Nyxx’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “Hey, none of that. You’re not a fool, Ana. You’re incredibly talented. I’ve heard you play, checked you out online the night I arrived. You’ve got technical skills I could only dream of.”
I scoff. “Fat lot of good they’re doing me now. I haven’t written a single note in days.”
“So?” he challenges. “Creativity doesn’t work on a schedule. Sometimes you need to step back, shake things up a bit.”
A laugh escapes me, watery but genuine. “Is that what you are? A shake-up?”
He grins with that same irreverent tilt of his mouth, but somehow it feels different now. “I prefer to think of myself as a catalyst.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I feel something shift inside me. The crushing weight of expectation—my own, my parents’, the classical music world’s—begins to lift.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For the music, and… for this. Your support. And please accept my apologies for my rude comments and underestimating your talent.”
Nyxx squeezes my hand again. “It’s all good, Ana. Now, what do you say we raid the fridge for some ice cream and you can tellme all about this symphony you’re working on? Maybe a fresh perspective is all you need.”
As he rummages in the freezer, I feel lighter than I have in years. Perhaps Nyxx is right. Maybe all I needed was a fresh perspective. And maybe this unlikely roommate situation is exactly what I needed to rediscover my own creative voice.
Chapter Six
Nyxx
The morning sun laser-beams straight through my eyelids. I groan and drag a hand over my face, but it’s no use—she’s already in my head. Ana. Last night’s conversation keeps replaying, her guard dropping, her voice soft.
Not exactly how I originally pictured her—the uptight flutist who practically hissed when I breathed too loud. But the woman who looked at me last night? That was someone else entirely. Vulnerable. Real. And damn if that image hasn’t lodged itself somewhere I can’t shake.
After rolling out of bed, I head to the kitchen. Moments later, coffee gurgles, rich and bitter—exactly how she looked at me that first morning. It’s obvious she’s in a creative freefall, trapped under the weight of all that pedigree and perfection.
By the time Ana comes out of the bathroom, every strand of her hair is behaving, and her outfit looks straight out of a magazine. She probably calls this casual. After another moment of thought, I come to a decision. She needs a shake-up—a “makeunder,” if you will.
“Morning, princess,” I greet her, sliding a mug of coffee with milk across the counter. “Sleep well?” Her hair catches the light like spun gold, and for a second, I forget my own name. Not helpful.
After a quelling look, no doubt at the princess comment, she relents and accepts the coffee with a small smile. “Better than expected, actually. Thank you.” She says it like she’s at a gala receiving line, not standing barefoot in a kitchen, but there’s warmth under the polish. Progress.
I lean against the counter, studying her. “So, I’ve been thinking about your symphony situation.”
Ana’s posture stiffens slightly. “Oh?”
“Yeah. And I think I know what you need.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
I read up on her that first night—Upper East Side, private schools, silver spoons. Explains the bite in her voice. Still doesn’t make me want to stop poking the bear. Maybe that’s what gets under my skin—the way she wears control like armor. Makes me want to see what she’s like without it.
I grin and reach out, brushing my fingers near her bun before I can stop myself. “You need to let your hair down. Literally and figuratively.”
Her scent—clean, expensive, maddening—hits me first. Her quick step back hits me second.
Ana’s hand flies protectively to her hair. “I most certainly do not.”
“Come on, Ana,” I press, keeping my tone light. “When’s the last time you did something spontaneous? Something that wasn’t meticulously planned and executed?”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. I can almost see the gears turning in her head.
“Look.” I soften my approach. “What you’ve been doing clearly isn’t working. Sometimes, you need to make a change—any change—to get where you want to go.”
Ana’s brow furrows. “But my methods have always—”
“Always what?” I interrupt gently. “Always worked? Because from where I’m standing, they’ve got you stuck in one hell of a rut.”
