“With your symphony that’s coming along so well?” he teases, and I resist the urge to throw my napkin at him. Instead, I settle for glaring, though the corners of my mouth betray me. He’simpossible to stay annoyed with when he’s looking at me like that—mischief and something warmer behind it.
Instead of sparring with him, I clear my throat, deciding to address the elephant in the room. “About that divertimento of yours… Nyxx, you don’t have to go through with it, you know.”
He pauses mid-bite, his handsome head cocked in question. “What do you mean?”
I choose my words carefully, not wanting to offend him. “It’s just… composing a divertimento, though it’s shorter than a symphony, isn’t something one does in an afternoon. It’s a complex, time-consuming process. I wouldn’t want you to… well, to embarrass yourself trying to prove a point.”
To my surprise, Nyxx doesn’t look offended. If anything, his smile grows wider. “Ana, Ana, Ana. Haven’t you learned by now? I live to surprise people. Just you wait—I might blow your mind.”
I shake my head but can’t help smiling. “Well, consider my expectations thoroughly managed.”
Halfway through dinner, it hits me—how strange this feels, and how right. Yesterday, I’d have sworn we couldn’t stand each other. But now? Between the teasing and the laughter, I’m starting to see a side of him that’s unexpectedly… captivating.
We finish dinner, and Nyxx stands, stretching languidly. “Ready for me to exceed expectations?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “By all means, maestro. Dazzle me.”
He grins, grabbing his flute from where it rests against the wall. Then, to my utter disbelief, he assumes that ridiculous one-legged stance he’s famous for. “Nyxx, surely you don’t need to—”
But then he begins to play, and every thought in my head evaporates. The sight of him—eyes closed, muscles taut beneath his T-shirt, breath shaping every note—hits me harder than I expect. Music and body, fused. It’s raw and magnetic in a way that feels almost indecent.
The first notes are soft, almost tentative. A simple melody that grows more complex with each iteration. I find myself leaning forward, straining to catch every nuance. It’s… beautiful. Hauntingly so.
As the piece progresses, I realize I’m holding my breath. The music swells, incorporating elements I recognize from classical compositions—a nod to Mozart here, a touch of Beethoven there—but there’s something else. An underlying current of raw energy I can only attribute to Nyxx’s rock background.
It shouldn’t work. By all rights, this fusion of classical structure and rock sensibility should be a cacophonous mess. But it’s not. It’s… transcendent.
Something cracks open inside me. A dam I didn’t even know existed suddenly breached by the sheer beauty of what I’m hearing. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back.
As the final notes fade away, I’m left in stunned silence. Nyxx lowers his flute, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, proof of the effort behind the beauty. It’s strangely grounding—reminding me he’s human after creating something that felt divine.
For once, he doesn’t smirk or make a quip. He just looks at me, a question in his eyes. “Ana?” he asks softly, and that’s all it takes for my tears to spill over.
“That was…” I struggle to find words to describe what I’ve just experienced. “Nyxx, that was incredible.”
He sets his flute down and moves to sit beside me on the couch, concern etched on his features. “Early in my career, a few critics said my music moved them to tears, but not in a good way.” His attempt at humor flies over my head. I’m too moved to pretend to laugh.
When I don’t answer, my lips trembling, he cocks his head and asks, “Hey, you okay?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. How can I explain that he’s just shattered every preconception I had about music, about talent, about…me?
“Talk to me, Ana,” he urges gently, and I’m struck by how different he seems. The mischievous facade has vanished, replaced by genuine concern.
“I just…” I take a shaky breath. “How did you do that? In one afternoon, you created something more beautiful, more moving than anything I’ve managed in years of study and practice.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Ana, no. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“But it’s true!” I insist, the words tumbling out now that the dam has broken. “All my life, I’ve striven for perfection. I’ve practiced until my fingers practically bled, memorized every rule and convention of classical composition. And for what? To be outclassed by someone who treats music as… as a game?”
Nyxx is quiet for a moment, then speaks softly. “It’s not a game to me, Ana. Music… it’s everything. It’s how I breathe, how I process the world around me. Yeah, I have fun with it, but that doesn’t make it any less serious.”
I look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, I see beyond the blue-streaked hair and the rock star persona. “How do you do it? How do you create something so… effortlessly beautiful?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not effortless. Far from it. I’ve spent years honing my craft, just as you have. The difference is, I never let anyone tell me there was only one right way to do it.”
His words hit me like a physical blow. How many times have I stifled my own creative impulses because they didn’t fit the rigid structure I’d been taught?
“I feel like such a fool,” I whisper. “All these years, I thought I was working toward greatness, but really, I was just… limiting myself.”
