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Bow-Peep. The mocking nickname is still there, but the edge has completely gone. This evening, he is looking at me in a heavier and more deliberate way, which does something crazy to my pulse and my already questionable blood sugar levels.

“Nothing. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

A long day is an understatement. Three hours of practice this morning in preparation for my solo performance at Spring Showcase, before a gruelling music history lecture that I stayed behind to discuss the nuances of Romanticism with Professor Hagan. I quite literally sprinted across campus to get here on time and forgot to get anything to eat on the way, which I am now realising was a complete error—one that I seem to be making more than usual lately. Maddie tells me if I continue the way I am, it is going to kill me. She says I can’t keep living off no more than four hours of sleep, sometimes seven hours of practice a day, and an empty stomach. I told her it was dedication. Who am I fooling?

“Are you sure, Ellise?”

Julian’s fingers hover above the keys as he looks at me in the way he has been increasingly looking at me over the last few weeks. He isn’t looking to tear me apart. He is actually looking at me.

I pause, a little self-conscious. “I am fine, thank you.”

And I am. A little hungry and tired, and I can’t seem to get you out of my head. But, I’m okay.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

The offer sits in the quiet space between us.

When did he become caring?

I am in no way a let’s talk about our feelings kind of person. The last time I said something genuinely honest to Julian Thorne about my stupid anatomy was when utter exhaustion got the better of my defenses. I won’t ever be that weak again. I refuse to be.

“No.” I say, keeping my voice even. “But thank you for the offer.”

“No worries.”

He doesn’t look at me, as his focus drops to the score.

I inhale deeply. I like the way my name sounds on his lips.

Stop it. I scream at myself. This is not a thought I was expecting to have tonight. Push it back, and file it with the others.

“Bar fourteen,” he says, his voice instantly snapping my attention back to the music. His fingers finally drop to the keys. “From the crescendo?”

“From the crescendo,” I agree as I lift the violin back into position.

We go again. In no way is it perfect, but for the first time in the weeks since we started our practice sessions, our instruments sound like they belong to the same story. Tonight we have stopped fighting. Or at least, we have stopped making the music fight.

But as we play, a sudden flush is already working its way up my neck as the air between us feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with Chopin’s composition.

Ellise, breathe. Just breathe.

He will notice something is up if you continue turning into a bright red cherry every five minutes.

When the phrase ends, I lower my bow and look back over to him. He is already staring at me, his dark eyes wide and unblinking.

“You’re overthinking again,” he says matter-of-factly.

Correct. But I am definitely not overthinking the music.

“It doesn’t matter what I’m thinking about, Julian.”

“It kind of does,” he counters smoothly. “It comes across in your playing.”

He is blunt, but there is no malice in his voice for once.

My defensive wall goes up out of pure reflex.

“I’m playing the notes perfectly.”