“Just thinking.” I shrug. “I’ve got that exam tomorrow, and I’m probably going to bomb the listening portion because I keep hearing your stupid voice in my head every time I try to analyze a bridge.”
He snorts. “My voice is a gift. You’re welcome.”
“Yeah, well, yourgiftis off-key and distracting.”
“Saying you can’t stop thinking about me?” he teases.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I cover it with a quick shove to his shoulder. He shoves back, and for a second we’re jostling like idiots in the middle of the sidewalk while a passing group stares.
Dmitri rights himself first, still grinning. “Come on, I’m buying. You look like you need a heavy dose of caffeine to go with that reality check.”
We cross the street toward The Daily Grind. It’s the same coffee shop we’ve been going to since the week after we met, and Dmitri holds the door for me without thinking. Inside, the line is short. He leans against the counter while we wait, scrolling through his phone. He pauses on the playlist I sent him at 2 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep, undoubtedly searching it for a song he can argue with me about later.
His thick lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and I realize that’s another thing I shouldn’t be noticing. I look away before he catches me.
For two years, he’s been right here in my life. I had just finished my song at the Hidden Note when he came marching over. My nerves hadn’t even started to settle yet, but he flashed me that easygoing smile and suddenly everything felt okay. It was simple, the way we fell into each other’s lives. We snapped together like we were cut to fit right there beside one another, and we’ve been inseparable since.
He’s always had this unnerving ability to read me. Even when we were barely more than strangers, he understood me like I came with an instruction manual. He saw the nerves and offered reassurance without making it a thing. He knows when I need silence, sarcasm, or just someone to sit next to, and reads my cues so well I rarely have to ask.
Lately it feels… different. Notbaddifferent. Just heavier. Like every casual touch and shared look carries an extra half-second of weight I don’t know what to do with.
He glances up and catches my eye, then smiles. “You good?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just… glad we’ve got this routine. It keeps me sane, ya know?”
“Me too.” His voice softens. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. You know that, right?”
Before I can formulate a response, the barista motions us forward. Dmitri orders for me without askingwhat I want, then pays before I can protest. We’re supposed to rotate, but we both know he foots the bill far more often, even if neither of us mentions it outright. He hates acknowledging it, but he comes from money, where I’m scraping by on scholarships and a part-time campus mowing job.
We step aside to wait, and an employee pushes past with a cart loaded with paper cups and coffee beans. It bumps Dmitri, and he stumbles forward before catching himself on the wall, suddenly much closer to me. His eyes lock on mine for a beat before he gives me another tiny smile.
Not for the first time, my stomach drops at how close he is.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as the cart passes. The employee mumbles an apology, and once they’re out of the way, he straightens and steps back.
“It’s okay,” I tease. “At least you showered after your drum session.”
Dmitri snorts. “Low blow. You’re the one who smells like practice-room dust and desperation half the time, but you don’t hear me pointing it out.”
“Desperation is my brand,” I shoot back. “Keeps people guessing.”
He tips his head back in a laugh while his dimple pits deep in his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
Our names are called, and we grab the drinks before we step outside. The quad is alive with mid-afternoon chaos, but we’re used to the noise. Frisbees sail overhead, a speaker blasts from a dorm window, and a group sprawls under the trees as they argue about an upcoming project. Dmitri dodges a rogue disc with an easy sidestep, then spins to face me while walking backward, coffee in one hand and grinning like an idiot.
“I’m on to you, by the way,” he says, eyes glinting.
“No one’son tome,” I argue. “I’m an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in… whatever the hell this is.” I wave a hand at myself.
“You’re about as enigmatic as a neon sign. I can read you with my eyes closed.”
“You’re really gonna make me beg for it, huh? Dramatic ass,” I tease as I flick his forearm, making sure he catches the sarcasm. “Fine. Enlighten me, oh wise one. What are you on to me about?”
He grins wider, lips stretching into the kind of smile that makes my stomach do that stupid half-flip, and keeps walking backward without missing a step. “You were humming my drum solo in class today. Don’t even try to deny it. I saw your foot tapping under the desk.”
“I was tapping because Hale’s rhythm was off—like always—and I needed to keep pace.”
“Bullshit,” he says with a low, delighted laugh. “You were tapping in straight 7/8.Mytempo formysolo… the one you swore was ‘too busy’ last Tuesday. Just own it, Eric. I won’t judge.”
