I let out a small laugh, shaking my head.“And you’ve always been good at pretending you don’t understand things you understand perfectly.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile—or maybe another retort.She stares at me for a moment, her expression dropping back into her unreadable mask.Then she scoffs.“Maybe you do work.But we’re still different.I don’t need an audience to validate me.”
Ouch.But, also, fair.
“Touché again,” I say, smirking.“But you’d be surprised how much we have in common, Ace.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I think she’s going to snap at me to tell me to stop calling her that.But instead, she just shakes her head and mutters, “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable,” I fire back, watching as her lips press into a thin line.
But then, out of nowhere, she blushes again.It’s faint, barely there, but it’s enough to make me pause.
“Did—did you just blush?”I ask, my voice dropping to a teasing lilt.“Are you actually flustered?”
She huffs, grabbing her mug and retreating toward her office.“Don’t flatter yourself, Price.”
I grin, leaning against the counter as I watch her go.“Too late,” I call out after her.
I watch the door to her office slam shut with a satisfying thud, and for a second, the house feels too quiet again.
But my grin?It stays.
Anna Chang—flustered.
If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.Hell, I’m still not sure it wasn’t just some caffeine-deprived mirage.But no, it was there.The blush.The hesitation.The tiniest crack in her armor.
What the hell just happened?
What did I do?And how do I do it again?
I lean back against the counter, sipping my coffee as I replay the conversation in my head.She wasn’t just firing off her usual quick comebacks.There was something else beneath it all.A flicker of connection, maybe?Or maybe I’m imagining things.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that this morning was different.The way her eyes softened, just for a moment, when I talked about music.Like she understood.Like she remembered.
And that blush.God, I’ll be thinking about that for days.
I chuckle to myself, shaking my head.“Get a grip, Joel,” I mutter, pushing off the counter and rinsing out my mug.
The last thing I need is to start reading too much into this.She probably hates my guts just as much as she always has.
Still, pushing her buttons?I’ll admit, it’s fun.A little too fun.
The thought lingers as I head back to the spare room.My guitar case leans against the wall, the scuffed leather reminding me of how far it’s traveled.I glance at it, then at the notebook sitting on the desk—a mess of scribbles and half-formed lyrics.
That moment in the kitchen, the way Anna looked at me when I talked about music—it stirs something.A spark of an idea.
I sit down, grabbing the notebook and flipping to a clean page.The pen feels familiar in my hand, and for a second, the world outside this room fades away.
The words don’t come easily, not at first.But as I start sketching out a melody in my head, the feelings take shape.Frustration, hope, the maddening pull of someone who drives you crazy in all the best and worst ways.
The song starts to form, the notes threading together like they’ve been waiting for this moment.And as I strum the opening chords, I can’t help but think of Anna.I don’t mean to, it just happens.
It’s not just her quick wit or her impossible standards.It’s the way she carries herself, like she’s braced for the world to knock her down but refuses to give it the satisfaction.The way she can cut you to pieces with a single look but still make you wonder what’s hiding underneath.
I pause, staring down at the strings.This song—it’s not just about her.But she’s in it, somehow.In the sharp edges and the soft notes.In the tension that won’t go away.
The words start to flow, the melody weaving through my thoughts as the morning stretches on.And for the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m writing something that matters.
