He turned his head sharply, his eyes wide, almost wary, as if bracing for mockery. He looked honestly surprised by my words, like he hadn't expected me to acknowledge it, let alone praise it. A flicker of something akin to pleasure sparked in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual defensive shield. "Are you serious?" he scoffed, but the tone lacked its usual bite. There was a vulnerability in his question, a need for validation that clashed sharply with his usual demeanor.
I decided to push my luck. "Yes, I'm serious. It was beautiful, Kris. Really." I met his gaze directly, trying to convey the sincerity I felt. "Where did you learn to sing like that? And why don't you ever... I've never heard you sing before."
His gaze darted away from mine, towards the dark water again. The moment of openness shattered, replaced by his usual guardedness. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Maybe I don't sing often because it's none of your business, Princess," he retorted, the familiar edge returning, though it felt less certain this time.
My own defensiveness flared. "Well, now you've sung. And it was good. So, why the secrecy? Is it something you're embarrassed about?"
He remained silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. The vulnerability he'd shown earlier felt like a distant memory. Finally, he gave a short, dismissive wave of his hand, a gesture that felt final. "I'll tell you... next time," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any real promise. The familiar banter, the push and pull, snapping back into place, but feeling slightly askew after the melody that had just hung between us.
I opened my mouth to argue, to press him further, but a familiar sound cut through the air – the distant rumble of a motorcycle engine growing steadily louder. His Bike, signaling the end of our impromptu, canal-side concert and philosophical discussion. The moment was broken, the fragile thread of connection snapping back into the familiar tension.
With a sigh that was half-exasperated, half-resigned, I straightened up. "Alright, Mr. Mysterious Songbird," I said, trying to regain some ground, some semblance of my usual self. "Lead the way, my noble steed."
He pushed off the railing, a slight, almost imperceptible curve to his lips that might have been a smile, might have been just a twitch. He nodded towards his bike, still idling patiently nearby, its engine a low thrum in the quiet. The ride back to my home was quiet again, but it felt different. The shared secret of his song, the glimpse of the person behind the brat act, lingered like a melody in the air, changing the tune of our usual antagonism, even if only slightly. I leaned against the back, watching the familiar streets blur past, but this time, I wasn't just scared. I was also... intrigued. A lot of things felt different now. The line between enemy and... something else... felt a little blurrier, a little more complicated, and maybe, just maybe, a little more interesting.
As we pulled up to my apartment building, he cut the engine with a decisive hiss. I gathered my bag, hesitated for a beat, then climbed down. He didn't offer more than a curt nod, already turning to drive away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, the echo of his unexpected song and the complicated feeling it left behind.
I walked the rest of the way home, the memory of his voice, clear and clear, playing in my mind, a strange, beautiful note against the city's relentless hum.