The apartment was quiet, save for the soft clinking of my spoon against porcelain and the hesitant notes she coaxed from the piano. She sat beside me, one leg crossed beneath her, brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers experimenting with a delicate melody that flirted with minor chords. I cradled my teacup, letting its warmth seep into my hands. “That F-sharp doesn’t belong there,” I said gently, not because it was wrong—she’d make anything sound right—but because I wanted to hear her try it differently. She nodded, adjusted, and the room bloomed with a softer sound. I stared at the side of her face, lit by the lamp’s amber glow, and told myself to stop staring.

When she first took my class, I thought she might drop it—students with majors like fashion often did, not expecting the rigor I demanded. But she stayed. Not just stayed—excelled. I remember her “Liquid Smooth” performance like a memory pressed between the pages of a book: aching lyrics, vicious honesty, a voice that broke me open when I didn’t know I could still be cracked. “You’ve come a long way since that first performance,” I said, just to see the small smile tug at her mouth, just to feel the pulse in my wrist pick up when she glanced over.

She leaned closer to adjust the sheet music, and her shoulder brushed mine. I didn’t move away. I was too old to pretend I didn’t feel things, and too careful to admit them easily. There was something about her—something sharp and restless that mirrored the part of me I spent decades dulling down to survive. I could see a future with her, though I wasn’t sure what that meant. “You don’t really need help with this,” I murmured, setting my cup down. “You just like the sound of my piano.” The truth was, I liked her here. In my space. In my quiet. Making it hers.