Chapter 2
Eric
Two and a Half Years Later
“Still think Professor Hale’s take on modal interchange is bullshit?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Still think Hale should do us all a favor and retire,” I mutter.
Dmitri laughs in that low, easy sound that always loosens the knot in my chest a fraction. “Yeah, but if you didn’t have him, you’d just be in another programming class you hate.”
I grunt my agreement, shifting my bag on my shoulder and feeling the weight of the extra textbook for my next class.
Music is my passion, but it doesn’t necessarily pay the bills.
My parents encouraged me to pursue a music major, regardless, and claimed we’d find a way to make it work.
Dad’s proud as hell, but no matter how much he tries to hide it, I know how tight they are.
I won’t add an unemployed adult son to their stress.
Computers may not be enthralling, but IT is a solid choice for a minor and a good fallback.
Dmitri falls into step beside me. We walk close enough that our shoulders brush, but it’s comfortable.
Everything between us has always been comfortable.
We’ve traveled this stretch of campus a hundred times, and I’m so familiar with it I could do it in my sleep.
After we leave the music building, we head past the library to the edge of the quad, then circle the long loop around the fountain toward the off-campus shopping strip.
It’s our tradition after Advanced Music Theory, same as it was after Applied Music II last semester.
We decompress, talk shit about class, then argue over whose opinion about the day’s lesson is correct until one of us buys the next round of caffeine.
Once we’re past school stuff, we drift into the personal conversations I quietly eat up.
Today, Dmitri’s in the faded black hoodie I’ve seen a thousand times.
His sleeves are pushed up in the warm afternoon, forearms flexing when he shoves his hands into the kangaroo pocket.
His dark hair is still slightly damp from the quick shower he must have taken between morning drum lab and this class, because I can smell the cedar shampoo he’s used since freshman year.
I shouldn’t notice that.
I shouldn’t notice the faint scar on his left knuckle from a sophomore-year drumstick mishap, or how the laugh lines around his eyes are starting to deepen when he grins at me sideways.
“You’re quiet,” he says after we pass the fountain. There’s no accusation, just observation. He always knows when I’m stuck inside my head.
“Just thinking.” I shrug. “I’ve got that exam tomorrow, and I’m probably going to bomb the listening portion because I keep hearing your stupid voice in my head every time I try to analyze a bridge.”
He snorts. “My voice is a gift. You’re welcome.”
“Yeah, well, your gift is off-key and distracting.”
“Saying you can’t stop thinking about me?” he teases.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I cover it with a quick shove to his shoulder. He shoves back, and for a second we’re jostling like idiots in the middle of the sidewalk while a passing group stares.
Dmitri rights himself first, still grinning. “Come on, I’m buying. You look like you need a heavy dose of caffeine to go with that reality check.”
We cross the street toward The Daily Grind.
It’s the same coffee shop we’ve been going to since the week after we met, and Dmitri holds the door for me without thinking.
Inside, the line is short. He leans against the counter while we wait, scrolling through his phone.
He pauses on the playlist I sent him at 2 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep, undoubtedly searching it for a song he can argue with me about later.
His thick lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and I realize that’s another thing I shouldn’t be noticing. I look away before he catches me.
For two years, he’s been right here in my life.
I had just finished my song at the Hidden Note when he came marching over.
My nerves hadn’t even started to settle yet, but he flashed me that easygoing smile and suddenly everything felt okay.
It was simple, the way we fell into each other’s lives.
We snapped together like we were cut to fit right there beside one another, and we’ve been inseparable since.
He’s always had this unnerving ability to read me.
Even when we were barely more than strangers, he understood me like I came with an instruction manual.
He saw the nerves and offered reassurance without making it a thing.
He knows when I need silence, sarcasm, or just someone to sit next to, and reads my cues so well I rarely have to ask.
Lately it feels… different. Not bad different. Just heavier. Like every casual touch and shared look carries an extra half-second of weight I don’t know what to do with.
He glances up and catches my eye, then smiles. “You good?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just… glad we’ve got this routine. It keeps me sane, ya know?”
“Me too.” His voice softens. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. You know that, right?”
Before I can formulate a response, the barista motions us forward.
Dmitri orders for me without asking what I want, then pays before I can protest. We’re supposed to rotate, but we both know he foots the bill far more often, even if neither of us mentions it outright.
He hates acknowledging it, but he comes from money, where I’m scraping by on scholarships and a part-time campus mowing job.
We step aside to wait, and an employee pushes past with a cart loaded with paper cups and coffee beans. It bumps Dmitri, and he stumbles forward before catching himself on the wall, suddenly much closer to me. His eyes lock on mine for a beat before he gives me another tiny smile.
Not for the first time, my stomach drops at how close he is.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as the cart passes. The employee mumbles an apology, and once they’re out of the way, he straightens and steps back.
“It’s okay,” I tease. “At least you showered after your drum session.”
Dmitri snorts. “Low blow. You’re the one who smells like practice-room dust and desperation half the time, but you don’t hear me pointing it out.”
“Desperation is my brand,” I shoot back. “Keeps people guessing.”
He tips his head back in a laugh while his dimple pits deep in his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
Our names are called, and we grab the drinks before we step outside.
The quad is alive with mid-afternoon chaos, but we’re used to the noise.
Frisbees sail overhead, a speaker blasts from a dorm window, and a group sprawls under the trees as they argue about an upcoming project.
Dmitri dodges a rogue disc with an easy sidestep, then spins to face me while walking backward, coffee in one hand and grinning like an idiot.
“I’m on to you, by the way,” he says, eyes glinting.
“No one’s on to me,” I argue. “I’m an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in… whatever the hell this is.” I wave a hand at myself.
“You’re about as enigmatic as a neon sign. I can read you with my eyes closed.”
“You’re really gonna make me beg for it, huh? Dramatic ass,” I tease as I flick his forearm, making sure he catches the sarcasm. “Fine. Enlighten me, oh wise one. What are you on to me about?”
He grins wider, lips stretching into the kind of smile that makes my stomach do that stupid half-flip, and keeps walking backward without missing a step. “You were humming my drum solo in class today. Don’t even try to deny it. I saw your foot tapping under the desk.”
“I was tapping because Hale’s rhythm was off—like always—and I needed to keep pace.”
“Bullshit,” he says with a low, delighted laugh. “You were tapping in straight 7/8. My tempo for my solo… the one you swore was ‘too busy’ last Tuesday. Just own it, Eric. I won’t judge.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see the back of my skull, but the smile breaks free anyway. “Okay, fine. It’s catchy. Sue me for having taste.”
“Ah, but I can’t sue you yet,” he shoots back, spinning forward to fall in step beside me again.
“The copyright is still pending. Looks like you’re in luck this time and won’t have to pay up.
I’m even feeling generous, so take this as permission to use it royalty-free…
as long as you give me credit in the liner notes. ”
“Liner notes? We’re not even in a band yet, you narcissist.”
“Yet,” he echoes, bumping me with his hip. “Key word. And when we are, you’ll have to list me as your muse. Top billing.”
We cut past the fountain, where the water glitters in the March light like someone scattered diamonds across it.
Dmitri starts humming the bridge from the piece we’ve been dissecting in class.
It’s even more out of tune than normal, and he breaks out into an awful rendition of the melody just to crack me up.
I shove him sideways. “Stop butchering my favorite part, you menace.”
He stumbles dramatically, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him, then pops back up with a grin. “Wow. Violent. I offer you musical gold and you repay me with assault.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound bubbling up louder than I mean it to. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he says, tossing me a quick sideways grin that hits like sunlight—bright, warm, and hard to look at for long.
For a second everything feels perfect. The sun is warm on my face, Dmitri’s laughter is light and rumbling beside me, and in this moment nothing else matters.
I don’t think about the exam tomorrow I’m not ready for, or that I still haven’t figured out how to tell my parents I can’t make it back for spring break, or my last few disastrous dates that quickly fizzled out to nothing.
Right now, I just think about how easy this is. How right.
Then I see him.