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“I know you’re not. That’s the problem.” I rake both hands through my hair and begin to pace the narrow strip between the piano and the rain-streaked window. “Look, I know we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, but if you are in pain, you should really take a break. We can try again tomorrow.”

“I can carry on just fine.”

I stop and turn to face her. She is standing with the violin at her side and her chin up, with that defiant expression that I have seen in practice rooms and performances before. It’s the one that says she would rather permanently damage herself than ask for a break.

You are so fucking stubborn, Ellise Vance.

“Okay, if you insist.” I am not arguing with her if she can’t even help herself. “But, we have work to do, Vance. Gruelling work. We have to learn to move together in this piece, or we are both going to drown in this showcase. Together.”

“I know,” she whispers.

The icy fire from this morning has completely drained from her voice, leaving something quieter and more fragile. It is considerably more difficult to be in a room with this version of her.

“Glad we finally agree on something.”

We go again. And again. And again.

For the next two hours, we throw ourselves at the Nocturne with the grim determination of two people who are both too stubborn to be the first to stop. The result is the same disastrous failure every time.

Eventually I try to overpower her, because I am a dick, and dominating the room is what I do best. She overcompensates by locking her wrists, her shoulders, her whole upper body bracing against the pain while trying to give the music something it needs that she physically cannot access right now. Every time she reaches for a high note, I can practically hear her joints make their objections known. It’s genuinely painful to see.

It’s painful because I can see exactly what this piece could be, what she could do with it if her body was cooperating, and I can see how far the gap between her potential and reality is costing her pride.

By nine, we are getting nowhere, and both of us know it.

“Let’s call it,” I mutter, pulling my cigarettes from my jacket pocket to give my hands something to do that isn’t the piano. “We’re wasting time now.”

She lowers her violin, her fingers visibly trembling as she nestles the instrument back into its velvet case, moving carefully as she manages a body that is operating at its limit.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asks, not looking at me.

“Same time tomorrow, Bow-Peep.”

I head for the door, my leather jacket draped loosely over one arm. I should leave it there. I should absolutely walk out, keep my mouth shut, and give her the room.

I don’t.

Because the sight of her standing there, looking so entirely defenseless, stripped of her pristine armour does something chaotic to my head.

“You don’t have to hurt yourself to prove a point,” I say quietly as I pass.

“I am not proving any point, Thorne.” Her voice is measured and cool. “I am merely trying to get through these sessions to ensure that I am not left behind for summer placements. I have worked too hard to get here, and I won’t allow your attitude to drag me under.”

“My attitude,” I repeat.

“Yes. Your complete lack of care for anything or anyone other than yourself.” She delivers it cleanly, like a verdict she has already weighed, and is firmly standing behind.

I look at her. “Wow, not holding back, then.”

“You asked.”

I didn’t, technically. But I let it go.

I pause at the door, turning back for one last jab, because I am apparently psychologically incapable of leaving it alone.

“Seeing as we are being honest.” I lock onto her blue eyes. “Maybe if you lose the bow, next time you might loosen up a little. Watching and listening to you is fucking painful.”

I turn on my heel and walk out, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me.