Alex slapped the alarm off, rolled over, and immediately passed out again. Sunday. Blessed, holy, don’t-bother-me Sunday.

  Fifteen minutes later his eyes shot open.

  “Oh shit—shit—shit!”

  He launched out of bed like someone lit a fire under him, grabbed a half-eaten sandwich from last night, and crammed a bite into his mouth while changing shirts with the grace of a drunken octopus. Shoes half-tied, he burst outside and planted himself on the sidewalk, tapping his foot on the asphalt like the ground personally offended him.

  A taxi finally slowed down. Alex practically dove inside.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “The Metroville Conservatory of Sound,” Alex said without breathing.

  The driver nodded and pulled into traffic. Metroville was wide awake — the Sunday market spilling into the streets, street musicians already warming up, and the morning light sliding across skyscraper glass like a spotlight on a restless city. Alex looked at his watch every twenty seconds, jaw twitching.

  They pulled up to the conservatory. Alex thrust bills forward.

  “Keep the change!”

  He sprinted inside.

  At the front desk, he skidded to a stop in front of the secretary.

  “Hi— Alex Caddler. Was supposed to use the piano for personal training.”

  The woman didn’t even blink. “Yes, we have a free piano. You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’m so sorry, something came up,” Alex said, sounding like a man bargaining for his life.

  He slipped into the empty practice room and sat behind the piano. From his backpack, he pulled out the crumpled sheet of handwritten notes — his war map. He set it on the stand, inhaled, and started.

  The rhythm stumbled like a toddler learning to walk. Wrong timing, shaky transitions. He muttered something under his breath and tried again. And again. And again.

  Thirty minutes later, the door creaked open.

  A man stepped inside — posture upright, expression calm, wearing a classy half-smile that made him look like he belonged to a different century.

  “Well, well, you’ve made some progress, I see, Alex.”

  Alex froze mid-chord. The playing was slightly smoother than before, but nowhere near where it needed to be.

  “T-thank you sir. I’m really not much of a musician, but I’m doing my best.”

  It was Glenn Gould himself, the legendary Canadian pianist who controversially abandoned live performance to focus solely on recording. “Your best is a distraction. Do you know what the difference is between a musician and an amateur? The amateur performs for the audience. The musician performs for the music itself. Your hands are not sloppy because they lack practice; they are sloppy because your mind is apologizing for the sound. Stop apologizing. Listen to the structure.” his tone was firm but fair.

  Alex swallowed. Half of that went over his head, but sure — music philosophy, structure, existential crisis, whatever. He adjusted his posture and got back to the keys.

  For the next half hour, Glenn dissected every note like he was carving marble — timing, pressure, hesitation, everything. Then he said the words Alex feared:

  “Now. Sing with it.”

  Alex tried. Oh boy he tried. But his voice and hands fought like two cats in a bag. Glenn finally put a hand on his shoulder.

  “When you perform for one person, kill the need for validation. Treat the voice and the piano as one solitary mechanism. If you can hold the integrity of the notes, the moment itself will become permanent.”

  Alex nodded like someone understanding about 40% and pretending 80%.

  After a few more minutes, Glenn picked up his hat.

  “Well, since this song is the only song you’re ever gonna play or practice, you’ll get the hang of it sooner than you think. How many months did you say you have until the deadline again?”

  “Three more months, sir. We’ve been practicing this for about a month and a half now.”

  Glenn nodded. “Yes, I remember. I had to teach you the most primitive fundamentals first. But you did good in such a short time. You do have your father’s talents.”

  Alex laughed nervously. “You’re too kind, sir. And again, thank you very much for this. I know you're a very busy man…”

  Glenn chuckled as he opened the door. “I’m always glad to help a man in love, dear boy. I’ve never seen someone try so hard to learn one song. And a French one at that! I guess love makes a man make impossible things happen. At any rate, send my regards to Mateo. He is a good man. And a good friend.”

  Alex thanked him, and Glenn slipped out.

  Alex exhaled, sat back down, and played again. For another hour. Maybe two. His fingers felt like they’d been individually tortured by tiny demons.

  Eventually, the secretary appeared at the door.

  “Sir, we’re closing up, if you don’t mind.”

  Alex stood, spine cracking loud enough to make her flinch. His fingers whispered help me with every flex.

  Meanwhile, Violet woke up at 12 p.m. like a cat who’d survived a nap-induced coma. Stretch, yawn, existential groan. Phone. Text Alex.

  Violet:

  Ughhhh I woke up at noon. Don’t judge me ??

  Alex:

  Never. Noon is a respectable hour. Very… healthy.

  Violet:

  You replied way too fast. You never wake up this early on a Sunday unless you have a midterm. Where are you?

  Alex:

  Early? It’s noon! I’m out getting... fresh air. Just stepped outside.

  Violet:

  And your texts sound weirdly clipped. What are you really doing?

  Alex:

  Clipped? Must be the new phone update. Nothing weird. Just running an errand before the hardware store closes. I need a specialized... bolt.

  Violet:

  Alex Caddler if you’re doing something weird, I swear—

  Alex:

  No weirdness. Just… errands. Necessary ones.

  Violet:

  On a Sunday??

  You’re being suspicious ??

  Alex:

  Me? Suspicious?? Noooo. Impossible. I am the picture of normal.

  Violet:

  Liar.

  Fine, whatever. I’m starving. Going for breakfast.

  Text me later, sneaky boy.

  Alex:

  Will do. Enjoy ??

  She put her phone down, still squinting like she smelled nonsense — because she absolutely did.

  The cab hummed beneath him as the city rolled by in streaks of white and yellow. Alex slouched in the back seat, wings pinned tight and uncomfortable under his jacket. He exhaled through his nose, half–smiling, half–wincing.

  “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “I sound guilty even when I’m innocent.”

  The driver glanced at him in the mirror, one eyebrow lifting.

  “You say something?”

  Alex cleared his throat. “No, no. Just… talking to myself.”

  “Ah.” The driver nodded knowingly. “Relationship problems.”

  Alex’s head snapped up. “What? No— I mean—”

  But the driver was already nodding harder, like a wise sage who had seen the rise and fall of many doomed romances.

  “Happens to the best of us, kid.”

  Alex sank deeper into the seat, defeated.

  “…Yeah. Sure.”

  They turned onto his street, the familiar row of tightly packed apartment buildings coming into view. The Conservatory’s massive glass structure was far behind them now, shrinking from his mind just as fast as it faded in the distance. Relief worked down his spine — partly because he no longer had to force his wings into that awkward folded prison, partly because the day was finally settling into something he could control again.

  The taxi slowed to a stop. Alex paid quickly, muttering a “thanks” before stepping out. The afternoon air hit him, warm and lazy, the kind that made him want to crawl back into bed and forge t the world existed.

  Alex keyed the door, nudged it open with his shoulder, and let the keys fall onto the small wooden dish sitting on the counter beside the door — the one he always aimed for and only hit half the time.

  He let out a breath through his nose, the exhausted kind, and shrugged off his jacket. The shirt followed, tossed somewhere vaguely toward the coat rack and absolutely missing it. His chest was damp with sweat from the morning, the effort, the damn leather straps glued to his back.

  He turned, grabbed the buckles with both hands, and cursed under his breath as he loosened them. The tension snapped free. His wings unfurled like a creature stretching after being caged, dark feathers expanding with a dry whisper of friction. Relief tore a groan out of him. He stretched his arms forward, wings arcing wide behind him, joints cracking pleasantly.

  He let himself fall onto the sofa. Jeans still on. Socks mismatched. He rubbed his face with both hands and mentally told his spine he was sorry.

  His phone buzzed. Violet calling.

  His hand shot out before he even thought about it. His tired expression melted into something warm — involuntary, stupid, helpless.

  He answered, “Hey, beautiful.”

  Her voice rolled through the speaker like sunshine wrapped in sarcasm. “So I found this amazing pancake place. And yes, I know you hate surprises, so I’m calling before I drag you out. Aren’t I the sweetest?”

  Alex sat up fast. “Hold on — when have I ever cared about timing when it comes to you? Don’t insult me like that, Vi.”

  She laughed softly, amused at how sincere he sounded. “Relax, Casanova. I just don’t want you panicking because I said ‘let’s go out’ without a three-day notice.”

  “Listen,” Alex said, hand over his heart, dramatic. “If it’s you? I don’t need notice. I don’t need prep. I don’t need anything except a functioning pair of legs.”

  “Oooh, romantic and weirdly biological.”

  “I try.”

  There was a small pause — the comfortable kind lovers lived in.

  “So,” she said, “feel like going out later? You know what? How about Jake’s? One drink. Then a movie. Your pick.”

  Alex grinned like a man who had no business grinning that wide. “Jake’s and a movie? You’re spoiling me.”

  “Please. You’re easy to spoil.”

  “True. Pick me up at seven?”

  “Yeah. And Alex?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t stress. I know Sundays make you… twitchy.”

  “Only when I miss you.”

  She let out a breathy chuckle — the kind he always replayed in his head later. “See you tonight.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Call ended. Alex stared at his ceiling like an idiot in love.

  He went to the gramophone, and let Sinatra’s I Can’t Stop Loving You fill the apartment. The strings hit, and he swayed automatically as he moved to the kitchen.

  He opened the fridge. Saw an apple, a jar of pickles, and something that used to be cheese but now qualified as a sentient threat.

  “God damn it.”

  Fridge closed. Before anything he texted Violet "Going out for a small grocery trip. There is only air to eat in my fridge" which Violet answered with a "Just don't eat the whole store. You're grumpy when you're hungry"

  He grabbed a clean t-shirt, strapped his wings again with a grunt (today they fought the straps like spoiled cats), threw on his jacket, took the keys from the dish, and stepped outside.

  The walk wasn’t long. A few blocks. The city had that late-afternoon laziness — cars dozing at red lights, shop awnings flickering, pigeons plotting crimes. Alex walked with his head down, humming the same song he played under his breath.

  As usual, he passed the narrow alley. The same one he always passed. Today something felt off — a wrong note in a familiar song.

  He walked past it for one step.

  Then his brain caught up.

  Voices. Sharp ones. The sound of someone being cornered.

  He froze. Turned. Looked in.

  Three men. Posture of hyenas. And behind them, a Chinese woman clutching her daughter like a shield against the world.

  His jaw tightened.

  For a split second, he considered minding his own business. But that second was stupid and short-lived. He remembered what he was capable of. What ten seconds meant in his hands.

  He stepped into the alley.

  One of the men swaggered toward him. “Hey. Get the fuck outta here before I get angry and fuck you up.”

  Alex raised his brows. “Really? That’s your opening line? Before you get angry? That’s so gay, dude.” he tried to provoke them as if he was curious what he could do when the fight started.

  Another guy — baggy clothes, cheap cologne — joined in. “You dumb or something?”

  The third one moved aside, revealing the woman and her child. The girl stared out with wide terrified eyes, clutching her mother’s shirt.

  Alex’s blood boiled. Instantly.

  He forced himself to keep his voice level. “Get your dirty hands off her.”

  The man who was clearly in charge laughed, stepping closer to the woman. “She owes us money. She pays one way or another.”

  His hand touched the woman’s cheek. Slid down toward her throat.

  Alex's left eye twitched — the kind of twitching that meant someone was about to die if he didn’t control himself.

  “Last warning,” Alex said, stepping closer, “hands off. Or I’ll cut them off and shove them so far up your ass you get to scratch your windpipe.”

  The knife flicked open.

  “Tough guy huh,” the man said, “maybe we should collect from you.”

  Alex lifted a hand. “Hold on. I actually got something on me.”

  He rummaged in his pockets. Jacket. Jeans. One by one. The men looked at each other, confused but hungry for cash.

  Then Alex froze his hand. “Found it.”

  He slowly pulled his hand out.

  Middle finger raised proudly.

  Their smiles died instantly.

  They rushed him.

  The first man swung. Alex met the punch with his own.

  The crack was loud. The man screamed as his wrist folded back like wet cardboard. He flew backward.

  Second guy came with a pocket knife. Alex stepped back, annoyed. He didn’t want stab wounds today — too many questions. So, he yanked his leather belt free in one fluid motion.

  Wrapped the strap around his fist.

  Let the metal buckle swing.

  The knife lunged. Alex dodged effortlessly and snapped the belt buckle into the man’s nose. Blood sprayed. The man dropped.

  The third man hesitated — just long enough for the woman to run with her daughter.

  Alex moved. No hesitation.

  He struck the two already-injured men with a rapid rhythm — relentless, precise, like beating rhythm into a wooden dummy. One took the buckle to the lip — the skin split clean. The other stumbled as Alex slammed the buckle across his cheekbone.

  Alex saw the woman trapped at the alley’s end — the third man catching her arm, knife raised.

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  Alex abandoned restraint. His eyes lit with something dangerous.

  "HEY!" He roared — loud enough that the walls echoed.

  He slammed the last two men aside, grabbed one by the leg like a rag doll, and hurled him into the wall. The impact rattled the alley.

  The third man dragged the woman closer, knife raised.

  Alex hit him like a truck, shoulder-checking him off his feet.

  The man scrambled up, stabbed wildly. Alex dodged every swing, grabbed his wrist mid-strike, and slowly twisted. The bones cracked first. Then shattered.

  The scream was ugly.

  The man switched hands, knife trembling.

  Alex sighed. “Don’t. Just leave. We’ll call it a day.”

  “Fuck you,” the man snarled. “I’ll put you in the fucking ground.”

  Alex shrugged. “Good.”

  The man charged.

  Alex ended it in seconds — a couple of heavy punches to disorient him, then he grabbed the man’s head and slammed it into the wall left, right, fast enough to snap the air.

  The man crumpled.

  Silence fell.

  Only the distant sound of the woman running, clutching her crying daughter.

  Alex stood there breathing hard, the belt still dangling from his fist. He steadied his breathing, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to calm a storm inside him. He turned to the woman.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

  She flinched anyway, clutching her daughter so tight her knuckles went white. After watching him absolutely demolish three violent men, she had every reason to look at him like he was the monster in the alley.

  Alex lowered himself until his knees almost touched the dirty pavement. He raised both hands gently, palms out, voice softer than a whisper.

  “Hey, hey… it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

  He reached forward slowly, barely brushing her arm.

  She stared into his eyes for a long, trembling moment — then something clicked. Her shoulders loosened. She stood up with her daughter pressed to her chest.

  “Thank you… thank you so much,” she breathed.

  Alex nodded like you’re welcome didn’t cut it. Then he crouched down a bit to meet the child’s eyes. His entire face softened.

  “And what’s your name?”

  The little girl hid further into her mom’s coat, peeking out with two big fearful eyes.

  Alex chuckled softly. “No worries. You can tell me later. I won’t bite.”

  He walked them toward the street, keeping a respectful distance so he wouldn’t scare them more than he already had. As they moved, the woman started talking — halting, embarrassed, but relieved.

  “We… we moved here from Shanghai. For work,” she explained. “It’s been very hard. My husband… he was beaten by these men before. We borrowed money. Too much. He is waiting for us with all our things now. We're leaving in an hour. We have to”

  Alex let out a slow sigh. “You’ll get through this,” he said gently. “I will personally make sure they will never bother you again, okay? At least not until you can pack your bags and leave peacefully”

  She nodded gratefully, thanked him again, and headed in the opposite direction with her daughter.

  Alex waited until they turned the corner. Then he walked back to the alley and peeked in.

  The thugs were still there — writhing, cursing, barely conscious. One of them moaned something that sounded like a dying squirrel.

  Alex snorted. Good. Let them stay down.

  He made sure none of them were getting up to follow him, then turned toward the grocery store.

  Inside, he grabbed everything in sight — eggs, butter, bread, bacon, random stuff he didn’t even need. The cashier didn’t comment. Alex looked like a man who’d punch a refrigerator if it looked at him wrong.

  By the time he got home, the Sinatra playlist was still going.

  The moment he stepped through the door, his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. He shrugged off his jacket, then loosened the straps around his wings until they slid free. They unfurled with a heavy, relieved rustle.

  “God…” he groaned as he stretched them and his back popped.

  He set the groceries on the counter—

  And froze.

  His phone lay there, screen glowing.

  Three missed calls. Four messages. Violet. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispered.

  He snatched the phone and hit call instantly.

  She picked up halfway through the first ring.

  “Alex?!”

  “Hey— hey, hey, I’m here.” He winced. “Sorry, I— uh— got… delayed.”

  “Delayed?” her voice sharpened. “You were supposed to be gone fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah, well,” Alex rubbed the back of his neck, “it turned into a little… situation.”

  “A situation?”

  Her suspicion was practically visible through the phone.

  “Okay, fine. A group of assholes were trying to shake down a woman and her kid.”

  He tried to make it sound casual. Very casual.

  “Long story short, they’re asleep now.”

  “Alex!” Violet’s voice cracked like a whip. “You can’t just— you don’t even fully control your powers yet!”

  “I know, I know— but if you saw them, you’d have punched them too.”

  “Alex—!”

  “She had a kid with her, Vi. Come on.”

  A long exhale. The kind that said she wasn’t done yelling but she loved him too much to keep going.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “No,” he said immediately. “Not even a scratch.”

  He paused. “The belt might be traumatized, though.”

  She snorted in spite of herself. “Idiot.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling.

  A quiet moment passed — warm, soft.

  “Miss you,” he murmured.

  “Miss you too,” she whispered back.

  They exchanged a few more sweet nothings and virtual kisses, then hung up.

  Alex tossed the phone onto the sofa, cracked his knuckles, and went to war with the groceries.

  Fries. Toast. Eggs. Bacon. Enough food to feed a family of four for a week.

  He inhaled all of it and leaned back in his chair, releasing a colossal burp that echoed off the walls.

  “God… I’m disgusting,” he muttered happily.

  He barely made it to the sofa before he passed out.

  ---

  He woke to his phone alarm buzzing like a hive of angry bees. He stretched so hard his wings quivered with pleasure, feathers shaking.

  He got up, stumbled to the sink, and poured himself water.

  Halfway through the sip, his eyes drifted to the small kitchen calendar.

  His body froze.

  Two days from now. Violet’s birthday.

  He spat the water straight back into the sink and choked on air.

  “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me— shit.”

  He smacked his forehead, groaning into his palm. He started thinking on what to do, when to do and how to do it. After thirty minutes of daydreaming, he snapped out of it.

  He rushed to get ready, half panicking. By the time he buttoned his jeans, a knock sounded at the door.

  Alex opened it—

  And Violet practically jumped into his arms.

  Her warmth hit him first. Then her scent. Then the soft brush of her hair against his shoulder.

  He closed his eyes for a second, holding her like she was the first good thing he’d seen all day.

  "I missed you so much" her tone was as excited as a 14-year-old. Alex almost melted in her voice and her scent "Believe me, I missed you more" she laughed as they both started moving towards Jake's.

  Jake’s diner was warm, noisy, and smelled like grilled onions and coffee. Jake was behind the counter polishing a glass like he was auditioning for a cowboy movie.

  The moment he saw them he lit up.

  “Ohhh look who’s here! My two favorite trouble magnets.”

  Alex sighed through his nose. Hard.

  Jake leaned over the counter. “Man, if you two ever get married, I want the right to tell embarrassing stories at the wedding. I got plenty.”

  Violet laughed. “Jake, you don’t even know enough stories to fill a napkin.”

  Jake put a hand on his chest. “Ouch. Betrayed by my own regulars.”

  Alex shook his head. “Jesus Christ…”

  Jake pointed at him. “See? He loves me.”

  “In the same way people love tax refunds,” Alex said. “Necessary, not enjoyable.”

  Jake laughed loud enough for half the diner to hear. Violet covered her mouth, trying to keep her quiet grace.

  They sat in their booth. Violet cross-legged, leaning forward. Alex leaning back, one arm on the backrest, trying to look casual but obviously watching her more than anything else around.

  Jake brought them milkshakes and fries “on the house,” which meant he would absolutely add it to the bill and pretend he forgot.

  “So, lover boy,” Jake said, leaning an elbow on the table, “still drawing those freakishly good sketches? That one you showed me last time? Scared the hell out of me.”

  Violet perked up. “He’s gotten even better.”

  Alex shrugged. “I’m trying.”

  “Trying to be humble,” Jake corrected him. “Failing horribly.”

  Alex gave him a look that screamed stop talking.

  Jake winked at Violet. “He’s cute when he’s annoyed.”

  “I will leave,” Alex warned.

  “No, you won’t,” Violet said sweetly, sipping her milkshake like she held a leash tied to his soul.

  And she was absolutely right.

  They left around nine. Even forgot about movies. It was next to impossible to even feel the passing of time while they were together. The streets were cool, quiet, city-lit. Violet walked close to him, arms occasionally brushing like she was testing the gravity between them.

  “You, okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Just tired.”

  “Want me to walk you home?”

  “No,” he said instantly. “I’m walking you home.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Bossy.”

  “Learned from the best,” he smirked.

  She smiled so softly he had to look away for a second.

  When they arrived, Helen opened the door before Violet even knocked.

  “Oh Alex! Come in, come in!”

  She dragged him inside in that mom-way that gave you no choice.

  Bob waved from the couch. “Hey champ!”

  Dash appeared from literally nowhere. “You brought food?”

  “No,” Alex said.

  Dash stared at him like he’d just committed war crimes.

  Helen swatted her son lightly. “Be polite.”

  “I am polite,” Dash muttered.

  Violet kicked off her shoes. “Mom, we were just gonna have tea.”

  “Great idea,” Helen said. “Alex, have a seat.”

  He sat.

  They talked about everything—school, life, how weirdly close everyone had gotten after that prom disaster. Helen teased Bob, Bob teased back, Dash made side comments like he wanted to join but didn’t want to admit it. Violet curled up on the arm of the couch near Alex, sipping her tea, smiling every time he talked.

  Alex felt… home. Really home. The kind of home he didn’t even realize he missed.

  Violet stretched. “I’ll be right back.”

  Her hair swung behind her as she walked away.

  The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, Alex straightened like a soldier bracing for impact.

  “Okay,” he blurted. “I really need your help.”

  Bob blinked. “Uh—what?” Dash froze mid-sip of his soda. Helen tilted her head. “Alex?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I know this is embarrassing and incredibly stupid but—” he inhaled like he was diving underwater “—I forgot to make plans for Violet’s birthday and now I’m freaking out.”

  Bob burst into laughter so loud the window probably shook.

  Helen smacked his arm. “Bob!”

  “No, no,” Bob wheezed. “It’s just—oh man, I’ve been there. Remember our first anniversary?”

  Helen rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it. “You forgot everything. Everything.”

  Bob grinned. “Last-minute save! Luxurious dinner at Sapphire Diner. Lucius hooked me up.”

  Dash leaned forward. “So, what are we gonna do?”

  Helen patted Alex’s knee. “We’ll celebrate. Simple as that.”

  Alex swallowed. “But it’s my first time being… part of this. Maybe we could invite—”

  Bathroom door.

  Alex snapped his posture and switched tone mid-syllable like a malfunctioning robot.

  “—and yeah, I’m almost ready to draw a full picture. It’s getting easier.”

  Violet smiled at him like she hadn’t heard a thing.

  Smooth. Perfectly disguised. Barely.

  It was late. Alex stood, thanked them, tried to be polite without sounding like he was suffocating. Violet followed him to the door.

  “You sure you’re not tired of me yet?” she teased quietly.

  Alex looked at her like she had just asked if he was tired of oxygen.

  They hugged. Slow. Long. The kind that melts every muscle in your back.

  Then the kiss—gentle at first, then deeper, warmer, neither wanting to pull back, both forgetting the door was still half-open and Helen definitely could see the silhouette.

  When they finally separated, Violet whispered, “Goodnight.”

  Alex whispered, “Not even close.”

  The next day

  His phone vibrated at 8:04 AM.

  Helen Parr.

  Great. Moms calling early always meant something.

  He answered with morning-voice gravel. “Hello?”

  “Alex, hi! I just wanted to update you—I invited Violet’s classmates. Not all of them, just the ones she actually likes. And maybe one or two professors. Also, I invited your parents. And you’ll all stay the night. Don’t argue.”

  Alex sat upright. “You… invited my parents?”

  “They said yes. They seem lovely!”

  Alex pressed a palm to his forehead. “Thank you. Really.”

  “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” Click.

  He stared at the ceiling.

  Okay. This was happening.

  He dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth like a tired zombie—

  —then froze.

  “Shit. Piano training.”

  He spat everything into the sink like a drowning man resurfacing, wiped his mouth, and his phone rang again.

  He snatched it up. “Hello?”

  Sharply. Too sharply.

  “Hello Mr. Caddler,” a polite woman said. “I’m calling from Metroville Conservatory of Sound.”

  Every nerve in his body tensed.

  She’s gonna tell me to quit. I knew it.

  “We’ve run into some maintenance issues,” she said. “The Conservatory is closed today.”

  Alex silently fist-pumped like a man who just won the lottery.

  “Yessssss— fu— yes!” he whispered to himself

  He accidentally smashed his elbow on the sink. Hard.

  Pain shot up his arm like lightning.

  “Mr. Caddler? Are you there?”

  He forced his voice through gritted teeth. “Yes. Thank you. Have a great day, ma’am.”

  He hung up and immediately crouched on the floor, holding his elbow, making noises only dogs could hear.

  He cleaned the toothbrush he’d thrown, washed his face again, stared at his reflection.

  “Okay… gift. Think.”

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Until—

  Dad.

  His dad, Mateo Caddler, king of romance, master of dramatic gestures, the man who made Alex’s mom cry happy tears twice a week.

  Alex grabbed his phone and dialed.

  It rang twice.

  “Mijo! What happened, why are you calling before noon? Did something explode?”

  “Not today,” Alex said. “Listen dad, I need advice. It’s Violet’s birthday tomorrow.”

  Mateo gasped like Alex had confessed to murder.

  “And you’re only calling me now? Dios mío, Alejandro, you’re killing me.”

  “I know, Dad, I know. I need something good.”

  “Aha. You want her to feel seen. Appreciated. Like she is the only girl in the universe. Classic Caddler move.”

  Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do I do?”

  “Flowers? Jewelry? A pet? No, no, not a pet—unless she likes chaos.”

  “Dad…”

  “Fine, fine. Tell me one thing she loves about you”

  Alex paused.

  “…my taste in music, I guess.”

  Mateo clapped. Actually clapped. “Then give her music! Something personal.”

  Alex blinked.

  A playlist.

  A disc.

  A message she could hold.

  “Dad… that’s actually… that’s perfect.”

  “Of course it is. I raised you.”

  Alex laughed. “Thanks. And hey—Helen invited you guys.”

  “Oh, we’ll be there. Your mother is already choosing outfits.”

  “Dad, it’s not that formal.”

  “You think that matters?”

  Alex chuckled. “Bye, Dad.”

  “Good luck. Don’t screw it up.”

  Click.

  He spent the whole day making the playlist, choosing songs that felt like her, like them, like all the quiet moments and all the things he never said out loud.

  Tomorrow was her birthday.

  The disc was ready.

  It was honest. Emotional. Beautiful.

  But not enough.

  “What else?” he muttered, pacing.

  “What can I give her that’s… actually special?”

  The question stuck to him all day, tightening around his ribs, buzzing in the back of his mind like a small, relentless storm.

  And by evening, he still didn’t have an answer.

  Just the weight of wanting it to be perfect.

  The Parrs’ backyard smelled like summer and cake — string lights crisscrossed above the lawn, paper lanterns swung gently in a warm breeze, and the long table was stacked with dishes and a modest, well-loved cake. Helen had a hand in everything: the napkins, the playlist, the tiny fairy-lights tucked into the bushes. Dash hovered near the speaker like a proud puppy. Bob pretended he was just there to help with the grill, but his grin kept slipping whenever Violet’s name came up.

  Alex (now fully recovered from his deep depression) had arrived early with his parents. He’d introduced them first to the Parrs — a smooth, easy meeting that felt like a small, private peace treaty between two families. His father, Mateo Caddler, was lean and warm, the kind of man who still smelled faintly of cologne and rehearsal halls. He carried a saxophone case with him, casual as you please; the instrument would be his contribution to the evening, low and golden as the lights. Alex’s mother, Laleh, was a quietly formidable presence — not stern, but the kind of smart-wise woman who could read a room in one look and make everything right. She’d shown Helen how to fold the napkins properly in two minutes and then winked as if it had been some ancient secret. The Parrs liked them instantly.

  By the time Violet reached the front door, the Parrs had already made small talk with Alex’s parents — a shared laugh over a dish, a bit of nervous banter about how to keep a secret when Dash cannot stop smiling, and the easy comfort of people trying to make a shy young woman’s birthday feel like the world only for her.

  “Everything all right?” Helen asked, pretending not to be the one organizing everything.

  Violet shrugged; cheeks pink. “I told you: nothing exciting ever happens on my birthday.”

  Dash rolled his eyes. “That’s because you don’t let us plan anything. Today, we did.”

  Violet went into the kitchen for a second — to pretend she was getting a drink, to steady her own pulse — and then Helen’s voice, cheery and a little conspiratorial, called out: “Violet! Come outside!”

  She opened the door and the yard exploded in a thousand lights and a single, simultaneous voice: “SURPRISE!”

  For a second Violet just stood there — stunned, hand clutching the doorframe, heart pounding with a shy kind of joy. Then laughter bubbled out of her as everyone pushed forward: classmates, a couple of sympathetic professors Helen had sweet-talked, neighbors waved from the fence, and at the far end of the lawn Alex stood with his parents and a small cluster of people who had known him only as “the older guy” in the extra seminar.

  He looked ordinary in the best way: a dark jacket, a neat shirt, hair mussed from the evening air. Not flashy. Not an announcement. Just him — calm, a little ridiculous under these fairy lights, and entirely fixed on her.

  Whispers rippled through the crowd the way waves do. “That’s him.” “He’s older, right?” “Is he… your boyfriend?” The questions came as small darts.

  Minutes passed in a blur of hugs and thank-yous until someone — a bold friend with a grin — called out, “V! Who’s your friend? He looks familiar.”

  Violet’s face heated. Her hands found Alex’s before she realized what she’d done. She felt his palm warm around hers, grounding and steady.

  “This,” she said, breath small but steady, “is Alex. He’s my — my boyfriend.”

  Silence. Then a hundred tiny sounds — gasps, a drawn-out “No way,” followed by the delighted squeals of the girls and the low, stunned “oh”s from the boys who’d been practicing their confident, bored faces all semester.

  “Wow.” One of the gossip girls — a glossy-smiled, perfectly-posed girl who’d already earned the nickname Crystal — fluttered forward. “You? With him? Violet, really?” Her tone was perfectly neutral, that deliciously practiced, slightly poisonous mix of faux friendliness and sharp curiosity.

  Violet’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, then Alex stepped forward. He didn’t puff himself up or issue a challenge. He smiled — small and sure — and wrapped his fingers around Violet’s hand as if she were the only thing that mattered.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, addressing the whole cluster with quiet confidence. He turned to Violet and kissed the back of her hand, slow and deliberate. The gesture was old-fashioned and completely his. The yard seemed to inhale.

  “Ordinary?” he said, voice soft but carrying under the string lights. “She’s the most extraordinary part of my life.”

  It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The words landed like a warm stone in the pond. The gossip girl’s smile faltered. A few faces softened; someone muttered something about how Alex probably wasn’t someone to mess with. Violet’s cheeks flooded with color — not embarrassment but the hot, proud glow of being seen.

  That little public scene shifted the mood. People drifted into conversations again, and the Parrs relaxed into their roles as hosts. Alex’s father, Mateo, set his sax down and wandered over to the patio where a little makeshift stage had been spared for him. He lifted the instrument to his lips and played a low, honeyed tune — saxophone wrapping itself around the warm night like a blanket. The song was jazz at its most tender: a saxophone solo that made people think of slow dances, round lights, and the hush right before a confession. It threaded through the chatter and softened the edges of any lingering gossip.

  Once the music settled into a mellow rhythm, Alex introduced his parents properly to Violet, the way two families meet and judge, and then accept. “Vi, this is Mateo and Laleh Caddler,” he said, proud. “My dad plays a bit, and my mom… she’s the one you don’t mess with.” Laleh laughed, placing a gentle hand on Violet’s shoulder. Her smile was immediate and affectionate, smart and somehow knowing. “We’re so happy you’re here,” she said. Her voice had that matriarch warmth that made Violet feel, absurdly, like she’d been adopted right then.

  Mateo tipped his sax with a grin. “So… do we get a dance later, or do we have to beg?”

  Violet, still flushed from the reveal, laughed softly. “I think we’ll manage.”

  Music swelled a touch — Alex’s playlist (the one Helen had been curating quietly alongside Mateo’s live playing) mixed into a comfortable backdrop. Friends clustered around the table as Bob gave a dad-like toast, silly and sincere, while Jack-Jack (managed expertly by Helen) sat balanced in a high chair two yards away and made a mess of a cupcake, unbothered by the choreography of grown-up feelings around him.

  As the night flowed, some of the less friendly corners of the group attempted their little jabs. A boy who had liked Violet in class, and had been rebuffed, tried on a tone that passed for flirty: “So, Vi, you’ve been spending a lot of time in that literature lab recently. Is that… a study partnership?” He’d hoped to tease. He’d hoped to make the room laugh at Violet’s expense.

  Alex didn’t flinch. He walked right over and, very calmly, looped his arm around Violet’s waist, pulling her into his side. He leaned down, kissed the knuckles of the hand that rested against his chest, and looked up.

  “She’s a queen,” he said plainly. “And I’m the lucky fool.”

  That quiet, utterly affectionate gesture had the exact effect he wanted: the boy’s comment wilted; a few of the girls rolled their eyes; others looked at Alex as if he were suddenly a movie character come to life. Violet’s laughter was bright and triumphant.

  The night moved toward dancing. Mateo eased into another soft number on the sax and, because the backyard was warm and small, people drifted to the open patch of grass. The first slow tune came up and a few couples took their spots. Violet hesitated once, then a friend — bold and thrilled — tugged her forward, tugging Alex with.

  He took her hand like a practiced gentleman, guiding her through the steps with patient confidence. She was awkward for a heartbeat, then relaxed into his lead. His hand at her back was reassuring, his steps sure. He leaned toward her ear and murmured jokes she couldn’t help laughing at. In between laughter and music, their silhouettes turned soft — Alex steadying her, Violet letting herself be led.

  The gossip girls tried to watch the two of them with professional judgment, but eventually their faces softened. “She looks happy,” one conceded quietly, and the word carried like an absolution. Even Bob’s eyes glimmered with a father’s complicity; Helen, standing close to Laleh, exchanged a look of mutual approval with the woman who’d fixed napkins earlier.

  Later, when the cake was cut and balloons bobbed gently in the late-air, Alex pulled two small, elegant boxes from the pocket of his jacket. One box was slightly bigger: inside lay the CD. The cover was simple and striking — the word Violet written in classic script across it, violet roses printed in soft watercolor around the edges. It felt like something hoarded from another time, delicate and personal.

  The second box contained the pendant: a petite silver rose with a tiny violet gem at its heart. It was unflashy, tasteful, and when Alex slipped the chain over Violet’s head, you could see how it framed her collarbone and made her smile in a way that softened everyone watching.

  “For… well,” Alex said, voice warm, “a soundtrack for you. And something pretty to wear, because you deserve to be reminded every day.” He wore his smile like simple truth.

  People clapped — politely, then louder as the charm of it spread. Her friends crowded around her to examine the CD art and tease her about track lists and kiss tracks. Mateo’s sax softened the fades, and Laleh murmured to Helen about how nice the pair looked together. Alex’s parents watched their son with that private mix of pride and protectiveness only parents know: “There’s the boy I knew” and “There’s the man he’s becoming.”

  When the clock trended later, the guests slowly peeled off; hugs, good-nights, “Let’s do brunch soon,” small promises hanging in the air as people left with their shoes dusty and their smiles bright. The gossip girls floated away as well, their last glance a mix of envy and curiosity. The Parrs clustered together as the yard emptied, settling into the comfortable exhaustion that comes after a party that mattered.

  Once the house quieted and everyone else drifted off to sleep — the Parrs padded upstairs, the kids tucked in — Alex took Violet by the hand and led her to the spot beneath the fairy-lights one more time. No music, no audience, just the soft hum of a summer night.

  He reached into his pocket, producing a tiny velvet pouch. This time there was no showmanship, no public flourish. He set the pouch in her open palm and watched as she drew out the feather. The feather gleamed faintly in the night and felt impossibly soft under her fingers. Violet’s breath hitched — it always did when something that mattered arrived in the palm of her hand.

  “This isn’t the kind of thing you buy,” Alex said quietly. “It changed when we kissed. It felt… different. I thought you should have it.” His thumb brushed the back of her hand while they held it between them, gentle and protective.

  They sank onto the low bench, close enough that their legs touched. Alex reached up, threading his fingers through the hair at her nape. He inhaled, taking in the scent he’d learned to memorize: lavender with a whisper of vanilla, warm and grounding. He let the memory of that night — the first quiet kiss in the library, the tiny sparks of connection — settle between them.

  Their lips met, not the public pecks of earlier but deep and searching. The kiss turned urgent. Violet slid into his lap, and their breathing sped, shallow and fast, breath hot against breath. Alex’s hands splayed across her back, feeling the soft plane of her and anchoring them both in the quiet. Their lips moved with a new hunger, softer and wilder all at once; when they finally broke, it wasn’t a break so much as a pause — a catching of breath.

  Their foreheads touched. They were flushed, a light sheen of sweat on their skin from the heat and the intensity. Violet’s hands cradled his face; Alex’s palms held her at the small of the back as if he would never let her go. The feather lay between them like a small, bright promise.

  “I don’t want this night to end,” Violet breathed.

  “It won’t,” Alex promised, voice low and reverent. “Not for us.”

  They sat there for a long time, talking softly, heads bent together, the porch light painting them in sepia. The family slept inside; the house had that safe, slow beating of people who trusted each other. Outside, under the string lights, Alex and Violet let the rest of the world fall away. The pendant rested at her throat; the playlist would be something she could pop into and hear his voice in the songs he’d chosen for her; and in her palm the feather pulsed faintly — small and warm, a glowing secret.

  Finally, hand in hand, they stood. Before they went in, Alex leaned in and brushed his lips to her temple. “Happy birthday, Vi,” he whispered.

  She smiled against him; eyes heavy with the kind of sleep that follows a night filled with joy. “Best one yet.”

  They walked inside together looking at each other before going to their separate beds, as if their intimacy had changed forever