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I just need to play. I need to lock myself in my practice room and slam my hands on the keys until my brain stops looping her voice.

I turn down the dimly lit practice corridor, and then I stop dead in my tracks.

I know it’s her before I even round the corner. I’d recognise the luminous tone of her violin anywhere.

But as the melody sings through the empty corridor, my chest tightens with a sudden confusion.

I don’t recognise a single note of this piece. It isn’t the Chopin we’ve been obsessively practicing for weeks. It isn’t the Vivaldi that she is very conveniently playing for her solo, and it isn’t Bach, or any of the other composers that the Professor’s drill into our heads.

Is she actually composing her own music?

Whatever the hell it is, it’s flawless.

She sounds like she’s finally letting go, like the rigid caution and restraint she’s become known for have been completely stripped bare. I can feel every note that she plays vibrating in my own chest. She sounds entirely free, exactly like she did last night for those few minutes before I completely ruined it by dropping my guard, shedding my arsehole persona, and confessing fuck knows what to her face whilst touching her hand like some absolute imbecile.

I lean my shoulder against the cold stone wall of the hallway, closing my eyes as the cascading music takes total possession of the hollow corridor. I’m savouring the way every note sings through the dark. It feels terrifyingly private and almost sinful to be listening to her pour herself into a room when she thinks she’s entirely alone. I’ve been where she is more times than I can count, and the thought of someone overhearing my private compositions petrifies me.

I force myself to move closer, hyper-aware that my boots echoing against the marble floor could distract her, so I practically tiptoe to the door, holding my breath. If anyone caught sight of me right now, they would seriously question my psychological sanity. This is doing absolutely nothing for my reputation. Thank God nobody else is here at this time of night.

When I finally look through the narrow glass pane of Practice Room C, the air leaves my lungs entirely.

She’s smiling.

A soft expression that I have never seen on her face before, and she looks happy. Genuinely, beautifully happy.

The way her fingers glide over the fingerboard is effortless. Her chestnut hair is thrown up into a high messy bun—there are no perfect bows tonight—and she’s wearing those fucking black sweats again.

I can’t take my eyes off her. I don’t want to.

I stand there frozen in the dim and drafty hallway, utterly unable to pull my gaze away.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My hand hovers an inch above the door handle as I debate whether or not to push it open. A selfish part of me wants to walk in there and see if the smile stays on her face as she catches sight of me.

But I can’t bring myself to turn the handle.

This exact version of her—the completely unfiltered girl without the expectations of her scholarship, or her father’s memory, is the most devastatingly beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And I know the exact second I step through that door, I’ll ruin it.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing back outside the grand entrance of Belrose, the biting December air hitting me square in the face. I hike the collar of my leather jacket up higher around my neck, my teeth chattering as I pull a cigarette from the pack. The orange spark of the lighter briefly illuminates the dark courtyard, before I take a perch on the low stone wall.

And I wait.

I am fully aware that I am being a complete idiot waiting for her—sitting out here in the cold, yet I have decided it is what I am doing—and once I have decided on something, I am not backing down. Not for anything.

I haven’t spoken to her since our rehearsal yesterday, and truthfully, I haven’t been able to think of anything else but her since yesterday. The way her soft skin felt, the terrifying shift passing between us, and the absolute terror and want in her blue eyes right before I touched her face.

Go home, Julian.

I know I should walk the few blocks back to the townhouse, but I don’t move an inch. Instead, I stay completely glued to the stone, slowly turning into a block of ice while watching the main doors.

She finally emerges sometime after one in the morning, and by now, I’m chilled straight to the bone. My hands are like ice, and the only thing keeping me halfway conscious is the faint glow of the third cigarette I’ve lit.

“Bit late to be playing hauntingly beautiful compositions, don’t you think… Ellise?”

She jumps violently in the shadows, gasping and holding her chest as she nearly loses her grip on the handle of her violin case.

“Shit!” She closes her eyes, taking a deep inhale. “Julian… you scared the life out of me.”