Chapter Three
Anastasia
The sharp trill of a flute slices through what little focus I have left. Four days of writer’s block and now this, this Godzilla with a wind instrument. All that noise, all that skin. I glare at the closed window, as if my disapproval could somehow muffle the sound.
Nyxx Night. Even his name offends my sense of order.
Who chooses something that ridiculous on purpose?
Probably changed it from Nicholas—or Neil—after deciding vowels were too mainstream.
And don’t get me started on that ridiculous blue streak in his hair.
He looks like he’s trying far too hard to be “edgy.”
I tap my pen against the still-blank sheet music, my frustration mounting.
It’s his fault I can’t compose. How am I supposed to create a masterpiece with that cacophony floating in from outside?
And let’s not forget his complete disregard of personal space and basic decency.
Prancing around half-naked like some sort of… rock star.
Oh, right. He is one.
A particularly complex run of notes catches my attention. Despite myself, I find my head tilting, straining to hear better. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m at the window, easing it open as quietly as possible.
The full force of his music hits me, and at first, I’m appalled.
It’s chaos, pure and simple. Notes tumbling over each other in a frenzied rush, no rhyme or reason to their arrangement.
But then… something shifts. My ear catches a pattern, then another.
The chaos resolves into intricate layers of melody and countermelody, woven together with a sophistication that catches me off guard.
I hate to admit it, but there’s a complexity to his playing that rivals some of the classical pieces I’ve performed. The syncopation, the way he bends notes in ways I never would have considered—it’s… intriguing. Infuriating, yes, but undeniably intriguing.
A small voice in the back of my mind pipes up, one I’ve been trying to ignore since I arrived at this cottage. What if this is exactly what I needed? Not the peace and quiet I thought I wanted, but a jolt to my system. Something to shake up the rigid patterns I’ve been trapped in for years.
Perhaps this was meant to be. Maybe fate has a warped sense of humor. Maybe Nyxx—with all his noise and nerve—is exactly the shock my music’s been starving for.
And don’t get me started on his abs, dammit. Once I found a way to ignore the blue streak and the wild curls and that damned smirk, I can’t deny he’s good looking. Hell, who am I kidding? He’s gorgeous. With looks like that, who needs talent?
But he is talented… in his own way, I remind myself. The music drifting in from the yard is irrefutable evidence of that.
The music stops abruptly, and I realize I’ve been standing at the open window, lost in thought. Glancing out, I see Nyxx stretching, his bare torso glistening in the sunlight. I should look away. I should be appalled. Instead, I find myself appreciating the view.
Oh, good Lord. What’s happening to me?
Nyxx looks up, catching me watching. Instead of his usual smirk, he offers a genuine smile. “Enjoying the show, Ana?”
I should bristle at the nickname, but somehow, I don’t. “It was… not entirely unpleasant,” I admit.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but his smile sharpens. A mischievous glint appears in his eyes.
“Before you go back to composing,” Nyxx says, grabbing his flute, “humor me for a minute?”
Curiosity piques my interest. “What did you have in mind?”
“A little exercise. Play something—anything—and I’ll improvise around it. No rules, no structure. Just… play.”
The suggestion makes my palms sweat. Improvisation has never been my strong suit, but didn’t I just convince myself that I needed to shake things up?
Starting with a simple melody—Mozart’s Andante in C—I watch Nyxx’s face light up with recognition. He joins in, but instead of following the classical line, he weaves around it, adding bluesy riffs and unexpected syncopation that somehow work. The pure joy on his face as he plays is contagious.
When he slides into a minor key, transforming the bright melody into something haunting, my classical training screams to stick to the original piece.
Instead, I follow his lead, finding new paths through the familiar territory.
Our flutes dance around each other—classical and rock, rigid and free, two styles meeting in the middle to create something entirely new.
As the final notes fade, we stare at each other, both slightly out of breath.
“That,” Nyxx says, “is what music should feel like. Not just playing the notes, but feeling them.”
The lesson isn’t lost on me. In letting go of the rules, even briefly, I found something I never knew I was missing.
“That was… exhilarating. You were…” I shrug helplessly, suddenly having no words.
He laughs, the sound warm and inviting. “High praise indeed. Say, I’m about to grab some lunch. Care to join me?”
An hour ago, I would have refused outright. But now… “You know what? I think I will.”
Nyxx tilts his head in surprise, but his smile spreads, slow and sure. “Well, alright then. Give me five to get cleaned up.”
As he disappears to join me in the cottage, I take a deep breath. This is nuts. Completely crazy.
For the first time in months, inspiration feels less like work and more like fire. Maybe madness isn’t the problem—maybe it’s the muse.