Oh, good Lord. What’s happening to me?
Nyxx looks up, catching me watching. Instead of his usual smirk, he offers a genuine smile. “Enjoying the show, Ana?”
I should bristle at the nickname, but somehow, I don’t. “It was… not entirely unpleasant,” I admit.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but his smile sharpens. A mischievous glint appears in his eyes.
“Before you go back to composing,” Nyxx says, grabbing his flute, “humor me for a minute?”
Curiosity piques my interest. “What did you have in mind?”
“A little exercise. Play something—anything—and I’ll improvise around it. No rules, no structure. Just… play.”
The suggestion makes my palms sweat. Improvisation has never been my strong suit, but didn’t I just convince myself that I needed to shake things up?
Starting with a simple melody—Mozart’s Andante in C—I watch Nyxx’s face light up with recognition. He joins in, but instead of following the classical line, he weaves around it, adding bluesy riffs and unexpected syncopation that somehow work. The pure joy on his face as he plays is contagious.
When he slides into a minor key, transforming the bright melody into something haunting, my classical training screams to stick to the original piece. Instead, I follow his lead, finding new paths through the familiar territory. Our flutes dance around each other—classical and rock, rigid and free, two styles meeting in the middle to create something entirely new.
As the final notes fade, we stare at each other, both slightly out of breath.
“That,” Nyxx says, “is what music should feel like. Not justplayingthe notes, butfeelingthem.”
The lesson isn’t lost on me. In letting go of the rules, even briefly, I found something I never knew I was missing.
“That was… exhilarating. You were…” I shrug helplessly, suddenly having no words.
He laughs, the sound warm and inviting. “High praise indeed. Say, I’m about to grab some lunch. Care to join me?”
An hour ago, I would have refused outright. But now… “You know what? I think I will.”
Nyxx tilts his head in surprise, but his smile spreads, slow and sure. “Well, alright then. Give me five to get cleaned up.”
As he disappears to join me in the cottage, I take a deep breath. This is nuts. Completely crazy.
For the first time in months, inspiration feels less like work and more like fire. Maybe madness isn’t the problem—maybe it’s the muse.
Chapter Four
Nyxx
The kitchen’s alive with activity as we throw together a chicken salad sandwich with the rotisserie chicken I found in the fridge. Ana—and damn, if it doesn’t feel good that she’s not correcting me anymore—is chopping celery and apples with surprising efficiency. Who knew Little Miss Prim and Proper had knife skills?
“You’re not half bad at this,” I comment as I forage in the cabinets for anything to add to the meal.
She arches an eyebrow. “You sound surprised. Did you think I survived on caviar and champagne?”
“Honestly? Yeah, kinda.” Her laugh catches me off guard—it’s light, musical, and completely genuine. With a smile on her face,I notice how pretty she is for the first time since I barged in last night.
“Well, Mr. Night. As a teen, I pestered our chef until he taught me how to do this, though I don’t actually… cook.”
The word “chef” stops me cold. A chef. Like that’s normal. I grew up on gas-station burritos and whatever my mom could throw together between double shifts. My first “meal” on tour was a half-eaten sandwich someone left in the greenroom. And here she is, talking about lessons from her family’s chef like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. Worlds apart, she and me—but damned if I don’t want to know what that world feels like.
As we finish up, I grab a couple of plates. “Gazebo?” I suggest, nodding toward the open door.
Ana hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Why not? It’s a lovely day.”
We settle into the wrought-iron chairs, the warm breeze rustling through the surrounding trees. I notice Ana’s gaze flicker over my bare chest, but she doesn’t comment. Weird. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s a far cry from this morning’s prudish disapproval.
