Chapter Seven
Anastasia
The morning after our makeunder agreement, Nyxx suggests we head into town to find our new looks. “Can’t transform without costumes,” he says with that devil-may-care grin. Forty minutes later, we’re winding down the two-lane road toward Hamlin, windows down, warm air whipping through the car.
As we drive into Hamlin Town, I can’t help sneaking glances at Nyxx. The thought of seeing him in something other than ripped jeans and shirtless chaos is weirdly thrilling—and a little unsettling. How did I get used to that version of him so fast?
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, catching me mid-glance.
“Just wondering why we’re swapping wardrobes.”
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking it through. “Clothes set a mood. They tell the world who we are—and sometimes trap us in it. Maybe this’ll help us both see things from a different angle.”
“Ever considered a less… dramatic style?” I tease.
Nyxx chuckles. “Once, for my high school graduation. My mom begged for a photo before I ‘ruined myself with that rock and roll nonsense.’”
“And did you? Ruin yourself, I mean?”
“Nah. I found myself.” He tilts his head toward me. “You ever gone full rebel before?”
I laugh. “Hardly. The wildest thing I’ve ever worn was a cocktail dress that showed my knees at a symphony gala. My mother nearly fainted.”
“Scandalous,” he deadpans. “Next thing you know, you’ll be drinking straight from the carton.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile sticks.
When we pull into Hamlin’s tiny downtown, my nerves kick in. The air smells like espresso and sun-warmed pavement, with the hum of shop chatter floating through our open windows. “I have no idea where to start.”
“Leave it to me, princess.” There’s mischief in his smile. “I’ve got plans.”
An hour later, I’m staring at a stranger in the mirror.
Ripped jeans. A leather jacket that smells like smoke and rebellion.
A black Pied Piper’s T-shirt that Nyxx tossed at me as we got out of the car is tied at my waist, the stylized flute twining through neon letters.
The saleswoman even tousled my hair and taught me the smoky-eye trick.
He knocks lightly on the door. “You alright in there, or should I send a search party?”
“Almost done,” I call back, twisting the knot in the shirt again. “Some of us aren’t used to transforming into rock goddesses on demand.”
“Take your time,” he says. “Just don’t go back to symphony chic on me. I might not survive the disappointment.”
“You really have that much faith in your band T-shirt?”
“That, and my irresistible influence.”
“Your ego’s so big it needs its own dressing room.”
He laughs—low and real. “Finally. You’re starting to sound like someone who doesn’t mind getting a little loud.”
The tease shouldn’t land the way it does, but my pulse trips anyway. Maybe it’s the warmth in his voice. Maybe it’s the way he sounds like he actually sees me.
“You ready yet?” Nyxx calls. “Let’s see it!”
I step out—and his jaw drops.
“Holy shit.” His voice goes rough. “You look…”
“Ridiculous?”
“Incredible.” His gaze drags slowly from head to toe. “You should dress like this more often. That shirt suits you.”
I’m ready with a quip—until I actually see him.
Nyxx Night, chaos incarnate, wearing a crisp white shirt, navy blazer, and slacks. His wild hair tamed except for that one rebellious blue streak.
“Wow,” we both say again and then burst out laughing.
“You clean up nice, Night,” I manage, ignoring the way my pulse flares. There’s something dangerously attractive about him like this—refined, composed, and still undeniably him. My fingers itch to mess up his hair, to slip beneath that open collar and learn what polished Nyxx feels like.
“Don’t get used to it,” he warns, undoing a button. “This thing’s choking the life out of me.” The glimpse of skin is unfairly distracting.
He runs a hand through his hair, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
As we leave the store in our new outfits, I notice a group of twenty-somethings lounging by the fountain in the town square.
They’re all dressed in various degrees of grunge, many sporting blue streaks in their hair.
One of them looks up, does a double-take, and then lets out an ear-piercing shriek.
“Oh my god, it’s Nyxx Night!”
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by a swarm of excited fans. They’re chattering, reaching out to touch Nyxx, completely ignoring any concept of personal space. I instinctively step back, mortified by the display.
“Easy there, little rats,” Nyxx says good-naturedly, gently disentangling himself from grasping hands. “What’s the first rule?”
“Respect the space, keep the peace!” they chorus.
A girl with a half-shaved head steps forward, tugging down her sleeve to show a tiny flute tattoo on her wrist. “Got this after your Denver show,” she says shyly. “It’s stupid, I know—”
“Not stupid,” Nyxx interrupts, his grin softening. “That’s art. You made my music yours. That’s the whole point.”
Beside her, another fan pulls something out of her backpack and flips open a sketchbook, cheeks flushed. “I—I draw the band sometimes,” she stammers, turning it around. A messy pencil sketch of Nyxx, mid-solo, fills the page. It’s rough, passionate, alive.
He takes a long look, then grins. “Damn, that’s good. You caught it—the part that’s chaos and joy all at once.”
The girl beams, her face transforming. “You mean it?”
“Completely.” He taps his temple. “That’s how it starts. You see it up here before anyone else does.”
Something shifts inside me as I watch him—no arrogance, no distance, just this easy generosity. He’s supposed to be larger than life, but right now he feels… real. And that might be even more dangerous.
I blink—then smile as the chaos settles into a neat, buzzing circle. He’s not commanding them; he’s connecting with them.
“And who’s this?” one asks, eyeing me.
Nyxx slings an arm around me, warm and possessive. “This is the ridiculously talented Anastasia Ashcroft. She’s teaching me about sophistication.”
“Clearly it’s working,” I mutter, earning laughter. The tension melts away.
“You a musician too?” someone asks.
Before I can answer, Nyxx jumps in. “Only one of the best classical flutists alive. You should hear her—angels would take notes.”
My cheeks heat. “You exaggerate.”
“I don’t.” His tone drops lower, serious now. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just those amazing mismatched eyes and the weight of his hand at my waist.
Then someone yells, “Group photo!” and the moment shatters. I flash a rock-hand sign I’ve only ever seen in memes, laughing like I belong.
As we stroll away, Nyxx bumps his shoulder against mine. “Admit it. You had fun.”
“I did,” I confess. “They’re lovely. Your rats are surprisingly polite.”
“They’re good kids,” he says softly. “We all need a tribe—somewhere we fit. For them, it’s loud music and blue hair. For others, it’s tuxedos and standing ovations.”
The insight surprises me. He says it so easily, not realizing how revealing it is.
“They really like being called rats?”
“They named themselves. When we formed the band, I didn’t want it to be just about me. ‘Pied’ means multicolored—like me.” He taps under one eye, then the other. It’s the first mention of his most obvious feature. “The flute, the rats—it all kind of wrote itself.”
“So, renting a place near Hamlin Town wasn’t a coincidence.”
“My manager’s idea of a joke.”
“You’re quite the package.” Too flirty? I double down. “Brilliant marketing and genuine talent. Deadly combo.”
His brows lift, surprised but pleased.
We wander past a music shop, and his expression shifts. “Bought my first flute in a place like that. Saved for months working at my uncle’s garage.”
He stops, gaze snagged on a battered silver flute in the shop window. “I was twelve when I bought my first,” he says, voice gone soft. “My mom worked nights. The apartment was loud—sirens, arguments, life happening too close. The flute was the only thing that made the noise quiet.”
He taps a finger against the glass. “Guitar came later, when I wanted to be heard. But the flute… that was different. You know what I mean when I say it’s all breath and control.
You can’t fake it; it demands calm. It made me believe I could shape chaos into something beautiful if I just… exhaled the right way.”
He glances at me, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess that’s why I never let it go. Even when I started shredding onstage, that flute reminded me where I came from—breathing before shouting.”
I can picture it perfectly: a restless boy teaching himself to turn air into sound, noise into music. Maybe that’s why his songs hit so deep—they come from the place where breath meets ache.
The image softens something in me. I want to say something clever, but the words won’t come. All I can manage is, “That’s… beautiful.”
He looks away, embarrassed by the honesty in the air, and I realize this might be the first time he’s let anyone see the quiet beneath the noise. And the first time I’ve wanted to reach across the distance and touch it.
“Life’s full of plot twists,” he says. “You? Was the flute always the plan?”
“I’m not sure I ever had a plan. It was expected. I just… obeyed.”
He studies me for a beat that feels longer than it should. “That sounds heavy,” he says softly. “Obligation instead of choice.”
I shrug, but the lump in my throat makes it awkward. “It worked out. I’m good at it.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “but being good at something isn’t the same as loving it.”
For a moment we walk in silence, the late-afternoon light slanting over the street. The easy chatter from the cafés fades behind us, giving way to the slow rhythm of our footsteps.
He glances down, his hand brushing mine once, twice, before finally threading our fingers together. The move is casual in theory—nothing more than a companionable squeeze—but my body doesn’t get the memo. Every nerve lights up like it’s been waiting for this exact frequency.
His skin is warm, a little rough from guitar strings, and I swear I can feel the rhythm of him—the steady pulse that always finds its way into his music. The world goes still. No fans, no laughter, just the shared hum of breath and heartbeats syncing in time.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, thumb brushing over my knuckles, “I’m glad you stuck with it. The world’s better with your music in it.”
I can’t tell if he realizes what that small touch just did to me—or if he absolutely does. Either way, I don’t pull away. Not yet.
“You really did listen to it,” I manage.
He grins. “Told you I wasn’t lying. And for the record? I still listen. It’s addictive.”
My heart stumbles. For years, praise slid off me like water, but coming from him—it lands. Heavy. Electric. Real.
We walk the last few steps to the car still holding hands, neither of us acknowledging it. The silence between us hums with something alive, something that feels less like awkwardness and more like the start of a song.
We dressed like opposites today, yet somehow it stripped us down to something real. I can’t stop stealing glances, can’t stop smiling. Something shifted today—something that feels a lot like falling.