops lower, serious now.For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just those amazing mismatched eyes and the weight of his hand at my waist.
Then someone yells, “Group photo!” and the moment shatters. I flash a rock-hand sign I’ve only ever seen in memes, laughing like I belong.
As we stroll away, Nyxx bumps his shoulder against mine. “Admit it. You had fun.”
“I did,” I confess. “They’re lovely. Yourratsare surprisingly polite.”
“They’re good kids,” he says softly. “We all need a tribe—somewhere we fit. For them, it’s loud music and blue hair. For others, it’s tuxedos and standing ovations.”
The insight surprises me. He says it so easily, not realizing how revealing it is.
“They really like being called rats?”
“They named themselves. When we formed the band, I didn’t want it to be just about me. ‘Pied’ means multicolored—like me.” He taps under one eye, then the other. It’s the first mention of his most obvious feature. “The flute, the rats—it all kind of wrote itself.”
“So, renting a place nearHamlin Townwasn’t a coincidence.”
“My manager’s idea of a joke.”
“You’re quite the package.”Too flirty?I double down. “Brilliant marketing and genuine talent. Deadly combo.”
His brows lift, surprised but pleased.
We wander past a music shop, and his expression shifts. “Bought my first flute in a place like that. Saved for months working at my uncle’s garage.”
He stops, gaze snagged on a battered silver flute in the shop window. “I was twelve when I bought my first,” he says, voice gone soft. “My mom worked nights. The apartment was loud—sirens, arguments, life happening too close. The flute was the only thing that made the noise quiet.”
