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His mom. A part of my heart aches for him.

“It’s captivating. She would be so proud.”

“I miss her.” A pause. The words cost him something. “I miss her so fucking much.”

There is pain in his voice—a pain that I know all too well.

“I’m so sorry, Julian,” I whisper, stepping closer into his space.

He lets out a long, deflated breath, his eyes dropping back to the keys. “Today is her birthday,” he says quietly. “She would have been fifty.”

I look at his slumped, broken frame—the notorious bad boy of Belrose, reduced to this. My heart aches in a way that I am completely unprepared for, and the guilt gnaws at me alongside it. For the last year, I have written him off as a spoiled, toxic rich boy who bought himself into these halls.

But as the echo of that melody lingers in the dark, I realise how horribly wrong I was.

Yes, he has the Thorne family money. But the guy—the man—in front of me is undeniably a gift. He deserves to be at Belrose. And the fact that it has taken me this long to see it sits heavily in my chest, somewhere between shame, and something I am not ready to name.

Over these last few weeks of forced rehearsals, I have seen glimpses of a completely different side to him. I am magnetised by him—drawn to him in a way that I am only now allowing myself to admit. Looking at him right here tonight, the wall I have built simply crumbles.

“That piece was truly perfect,” I murmur. I reach out, my hand trembling slightly as I place it on his shoulder—the heat seeping through his hoodie. “She would be very proud of you, Julian… I know that she would.”

For a second he freezes under my touch. Then, he reaches around blindly. He doesn’t turn to face me, but he slides his large, calloused fingers into mine. He links them together, one by one, before squeezing tight.

Intertwined.

We are opposites in this place. Rivals. We do not compete for the same spaces—he is a pianist, I am a violinist. We are not fighting for the same solos or the same recommendations. On paper, there is no competition between us. But in practice, in the relentless atmosphere of Belrose, we have been competing since the first of first year without even deciding to. He is the best pianist, by far. I am the best violinist. Overall, only one person gets to be the best.

I tried to ignore him for over a year. I tried to ignore the persistent and deliberate noise of him. It didn’t work. It has never worked.

He finally turns and looks up at me.

When his eyes meet mine, they are rimmed with a raw, aching redness that shatters the absolute last of my defenses.

The air in the room thickens, charged with the same electric pull from the night in the courtyard. But this is deeper now.

This is the point of no return.

He doesn't pull away from my touch, instead he leans into it, a staggering admission that even he needs a safe place to fall apart.

Maybe we aren’t so different after all. We’re both two broken kids chasing dreams for parents who aren’t here to catch us when we fall.

I’m looking straight through his armour. Underneath the money and the cruel tongue, there is someone as hurt, lonely, and broken as I am.

“Ellise…” he breathes.

He turns his body entirely, looking up at me. The sombre intensity of his stare is doing something to my heart that I can’t even begin to find the words to describe. The room feels so incredibly small and heated, and the only thing I can think about is how badly I want to kiss him.

How badly I need to.

I pause for a moment, looking into those dark eyes that have had me hooked since he pulled up that chair in Professor Mathias’ class at the beginning of term. And truthfully? Maybe even long before that. I consider the weight of what I am about to do—the irreversible line I’m about to cross.

But I don’t stop. I can’t.

I lean down, ever so slightly, moving with a deliberate slowness that gives him every single option to say no. I leave a space to let him pull back, to laugh it off—to dismiss this entire moment completely.

But he doesn’t move a muscle. He doesn’t even blink. He continues to search my face, his own breath hitching as his lips part ever so slightly. It is as though he can hear the frantic battle in my head, and he is patiently waiting to see if I finally break.

I break.