He taps a finger against the glass. “Guitar came later, when I wanted to be heard. But the flute… that was different. You know what I mean when I say it’s all breath and control. You can’t fake it; it demands calm. It made me believe I could shape chaos into something beautiful if I just… exhaled the right way.”
He glances at me, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess that’s why I never let it go. Even when I started shredding onstage, that flute reminded me where I came from—breathing before shouting.”
I can picture it perfectly: a restless boy teaching himself to turn air into sound, noise into music. Maybe that’s why his songs hit so deep—they come from the place where breath meets ache.
The image softens something in me. I want to say something clever, but the words won’t come. All I can manage is, “That’s… beautiful.”
He looks away, embarrassed by the honesty in the air, and I realize this might be the first time he’s let anyone see the quiet beneath the noise. And the first time I’ve wanted to reach across the distance and touch it.
“Life’s full of plot twists,” he says. “You? Was the flute always the plan?”
“I’m not sure I ever had a plan. It was expected. I just… obeyed.”
He studies me for a beat that feels longer than it should. “That sounds heavy,” he says softly. “Obligation instead of choice.”
I shrug, but the lump in my throat makes it awkward. “It worked out. I’m good at it.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “but being good at something isn’t the same as loving it.”
For a moment we walk in silence, the late-afternoon light slanting over the street. The easy chatter from the cafés fades behind us, giving way to the slow rhythm of our footsteps.
He glances down, his hand brushing mine once, twice, before finally threading our fingers together. The move is casual in theory—nothing more than a companionable squeeze—but my body doesn’t get the memo. Every nerve lights up like it’s been waiting for this exact frequency.
His skin is warm, a little rough from guitar strings, and I swear I can feel the rhythm of him—the steady pulse that always finds its way into his music. The world goes still. No fans, no laughter, just the shared hum of breath and heartbeats syncing in time.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, thumb brushing over my knuckles, “I’m glad you stuck with it. The world’s better with your music in it.”
I can’t tell if he realizes what that small touch just did to me—or if he absolutely does. Either way, I don’t pull away. Not yet.
“You really did listen to it,” I manage.
He grins. “Told you I wasn’t lying. And for the record? I still listen. It’s addictive.”
My heart stumbles. For years, praise slid off me like water, but coming from him—it lands. Heavy. Electric. Real.
We walk the last few steps to the car still holding hands, neither of us acknowledging it. The silence between us hums with something alive, something that feels less like awkwardness and more like the start of a song.
We dressed like opposites today, yet somehow it stripped us down to something real. I can’t stop stealing glances, can’t stop smiling. Something shifted today—something that feels a lot like falling.
Chapter Eight
Nyxx
The sound of shattering glass jolts me awake. I bolt upright on the couch, blinking away sleep, to find Ana standing in the kitchen, surrounded by broken ceramic and spilled coffee.
“Shit, Ana, you okay?” I ask, rushing over.
She’s staring at the mess, her face pale. “I… I was trying to make coffee. Starting my day precisely at six AM seemed like a good way to maximize my productivity and…”
Placing my hands on her shoulders, I steer her away from the shards. “Okay, that’s it. This ends now.”
“What ends?” she asks, confusion clear in her voice.
I rummage through the cottage, gathering every clock, watch, and electronic device I can find. “This obsession with schedules and time. We’re going off the grid, princess.”
Ana’s eyes widen as she realizes what I’m doing. “Nyxx, no. I need precise schedules. How am I supposed to structure my day?”
“That’s the point,” I say, dumping the pile of timepieces into a drawer. “You’re not. For the next twenty-four hours, we’re living by whim alone.”
