It’s good. The music.
That’s not what you really wanted to say, is it?
How does he do that? Cut through my bullshit even through text messages?
I take a breath and type what I’m actually feeling.
I don’t know what this is between us, but it’s more than I expected.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Like he’s struggling too.
It’s more for me, too, Victor.
Something gives way in my chest—tension uncoiling, replaced by a warmth I don’t recognize. This feels dangerous in a different way than sex. This feels like territory where I could actually get hurt.
20
THEO
Iorder my coffee at the window counter—flat white, single origin, pressed, not pulled. The barista knows me now. Four visits this week, same order, same time. Consistency builds rapport.
“Thanks, Carly.” I slide her a tip that makes her eyes widen slightly.
“Let me know if you need a refill, Theo.”
I take my usual seat—the one with the best light, which happens to face the street, which happens to have a direct sightline to the front entrance of Kaine’s Fight Club two doors down.
Pure coincidence, of course.
I open my laptop. I have genuine work to do. Label contracts for three new artists we’re bringing onto Eclipse Records—all with clauses that need careful revision. Celeste’s showcase rider lists demands that would make a rock star blush—I need to pare it down before sending it to venues. Three unanswered emails from a promoter in the city who wants Eclipse for a residency sit bold in my inbox, growing more desperate with each message.
I work. My fingers move across the keyboard, making notes on the contracts, highlighting revision points. I balance Celeste’sneeds against the venue’s capabilities, cutting the ridiculous—no, she doesn’t need a separate green room for her crystals—while preserving what matters for her performance.
The coffee grows cold beside me. I signal Carly for another.
Outside, the street fills with morning traffic—business types, tourists, and regulars to the area. None of them catches my attention beyond a passing aesthetic appreciation.
At eleven, Victor comes out of the fight club.
I don’t look up immediately. I finish the sentence I’m typing—something about termination clauses and exclusivity periods—words that suddenly seem meaningless compared to the figure now standing motionless on the pavement.
I reach for my coffee, taking a deliberate sip. The liquid is slightly bitter now, cooling at the edges. Only then do I allow myself to glance through the window with practiced nonchalance—a deliberately timed moment I’ve been choreographing since I first spotted his silhouette.
Victor has stopped walking. Eyes locked on me through the glass between us.
I give him a smile. Not the one I use on stage when the beat drops. Not the one I flash at investors or the press. This one lives deeper, exists only in the space between us—warm, private, authentic. A glimpse behind the curtain I rarely lift.
Then I return to my screen, fingers hovering over keys but not typing. The contract blurs into meaningless letters.
Every nerve in my body tingles with awareness as the bell above the door chimes. Heavy footsteps approach, each one distinct against the café’s ambient noise. A shadow falls across my table, blocking the light that had been warming my forearms.
Without looking up, I slide my bag off the chair opposite mine, making space.
Victor sits down.
Carly approaches our table, order pad in hand. She gives Victor a quick once-over, the subtle way women do when a large attractive man enters their space. I notice these things—the small tells of desire. It’s what makes me good at what I do, reading rooms, understanding energy.
“What can I get you?” she asks Victor.
