She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.“And here I thought you thrived on adoration and applause.”
“True,” I admit, shrugging.“But there’s something refreshing about being hated on such a personal level.Makes a guy feel special.”
Her cheeks flush again, and I can’t decide if it’s embarrassment or irritation.
Either way, it’s fascinating.
I’m not used to seeing her caught off guard—she’s usually too sharp, too quick.But here, in the soft light of her kitchen, with her hair still a mess and her sweatshirt sliding dangerously close to her elbow, she almost looks...human.Not the Korean equivalent of ademon.
God help me, I think it suits her.
“And here I thought you’d be too busy basking in your own reflection to notice,” she shoots back, her voice dry but her eyes sharp.
“Touché,” I say, holding up my hands in mock surrender.“Guess I’ll leave the existential crises to you, Ace.”
Her mug hovers midair, and for a moment, she looks like she might throw it at me.“Stopcalling me that.”
“Why?It suits you,” I reply without missing a beat.“You’re sharp, quick, and you’ve got that whole badass vibe going on.Plus, I bet you aced every test from kindergarten onward without even trying.”
She blinks, clearly not expecting that.“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously right,” I counter, watching as she shakes her head and takes another sip of coffee.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.She leans against the counter, her gaze distant as she stares out the window.The sunlight catches on her profile, highlighting the delicate slope of her nose and the stubborn set of her jaw.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” I say, surprising myself with the observation.
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes.“Maybe because I didn’t.Wine and sleep don’t exactly get along.”
“Amateur,” I tease lightly, earning another sharp look.But this time, there’s something softer in her expression.Something...real.
“Some of us don’t drink to relax,” she says, her tone clipped.“Some of us actually have work to do.”
I could let it go.I probably should.But instead, I find myself stepping closer, leaning against the counter beside her.“And what exactly do you think I do all day?Sit around and stare at the walls when not playing on stage?”
She glances at me, her brow furrowing.“Don’t you?”
“Wow,” I say, mock-offended.“For someone so smart, you really know how to oversimplify things.”
“Enlighten me, then,” she challenges, setting her cup on the counter and crossing her arms, her expression a mix of defiance and curiosity.
I take a breath, leaning back against the counter.“It wasn’t always like this for me,” I begin carefully, my tone steady.“At first, music was just...fun.A way to figure things out, make sense of things.You remember—those early days, you were right there with me.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her hands clench into fists at her sides.
“But then I got caught up in the superficial stuff.It became about showing off, impressing people, chasing something I didn’t really understand.”I pause, the words coming slower now.“I lost track of what it was really about.What we used to talk about.”
Anna doesn’t say anything, but without a snarky comeback, I know she’s listening.
“These days, though?”I continue, glancing at the ceiling as I gather my thoughts.“It’s not just sitting around, strumming my guitar, or staring at the walls, like you think.It’swriting.Tearing pieces out of myself and shaping them into something I hope someone else will feel.You’d know that if you listen to any of my new stuff.It’s hours of trying to find the right words, the right sound, the right way to say something that matters.And yeah, it’swork.Hard work.”
Her gaze flickers, something soft and almost vulnerable crossing her face before she catches herself.
“It’s more than just music,” I add, my voice quieter.“It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.Like I’m giving people a piece of myself that actually matters.”
She looks away, her jaw tightening as if she’s chewing over what I’ve just said.For a moment, the kitchen feels too quiet, the tension thick and unspoken.
“You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” she says finally, her voice quieter than before, but her sharpness isn’t as convincing.