Kian didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Riya glanced at Kian, unsure of what to say—unsure ofwhat shecouldsay. Finally, she settled on a question: “How is he, by the way?”
“Huh?”
“After he fell, at work. Is he feeling all better now?”
“Oh.” Kian exhaled. “He’s fine. Overworks himself. Ever since Mom ditched us, it’s been—” He shrugged. “Miracle he’s even home.”
Ever since Mom ditched us. The words were a puzzle piece locking into place. That explained the lack of photos, the absence online.
And now it was just Kian and his dad. Two people alone, together.
“Running a catering business must be hard,” she said.
“That’s why he wants me to take over. Make it a whole father-son thing. Which is funny, considering he barely talks to me unless it’s about prep or orders. When he’s home, he shuts himself in his room. Blasts Celine Dion. Doesn’t notice when I come or go.”
His knuckles whitened. But underneath the frustration was something quieter. Sadder.
“I want to do music,” he said finally. “Go to Berklee, start a band, as long as I can get a scholarship. My GPA isn’t the best, but I’mgood. Dad doesn’t know any of it. And I’m not planning on telling him.”
“You don’t think he’d be supportive?”
“Nope. Doesn’t deserve to know. It’s not like he cares about anything else.”
Riya glanced toward the piano. “But he kept that.”
“It was Mom’s. She used to teach.” His expression shuttered. “But no one touches that thing anymore.”
Riya’s mind spun with questions. His mom had been a piano teacher? Was that where his love of music came from?
“Your dad seems nice, at least,” she said softly. Though to her own ears, it sounded thin.
“Yeah, well...” Kian shrugged. “Sometimes that’s not enough.”
She nodded, slowly. But something tugged at the back of her mind. The rumors Mel had told her: that Kian once broke Jake Townsend’s nose. That after his suspension, he came back harder, meaner.
She’d believed it all. Such rumors were easy to believe.
But the boy beside her now didn’t look dangerous. He looked like someone who’d learned to brace for impact—and suddenly had something to hold on to.
Her.
They didn’t mean to keep working.
After the experiments, after the lumpia (crispy, savory, perfect), Riya thought she’d pack up and leave. Instead, they’d slid into a quiet rhythm—pages turning, keys clacking.
Riya noticed the small green notebook beside Kian again, its edges soft with wear.
“What do you write in that thing, anyway?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Kian smiled faintly. “Lyrics. Random thoughts. My therapist suggested it after I kept getting in trouble. To track what was going on in my brain.”
“Does it help?”
“Yeah. Writing makes things make more sense.”
She glanced back at his face—creased in concentration, brows furrowed as he scanned his book. He hummed under his breath, barely aware he was doing it. The sound was a little distracting. But it reminded her that this was someone who wanted to feel something real. Who wanted to make something beautiful with his music.
