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Add to the list of things I wasn’t prepared for: the way he randomly buys us pizza for rehearsal.

I stare at the vast spread, then raise my eyes in total amazement.

“What is all this?”

“Pizza.” He pulls a slice of pepperoni from the nearest box with a particular casualness. “Eat.”

“I can see the pizza, Julian. But, why is there enough food for ten people?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders, his mouth already full.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I bought options. Last session, your stomach was bloody growling the whole time, and it was ruining my focus.” He gestures to the boxes. “So, eat first, then we practice.”

A hot spike of embarrassment prickles under my skin as the memory rushes back. This is because my stomach was composing its own unwanted melody the other night, and he obviously noticed every single note.

I look at the pizza and then back to his mysterious, unblinking eyes. I look at the pizza. I look at him.

“Julian.” My voice comes out with a weird, strained quality to it. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know I didn’t have to do it,” he interrupts smoothly. “Look, don’t make it weird, Vance. I was hungry too. Please, just take a slice and eat.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, meaning it.

He pauses, looking at me and then at the pizza, his mouth parting slightly as though a sudden realisation has dawned on him. “Do you actually like pizza? You’re not on some pristine ballerina diet, are you?”

“I love pizza.” I admit, saying it with more enthusiasm than I intended. His dark eyes snap back to mine. “Pepperoni is actually my favourite,” I add.

“Obviously. It’s the best,” he agrees, smiling into his slice. “Noted.”

Noted? For what?

I carefully slide my violin safely onto the top of the piano and sit cross-legged on the floor with the pizza box in front of me—because apparently this is what my Thursday evening is now. I don’t dislike it entirely.

I pull a slice from the cardboard box, the heat of it warms my fingers and my senses before I’ve even taken a single bite, and it absolutely doesn’t disappoint. It’s the kind of sensory experience that happens when you have been existing on cheap granola bars and pasta for months, and someone puts a greasy, absurdly good New York pizza in your hands. I close my eyes, savouring the flavour.

“Good?” Julian asks.

I open one eye, still chewing.

He drops to the floor directly in front of me. His legs are stretched out in front of him, and he has removed his jacket and slung it over the piano bench, exposing those magnificent tattoos. He’s watching me as his own slice hangs halfway out of his mouth.

“It’s delicious. Extraordinary actually.” I scoff.

He lets out a sudden laugh. It isn’t the short huff that I have come to know over the last year. This is completely different. It’s a genuine chuckle, and even though it is brief, it shocks me. I like this calmer, warmer side to him a little too much.

Don’t think about his laugh, Ellise. Focus on the pizza.

The early November golden light is streaming from the high arched windows and falls across the floor in honey-coloured bars. It catches the dark ink of his tattoos, highlighting the flex of the muscle in his arms as he reaches for his soda.

Eat your food. Stop staring.

“Where did you even find this place?” I ask, holding up my slice before shoving it back into my mouth.

“A pizza place on Fourth,” he says as he takes another bite. “Josh found it during first year. I first went out of pure spite—to prove to him it was an absolute dive, and the food was shit. But then I ended up going back about twenty times alone. It’s a secret. I’ve never told him.”

“Your ego is genuinely extraordinary."

“Thank you.”