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Luca frowns. “If anything, that makes it worse.”

“But didn’t you hear?” Florence asks lightly. “He didn’t mean any of it.”

There’s something oddly satisfying about the eye roll Luca gives in response.

They keep eating their breakfast in silence until, out of nowhere, Luca clears her throat and says, “I told my parents I dropped out.”

It’s sudden enough to make Florence choke on her cereal. Sputtering, she says, “What? When?”

“Yesterday, when I visited them,” Luca says. She waits until Florence has managed to expel most of the oat milk from her windpipe before adding, “It went really well.”

“What did they say?”

“That they were proud of me for looking out for myself.” Luca laughs, a touch embarrassed. “I think I knew that’s how they would react. I don’t know why I put it off for so long.”

Florence cannot conceive of a reality where her mum would tell her she’s proud of Florence for quitting something. Her stomach cramps just thinking about it. She supposes that explains a lot about the differences between her and Luca.

Purposefully pushing the thought aside, she reaches across the table to twine her fingers through Luca’s. “That’s great,” she says earnestly. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m so glad I don’t have to lie to them anymore. Keeping up that act was exhausting.”

Florence nods. She thinks she knows a little about that now.

“So, um.” Luca darts a glance at the time on the microwave. “I have to leave for work in a bit. Do you want to come with?”

“To work?” Florence asks, bewildered.

“Yeah,” Luca says. Her thumb draws a small circle on the back of Florence’s hand. “I thought it might be nice to get back out there for a bit. You know. Acclimatize.”

She’s probably right. Florence can’t keep hiding at Luca’s place forever, no matter the fact that she would happily spend the rest of her life here eating soggy cornflakes with Luca. A few days from now she’ll have to step back on a stage. There’s no use in drawing out the inevitable. “Okay,” she says.

Luca brings Florence’s hand to her mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles, one at a time.

An hour later, Florence sits at a table next to a humongous monstera plant. At first, she was tempted to keep her sunglasses on, before realizing that doing so would only serve to make her look like more of a prick should someone recognize her. She’s not under any illusion that they’ve gotten famous overnight, but the glances she’s been getting from people on the street have set her on edge. People may not know Scorpio Season, but they do know her father. Thanks to his interview, her picture has appeared in more celebrity news outlets than she’s entirely comfortable with. When she made the mistake of googling her own name, a Wikipedia article linking to Jeffrey Blake’s popped up. Even on the internet, they’re inextricably connected.

Pressing a thumb into her temple, she forces herself to focus on the notebook open in front of her. She hasn’t written anything since being derailed by the interview, which is strange given that songwriting is usually the first thing she turns to when her life feels scary and unpredictable. So far, all she’s managed to fill the page with is a bunch of little doodles and a single helpless question mark.

God. This used to be like breathing. She’s written songs in less time than it takes her to get dressed in the morning. But that was before she had any eyes on her.

The sound of Luca’s laugh makes her look up. Florence hasn’t been able to keep her eyes off her since they got here. She loves seeing Luca in her element. There’s something incredibly attractive about the confident ease with which she moves, loose-hipped and glowing as she bobs her head to the music from the speakers and keeps up an unending stream of chatter with her coworker and customers. The tip jar on the counter is filling steadily, but if Luca notices that people are flirting with her, she gives no sign of it.

Every once in a while, she’ll look over and catch Florence’s gaze, and Florence feels a zap of electricity running down her spine. She can’t believe that only a few hours ago, she was pressing Luca into the mattress while she cried, overwhelmed and flushed and only for Florence to see.

She wonders idly what a song about that would sound like. Probably not like something she wants her bandmates to hear.

“Hey.”

She jumps when Luca’s voice sounds from right behind her. Leaning over her shoulder, Luca places a glass in front of her. “Soy milk latte with two pumps of caramel syrup and one pump vanilla, right?”

“You remembered that?” Florence asks, touched.

“’Course,” Luca says. “I’ve seen you order it, like, a hundred times on tour.”

Gingerly, Florence picks up the drink and takes a sip. It’s disgustingly sweet, with way too much milk. It’s just how she likes it. “Thank you,” she says, trying to sound normal about it. “It’s perfect.”

Luca bends down to drop a kiss on the top of her head. Leaning over Florence’s shoulder, she has a perfect view of her empty notebook page. “Oh,” she murmurs. “Not going well?”

Florence leans back, partly so she doesn’t have to look at the notebook, partly so she can feel Luca at her back. “I am never going to finish a song again.”