The candlelit salon falls silent as I take my place at the piano, the wood smooth beneath my fingers. Leipzig's elite have gathered for this private performance, their expectant faces a familiar audience. My gaze drifts past them to the back of the room where Quentin stands, his posture awkward but his eyes intense—fixed not on me, but on the piano itself as if he can already hear what I'm about to play. The sheet music before me bears his handwriting, the notes of "Des Abends" flowing across the page like a whispered secret.

I've already scandalized the room by choosing to perform an unknown work rather than my usual crowd-pleasers. As my fingers descend on the keys, I feel more than hear the collective intake of breath. But I play for only one person—Quentin—pouring every unspoken desire into the music, watching him as his body sways slightly to the melody, a flush rising in his cheeks.

When the final note fades, the applause feels distant. All I can see is Quentin, his eyes shining with something I dare not name in polite company. As the crowd surrounds me with congratulations, my attention remains fixed on him across the room. He gives a small, hesitant smile before turning to slip out the door into the night. I make my excuses quickly, my heart pounding—whether from the music or the knowledge that our first real conversation awaits me outside, I cannot say.