Chapter 8
Joel
There’s a moment when you’re playing a song—when the world narrows, when it’s just you and the music, nothing else. The chords settle into muscle memory, the words roll off your tongue like they were always meant to be there, and for a little while, nothing else matters.
This was supposed to be one of those moments.
At least, that’s what I’d hoped for when I stepped onto the stage.
I’m testing something out tonight. A song I finished this afternoon, still a little rough around the edges, the kind that needs to be played out loud, felt out loud, before I can tell if it actually holds.
It’s got that half-finished ache to it—one of those songs that feels like it means something, but I won’t know for sure until I hear it outside my own damn head.
That’s why I’m here.
Not for the crowd. Not for the rush of performing. Just to see if the words hold, if the melody lands the way I want it to.
And for the first half, it’s going… fine.
I’m a little tense, but that’s normal with a new song. My voice is steady. The guitar stays in sync. A few heads turn, some people nod along. At the bar, a girl sways a little to the rhythm, fingers tapping against the side of her drink, and I take it as a good sign.
It’s not perfect, but it’s getting there.
Then, halfway through—it happens.
A flicker of movement in my peripheral.
At first, it barely registers—just another shifting body, another face in a blur of dim lighting and half-drunk conversations. People are always coming and going, weaving in and out of focus.
But something about it pulls at me anyway.
Like a sharp tug on a loose thread.
I glance up.
And there she is.
Anna.
Leaving.
Fast.
And okay, that shouldn’t bother me.
I should just keep my head down, finish my damn song, move on with my life like a normal, functioning human.
But instead, my fingers almost falter over the strings, my throat tightening around the next lyric.
Because this isn’t just Anna stepping outside for fresh air.
That much is clear in the way she moves—stiff shoulders, clipped strides, the kind of exit that isn’t just about leaving a place but getting the hell away from something.
From me.
And somehow, I know—deep in that annoying, traitorous part of me that still gives a damn—that I’m the reason.
Which is just fantastic.
Because I wasn’t trying to piss her off. Again.
Hell, I didn’t even know she was here.
And yet, apparently, I’ve developed some kind of personalized Anna Chang Radar, because now that I do know she was here—now that I know she’s not—it’s like I can still feel her absence.
Like she took all the oxygen with her when she left.
Like she left the whole damn room off-balance.
I exhale slowly, forcing my fingers to stay steady on the strings, but something shifts.
The song was already raw, already unfinished, but now it feels hollow in places. Like I’m missing something.
Like the melody doesn’t quite sit the way it should.
Like it’s waiting for something more.
And before I even know what I’m doing, before I can talk myself out of it—
I find it.
The words slip out, unplanned, tumbling past my lips in a way that wasn’t in the original draft. A line I didn’t write, a feeling I hadn’t meant to put here, but now that it’s out in the open, I know it belongs.
I know it’s hers.
Shit.
I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Because suddenly, this song—this thing I thought I understood, thought I had control over—is shifting under my hands, finding new meaning in real time.
And I don’t know what that means.
But I know it’s because of her.
I push through the last chords, fingers tightening slightly on the strings, trying to make sense of the feeling curling low in my chest.
Trying not to think about the fact that even after she’s gone, she’s still here.
I’ll give her space.
For now.
But the words she left behind?
I don’t think they’re going anywhere.
* * *
The house is dark when I get back, but she’s here.
I don’t know how I know, but I do. Some weird, messed-up instinct that’s been on hyper-alert since I watched her leave.
I toe off my boots and step inside, expecting—well, I don’t know what I’m expecting. But definitely not this.
She’s in the kitchen, arms crossed, hip against the counter, eyes locked on me like she’s been waiting.
It’s almost… unsettling.
Like walking into a room where you know you’re about to get wrecked. I do my best to brace for the onslaught.
“Anna,” I start, but I don’t even get her name out before she’s cutting me off.
“Don’t.”
I pause, tipping my head. “Okay, but just so we’re clear—what are we not doing?”
Her eyes narrow. “This.”
She gestures vaguely between us, and something about it makes me want to smirk. Which is not the right reaction, but hey, when have I ever made good choices?
“I feel like I need a little more context.” I lean against the opposite counter, mirroring her stance. “Because from where I’m standing, we’re just two adults having a totally normal, not at all hostile post-club conversation.”
Her glare sharpens. “You know what I mean.”
“Ehhh, do I?”
She exhales sharply, like she’s barely holding on. “I don’t need you pulling this crap with me.”
“What crap?”
“The thing you do.” She gestures again, this time toward me. “With your stupid guitar and your soulful, heartfelt… whatever the hell that was. You knew I was there. You knew I’d hear it.”
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not playing.” I push off the counter, frowning. “I didn’t know you were there.”
That stops her.
Just for a second, her brows pull together, like she’s processing, recalibrating. But Anna Chang does not hesitate long. She recovers fast.
Too fast.
“Oh, that makes it better?” she fires back, voice sharper than before.
“I don’t know. Does it?”
Her jaw clenches. “Jesus, you are infuriating.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it.”
“I don’t want to.”
And that? That one stings.
Because I do.
I want to understand. I want to get it, to know why every damn thing I do seems to hit a nerve with her.
Hell, I wanna know why she can’t just open the goddamn envelope and forgive me already?
And I want to know why—why even now, even when we’re standing here, practically snarling at each other in her stupidly pristine kitchen, I still can’t seem to let it go.
We’re close now.
Somewhere between our back-and-forth, we got too close.
And maybe she notices it at the same time I do, because suddenly, she shifts. Her breath is shallow, her posture tense. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.
And me?
I should step back.
I should give her room.
But I don’t.
Instead, my fingers graze hers—just barely.
Not enough to call it an accident.
Not enough to ignore.
She freezes.
We both stare down at the point of contact.
And for a second—a split second—the air between us shifts.
Then she jerks her hand back like I just electrocuted her.
“What the—” She takes a full step away, bumping into the counter. “I—God, just move.”
She won’t look at me. Which is interesting.
Because Anna Chang is a lot of things, but she’s not the type to back down. Not from a fight. Not from an argument. And definitely not from me.
So what the hell is this?
I lean back against the counter, watching her with what appears to be way too much amusement for her liking because she full on growls at me.
“Did you just flinch?”
She snorts under her breath. “No.”
“You did.”
“Joel,” she says my name with far too much exasperation and it makes me grin.
“Anna.”
Her name feels way too good in my mouth.
She exhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “You are so goddamn infuriating.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
Something in her eyes flickers, but she’s already moving, already retreating to the fridge. Because of course she is. Classic Anna move—make it seem like she’s in control when we both know she’s two seconds away from combusting.
She yanks open the fridge with a little too much force, stares into it like she’s hunting for a solution to her problems next to the oat milk.
“You didn’t have to run out, you know,” I say, my voice low.
She goes still.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” I keep my voice even, watching her shoulders tighten. “You left before I finished.”
“So?”
“So… you don’t run, Anna.” I tilt my head, watching her process. Watching her brain work. “At least, you didn’t used to.”
She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You think you know me?”
I don’t answer right away.
And that hesitation is dangerous.
Because yeah, I do.
At least, if the past is any indication.
I know that she sleeps curled up on her side because she thinks it’s the most efficient way to conserve heat.
I know she hates surprises but loves puzzles, which is kind of the same thing, if you think about it.
I know she overthinks and overanalyzes everything.
And I know she’s lying through her damn teeth right now.
“You don’t,” she says before I can get a word in.
She moves to step past me, but at the last second, she hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second—like she’s reconsidering. Then she squares her shoulders, brushing my arm as she walks by.
I should let her go.
I should let this drop.
But my mouth? It has other plans.
“What did you think of the song?”
She stops.
Back still turned.
Not facing me, not running either.
For a second, I wonder if she’ll ignore it. If she’ll pretend she didn’t hear me, pretend like it didn’t mean anything.
Then she speaks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A slow grin spreads across my face.
Because that?
That right there?
That’s not a no.
I take a slow step forward, testing the waters.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” I repeat, drawing out the words. “That’s interesting. Because I was under the impression you left Nocté halfway through my song.”
Anna stiffens. Just the slightest twitch in her shoulders, like I caught her.
“Coincidence,” she mutters, still not turning around. “Not everything is about you, Joel.”
“True.” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “But this was about me. Specifically, a song I wrote. One you definitely heard.”
“I hear a lot of things.”
I can’t help it—I smirk.
“And yet, you ran.”
That does it.
She whirls around, arms crossed tight over her chest, chin tilted up in that classic Anna way.
“I did not run.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Mmhmm.”
“I left.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Right,” I say, dragging the word out. “One is controlled. The other is running away because you felt something you didn’t want to feel.”
Did my song really make her feel something?
Her glare sharpens to murderous levels.
“You are so full of yourself,” she hisses.
“I mean, I’m not the one who stormed out mid-song.”
“Oh my god.” She presses her fingers to her temples like she’s literally trying to keep her head from exploding. “I left because I was bored, Price. That’s it. Not everything is some deep, emotional moment just because you played a few sad chords.”
“A few sad chords?” I place a hand on my chest, mock-offended. “Wow. That almost hurt, Ace.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Not a chance,” I fire back, taking another step into her space.
She groans, muttering something under her breath that sounds a lot like I hate you but with significantly more aggression.
Then she pivots sharply, ready to stalk off, but I mirror her step, shifting just enough that she stops short.
“Move,” she demands.
“Admit it,” I counter, grinning. “You liked the song.”
“I hate the song.”
“You don’t even remember it.”
“I remember enough.”
“Oh yeah?” I tip my head. “Then tell me. What was it about?”
She opens her mouth. Then shuts it. Her jaw tightens.
I watch as she fights with herself, scrambling for something to say, something vague enough to avoid proving me right.
It’s fascinating.
“It was… moody.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A little whiny.”
“Rude.”
“And,” she adds, eyes flashing as she finds her footing again, “an obvious attempt to get people to feel sorry for you.”
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. “God, you’re the worst liar.”
“And you’re insufferable,” she snaps, brushing past me with more force than necessary.
This time, I let her go.
Because as much as she pretends to be unaffected, her entire reaction just proved my point.
She felt something.
And whether she likes it or not?
I’m not letting that go.
Not yet.