Chapter 6
Joel
The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen, catching on the stainless steel appliances and bouncing off the ceramic mug in my hand. I’ve been up for a while, the house still and quiet in a way that’s oddly calming. It’s almost… nice.
Last night, though? Not so quiet.
Anna came home late, definitely not sober, and for a solid fifteen minutes, I thought I’d accidentally stepped into an alternate reality.
She’d leaned against the counter, a crooked smile on her face, and made actual, borderline-friendly conversation.
Something about “not all rockstars being terrible”—though I’m sure she threw in a dig about my ego.
Then she stumbled off to bed, leaving me standing there like an idiot with no idea what had just happened.
Now, I’m leaning against the counter, sipping coffee, replaying her slurred words in my head, and wondering if maybe—just maybe—there’s more to Anna Chang than a permanent scowl and cutting remarks. Not that I’d tell her that. I’d be likely to get my head bitten off.
The sound of shuffling feet pulls me out of my thoughts.
Here we go.
Anna trudges into the kitchen, her hair an uncharacteristic mess and her sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. She squints at the light like it’s personally offended her, then glares at me like I’m its accomplice.
“You’re… awake,” she mutters, her voice rough with sleep. Or maybe regret. Hard to tell.
“And good morning to you, too,” I reply, raising my mug in mock cheer. “Rough night?”
She ignores me, heading straight for the coffee maker. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had caffeine.”
I watch as she fumbles with the cupboard door, her movements slower and less precise than usual.
“Didn’t know book club meetings got that wild,” I tease, taking a sip from my own mug.
Her hand freezes on the coffee pot, and she turns her head slowly, her glare sharpening. “How do you know about book club?”
I shrug, smirking. “Uh, we talked last night. Something about romance novels and… “
Her cheeks flush, but not from the wine this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Must’ve been dreaming about me then.”
Her scoff is immediate. “Clearly.”
“Maybe I don’t have to dream, Ace,” I tease, watching as she grabs a mug and fills it. “You were surprisingly nice last night. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Don’t call me that.” She stares into her coffee like it holds the answers to the universe, then mutters, “I was drunk. Doesn’t count.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask, biting back a laugh. “I’ve still got some time here with you. Could it mean you’ll be drinking more often? Because I’ve got to say, drunk Anna is way more fun than the sober version.”
She raises the mug to her lips, takes a long sip, and then sets it down with a decisive clink. “Sober Anna is what you’re stuck with, Price. And trust me, she’s fun is not in her operating system.”
I grin into my coffee, unable to resist. “Well, maybe it’s time for a software update. I hear fun’s all the rage these days.”
Her eyes narrow over the rim of her mug, but the corner of her mouth twitches—just enough to make me wonder if she’s fighting a smile. “Don’t push it.”
Oh, I’ll push it.
It’s strange, really. I’d expected this arrangement to be tense, awkward at best, but there’s something about getting under Anna’s skin that feels... familiar. Comfortable, almost. And yeah, I kind of like it.
“Don’t worry, sober Anna,” I say, leaning against the counter. “I’m a simple guy. I’ll take scowls over silence. Keeps things interesting.”
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 a demon.
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. “Stop calling 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’s writing. 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’s work. 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.
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “And you’ve always been good at pretending you don’t understand things you understand perfectly.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile—or maybe another retort. She stares at me for a moment, her expression dropping back into her unreadable mask. Then she scoffs. “Maybe you do work. But we’re still different. I don’t need an audience to validate me.”
Ouch. But, also, fair.
“Touché again,” I say, smirking. “But you’d be surprised how much we have in common, Ace.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I think she’s going to snap at me to tell me to stop calling her that. But instead, she just shakes her head and mutters, “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable,” I fire back, watching as her lips press into a thin line.
But then, out of nowhere, she blushes again. It’s faint, barely there, but it’s enough to make me pause.
“Did—did you just blush?” I ask, my voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “Are you actually flustered?”
She huffs, grabbing her mug and retreating toward her office. “Don’t flatter yourself, Price.”
I grin, leaning against the counter as I watch her go. “Too late,” I call out after her.
I watch the door to her office slam shut with a satisfying thud, and for a second, the house feels too quiet again.
But my grin? It stays.
Anna Chang—flustered.
If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. Hell, I’m still not sure it wasn’t just some caffeine-deprived mirage. But no, it was there. The blush. The hesitation. The tiniest crack in her armor.
What the hell just happened?
What did I do? And how do I do it again?
I lean back against the counter, sipping my coffee as I replay the conversation in my head. She wasn’t just firing off her usual quick comebacks. There was something else beneath it all. A flicker of connection, maybe? Or maybe I’m imagining things.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that this morning was different. The way her eyes softened, just for a moment, when I talked about music. Like she understood. Like she remembered.
And that blush. God, I’ll be thinking about that for days.
I chuckle to myself, shaking my head. “Get a grip, Joel,” I mutter, pushing off the counter and rinsing out my mug.
The last thing I need is to start reading too much into this. She probably hates my guts just as much as she always has.
Still, pushing her buttons? I’ll admit, it’s fun. A little too fun.
The thought lingers as I head back to the spare room. My guitar case leans against the wall, the scuffed leather reminding me of how far it’s traveled. I glance at it, then at the notebook sitting on the desk—a mess of scribbles and half-formed lyrics.
That moment in the kitchen, the way Anna looked at me when I talked about music—it stirs something. A spark of an idea.
I sit down, grabbing the notebook and flipping to a clean page. The pen feels familiar in my hand, and for a second, the world outside this room fades away.
The words don’t come easily, not at first. But as I start sketching out a melody in my head, the feelings take shape. Frustration, hope, the maddening pull of someone who drives you crazy in all the best and worst ways.
The song starts to form, the notes threading together like they’ve been waiting for this moment. And as I strum the opening chords, I can’t help but think of Anna. I don’t mean to, it just happens.
It’s not just her quick wit or her impossible standards. It’s the way she carries herself, like she’s braced for the world to knock her down but refuses to give it the satisfaction. The way she can cut you to pieces with a single look but still make you wonder what’s hiding underneath.
I pause, staring down at the strings. This song—it’s not just about her. But she’s in it, somehow. In the sharp edges and the soft notes. In the tension that won’t go away.
The words start to flow, the melody weaving through my thoughts as the morning stretches on. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m writing something that matters.
Something real.
Something that might even make her blush again.