Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Nyxx
The sound of shattering glass jolts me awake. I bolt upright on the couch, blinking away sleep, to find Ana standing in the kitchen, surrounded by broken ceramic and spilled coffee.
“Shit, Ana, you okay?” I ask, rushing over.
She’s staring at the mess, her face pale. “I… I was trying to make coffee. Starting my day precisely at six AM seemed like a good way to maximize my productivity and…”
Placing my hands on her shoulders, I steer her away from the shards. “Okay, that’s it. This ends now.”
“What ends?” she asks, confusion clear in her voice.
I rummage through the cottage, gathering every clock, watch, and electronic device I can find. “This obsession with schedules and time. We’re going off the grid, princess.”
Ana’s eyes widen as she realizes what I’m doing. “Nyxx, no. I need precise schedules. How am I supposed to structure my day?”
“That’s the point,” I say, dumping the pile of timepieces into a drawer. “You’re not. For the next twenty-four hours, we’re living by whim alone.”
I slip on my boots without lacing them and grab a broom to sweep what remains of the cup.
She looks like she might hyperventilate. “I can’t. I simply can’t.”
Dropping the broom, I cross back to her. Her pulse is visible at her throat. “Hey. Breathe. It’s just a day, not the end of civilization.”
Softening my approach, I take her hands in mine. “Ana, trust me. Sometimes you need to let go to move forward.”
She bites her lip, then nods slowly. “Fine. But if you’re going to make me do this, you have to do something too.”
“Name it,” I say, confident I can handle whatever she throws at me.
Ana’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You have to follow a strict schedule. Wake up at 6 AM, eat meals at set times, practice for exactly two hours…”
Now it’s my turn to feel panic rising. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all,” she smirks. “Fair’s fair, Nyxx.”
I groan dramatically, my head flopping back as though I’ve lost all muscle tone. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal, Ashcroft.”
Her laugh spills out—unexpected, unguarded—and I’m pretty sure that sound rewires something vital inside my chest.
The day unfolds in a chaotic dance of opposites. I find myself constantly checking the schedule Ana’s written out for me, while she wanders the cottage and surrounding woods with an air of confused freedom.
“This is torture,” I mutter, forcing myself to sit down for a precisely timed practice session. “I need to be in the mood.” I grimace when I hear myself—the tone of a whiny toddler.
Ana, sprawled on the couch with a book she picked up on a whim, looks up. “Oh? I thought you’d enjoy a nice, structured day.”
I stick my tongue out at her, which earns me a laugh. The sound of it catches me off guard—it’s so free, so unlike her usual controlled demeanor.
As the day progresses, I find a rhythm in the structure.
There’s something satisfying about checking off tasks, about knowing exactly what comes next.
Meanwhile, after looking completely lost this morning, Ana now seems to be blossoming in her newfound freedom.
I catch her dancing in the kitchen to no music, lost in her own world.
It’s ridiculous how hard it is to look away. The sunlight hits her hair, and for a second I forget every chord I’ve ever known.
By evening, we’re both exhausted but oddly energized. We collapse on the couch, Ana’s head unexpectedly falling onto my shoulder.
My first instinct is to freeze. The second is to savor it. She smells of soap and something warm, like honey on toast.
“You know,” she says softly, “I think I might have needed this.”
I chuckle. “Yeah? Well, don’t tell anyone, but having a schedule wasn’t the worst thing ever.”
We sit wordlessly for a moment before Ana suddenly sits up straight. “Oh no. Nyxx, what day is it?”
I furrow my brow, thinking. “Monday, I think. Why?”
“We were supposed to call the landlord! To sort out this living situation.”
We look at each other, and I’m surprised to find I’m not upset about the oversight. From Ana’s expression, I think she feels the same.
“Oh well,” I shrug. “I guess we can stand each other a little longer.”
Ana laughs softly. “I suppose we can.”
I glance at the drawer where I stashed all the clocks and devices.
“Speaking of which—our tech prohibition is up. Want your phone back, or are you enjoying the time-free life?”
She hesitates, then smiles. “Just the phones. I’m not ready for the tyranny of alarm clocks yet.”
“Baby steps, princess.” I retrieve our phones from the drawer and hand hers over.
Emboldened by the moment, I decide to push my luck. “So, about sleeping arrangements. How about we alternate nights in the bed? It’s only fair.” I’ve tried not to complain, but that couch is more like a torture rack than a piece of furniture.
Ana considers this for a moment, then surprises me. “Actually, it’s a king-size bed. We could… share it. If you promise not to try any funny business.”
I can’t help but laugh at her phrasing. “Funny business? What are you, a character from a 1950s sitcom?”
She swats my arm, but she’s smiling. “You know what I mean.”
“Alright, alright,” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I solemnly swear not to touch you. At least, not until you ask me to.”
Ana’s cheeks flush crimson. “That will never happen, Mr. Night.”
The name lands harder than she could know. I swallow the old reflex—a flash of my father’s voice, my mother’s silence—and shove it down deep.
“Careful,” I say lightly, trying to make it sound like a tease. “When you say my name like that, it sounds almost… intimate.”
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I wink at her, enjoying the way it makes her blush deepen. “Never say never, princess. You’re full of surprises these days.”
As we head to bed, something fundamental feels different between us. There’s a weight in the air, something expectant, like the pause before a song drops its first note.
The mattress dips under her as she climbs in, the faint rustle of sheets slicing through the quiet. I switch off the lamp and lie there, telling myself to relax. I don’t. Every sense is tuned to her—her breathing, the tiny sigh when she settles, the whisper of fabric against skin.
She shifts, and the faint brush of her leg against mine sets off every alarm in my nervous system. The heat of her body seeps through the cotton like sunlight through glass. I can almost taste the electricity between us.
I clench my jaw, count heartbeats. One, two, a thousand.
The ache in me builds until it’s almost a rhythm, the same tempo I hear when she plays—measured, perfect, merciless.
I want to touch her. Just once. Trace the curve of her shoulder, find the pulse at her throat, learn the sound she makes when she stops pretending not to want this.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling, fists curled, every muscle locked.
“Good night, Nyxx,” she whispers. My name trembles on her tongue like a note she doesn’t quite finish.
“‘Night, Ana.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. Rough. Hungry.
She turns away, and I stare at the outline of her back in the moonlight.
Desire throbs through me, relentless. My mind floods with images I shouldn’t be having—the taste of her mouth, the slide of silk, her body arching into mine.
It’s a slow, exquisite torture, the kind that makes you want to laugh and groan at the same time.
I drag a hand over my face. I promised not to touch her, and I keep my promises. But I can’t promise not to want her. That ship’s long gone.
When sleep finally drags me under, she’s still a breath away, her warmth curling around me like a siren song. Tomorrow, I’ll pretend I don’t remember the imagined sound of her sighs. Tonight, I memorize every one of them.