The city felt cold that night, even though Amira wore a thick coat over her dress. London wind had a way of slipping into your bones when your heart was heavy, and hers felt like it had sunk to the bottom of the Thames.
The streetlights cast golden pools across the pavement, distorting her reflection in the puddles. As she walked toward the club, she passed couples tucked into themselves, laughter echoing in fragments, neon flickering off their cheeks. Love. The real kind. The kind she used to believe in.
Until Noah.
Until tonight.
Amira tightened her grip on the folder of sheet music she had printed earlier. She didn't want to think about him. Not when Luca had just kissed her. Not when she had let him.
It hadn't been wild or rushed—it had been... gentle. A brush of lips that spoke more of longing than lust. But now she didn't know what it meant. And she hated that part of her still kept glancing at her phone like Noah might've texted again.
She reached the velvet-rope entrance of Velvet Pulse and nodded to Terry, the bouncer, who smiled and let her in without a word. Inside, the club hummed low with jazz standards. It was rehearsal night, not a public show, so the space was filled with musicians fine-tuning riffs, a few bartenders wiping down glasses, and Luca standing at the edge of the stage, flipping through his notebook.
Her chest tightened.
The moment his eyes found hers, she felt the air shift. There was a nervous tilt to his grin—like he wasn't sure if what happened earlier was a beginning or a mistake.
She climbed the stage steps, steadying her breath.
"Hey."
"Hey." His voice was velvet and hesitant. "You came."
"I said I would."
He offered a small nod. "I wasn't sure... after earlier."
"I'm here to sing," she replied, avoiding the emotion in his eyes. "That's still allowed, right?"
He smiled, faintly. "Always."
For a moment, silence settled like dust between them. Luca tapped his pencil against his notebook, then looked at her again.
"I didn't mean to throw you off," he said quietly. "With the kiss."
"You didn't."
"But you also didn't kiss me back."
Amira looked away, her voice tight. "It's not that I didn't want to. I just... didn't expect it."
"You said you were trying to forget him."
"I still am."
"But he texted, didn't he?"
She blinked, slowly.
"How do you know that?"
"I was standing outside the club for a smoke break earlier," Luca said, quietly. "I saw your face when your phone lit up. You froze. You looked like someone had punched you in the gut."
Amira exhaled.
"He said he wants to talk... tomorrow."
Luca nodded, setting his notebook down. "Are you going?"
"I don't know."
He gave her a long, quiet look.
"I don't want to be his rebound," she said, her voice almost a whisper.
"You were never his rebound," Luca replied. "But if you go back to him, that doesn't mean he's changed. That only means he knows how to beg."
Amira's throat tightened.
Luca didn't try to touch her or move closer. He just stood there in silence, letting the weight of his words land without pressure.
She turned away from him, lifting her folder.
"Let's rehearse."
He nodded once, professionally. "Take it from the second verse of "Night Fall," yeah?"
Amira cleared her throat and stepped to the mic, the band already starting to tune behind her.
But as she began to sing, her voice trembled—raw, real, a little cracked.
Like her.
---
Fifteen minutes into rehearsal, sweat glistened on her temple. Her voice steadied with each line. The crowd of empty chairs and dim lighting made it easier to lose herself in the melody.
Then the club doors opened.
And her heart plummeted.
Noah.
He was standing in the entrance like a ghost she'd dreamed into being. His brown coat was damp from the drizzle outside, hair tousled, eyes fixed on her with something terrifyingly close to awe. Or regret. Or both.
Luca's jaw clenched from across the stage.
Amira missed the cue. Her mic caught her silence. The room grew painfully quiet.
Noah stepped forward.
"I know I'm not supposed to be here," he said, voice slightly raised to cut through the jazz hum. "But I needed to hear you sing. Just once."
Luca crossed the stage in three long strides and stepped in front of Amira like a shield.
"We're closed."
"I'm not here to fight," Noah said. "I just want to talk to her."
Luca didn't budge. "Then wait outside like everyone else."
Noah's eyes flitted to Amira. "Please."
And then, for the first time in weeks, Amira spoke to him. Her voice was hollow but firm.
"Not tonight."
The rejection echoed harder than her vocals had.
Luca stepped aside, as if giving her space to breathe. She stood straighter, microphone trembling slightly in her hand.
Noah lingered a second longer, then nodded. He turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a final thud.
Amira didn't say a word. She looked at Luca, then at the mic, then at the empty door.
And then she sang again.
Stronger this time.
Louder.
For herself.
The club emptied slowly after rehearsal. Musicians packed away their instruments, bartenders dimmed the lights further, and Luca offered nods of goodbye as he scribbled notes in the margins of his music sheet.
Amira sat at the edge of the stage, heels off, toes brushing the polished floor. Her heart still thrummed from the confrontation, her voice raw from singing, and her mind—her mind felt like it had been flung into the past and dragged back again.
She ran her fingers over the rim of a glass of water. The door hadn't opened again. Noah hadn't waited.
Good.
She hoped.
Luca finally stepped off the stage and dropped beside her on the floor, sitting close but not touching. His presence was grounding. Like gravity that didn't suffocate.
"You were incredible tonight," he said softly.
"Even when I froze?"
"Especially then. Because you kept going. That's what matters."
She let out a shaky breath. "He shouldn't have come."
"He's desperate."
"That's not my problem anymore."
Luca tilted his head toward her, thoughtful. "Maybe not. But I think part of you still wants to know why he left like that. Ghosted. Broke you."
"I do," she admitted. "But I also want to never see him again. Is that weird?"
"No," he replied. "It's human."
They sat in silence again, the kind that didn't feel awkward—just shared. Then Luca asked, "You want to come upstairs?"
She looked at him, surprised. "To your apartment?"
"Just to talk," he clarified. "I have tea. And no intentions."
Her lips curled slightly. "That's a rare combination."
He stood and offered her his hand. She hesitated—just for a moment—then took it.
---
His apartment above Velvet Pulse was dimly lit and surprisingly warm, filled with shelves of vinyl records, sheet music, and a coffee table stacked with books about music theory and vintage blues legends. A half-played vinyl spun on the record player, Billie Holiday's voice haunting the air.
Amira curled up on the leather couch, accepting a steaming cup of chamomile. Luca sat on the floor across from her, back against the couch, his fingers absently tapping rhythm on his knee.
She watched him for a while.
"What made you choose music?" she asked.
He glanced back, eyebrows raised at the unexpected question.
"You could've done anything," she continued. "You're smart. Calm. Collected."
He smiled faintly. "Music makes me feel like I exist."
Amira blinked.
He added, "I've always struggled to say what I mean with words. But with notes? Chords? Riffs? I can tell someone I love them, or that I'm breaking, or that I'm healing—without ever saying a thing."
Amira sipped her tea slowly, the warmth creeping into her chest.
"That's why I sing," she whispered. "Because I'm too scared to scream."
Their eyes met, and she knew, in that moment, that Luca understood.
Not because he pitied her. But because he lived in the same ache.
He reached up and tucked a loose strand of her white hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered for just a second too long. She didn't flinch away.
But she also didn't lean in.
Not yet.
"I like you, Amira," he said gently. "More than I probably should. But I'm not going to pressure you to choose anything right now."
She smiled softly. "Why not?"
"Because you deserve time. Because your heart's still bruised. And I want to be something soft for you—not another fist."
Amira's throat tightened.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For not being him."
---
The next morning, sunlight broke through the blinds like golden shards across her face. Amira stirred awake, realizing she had fallen asleep on Luca's couch, a blanket draped over her and a note beside the empty tea cup.
> Didn't want to wake you. Coffee's in the pot. –L
She sat up, eyes swollen from sleep but her body feeling oddly… light.
She checked her phone.
11 missed calls.
3 voicemails.
2 texts.
All from Noah.
She didn't open them.
Instead, she scrolled to the message from her sister:
> You okay, Ami? I saw Noah's IG story. Call me when you can. xx
Her pulse raced. She quickly opened Instagram.
There, in Noah's story archive from the night before, was a video. Shaky, dark—recorded through the window of Velvet Pulse.
It showed her singing.
It showed her with Luca.
Noah had filmed her.
Posted it.
And now, the world knew she wasn't broken anymore.
But maybe, just maybe… she was about to be furious.