Amelia arrived at Elias's apartment late that evening, rain dripping from her coat, her cheeks flushed from the chill. The city outside was a blur of wet lights, but inside, the quiet warmth of his apartment felt strangely safe.
Elias was already at the piano, his notebook open, his fingers resting on the keys though he wasn't playing. He looked up as she entered.
"You're late," he said, though his tone wasn't accusing.
She shook off her coat and smiled faintly. "You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
She laughed softly, then sat beside him on the bench, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The piano between them felt too small, the silence too intimate.
"What are we working on tonight?" she asked.
He hesitated, then turned the notebook toward her. It wasn't equations this time. It was something different—scattered notes and unfinished bars, written in a hesitant hand.
Amelia's breath caught. "You… tried to write music?"
Elias looked away, almost uncomfortable. "It's incomplete. Wrong, probably."
She touched the page gently, her voice softer now. "No. It's honest."
He glanced at her, his grey eyes darker than usual. Something flickered in them—doubt, vulnerability, need. Amelia's heart stumbled.
"Play it," he said quietly.
So she did. Lifting her violin, she breathed life into his rough notes. The melody was unpolished, uneven, but beautiful in its rawness. She added her own touches, smoothing the jagged edges, letting it swell into something fragile and whole.
When the last note faded, the silence between them was louder than the music had been.
Amelia lowered her violin slowly. Elias was watching her, not with his usual cold intensity, but with something she had never seen before—something that made her pulse race.
"You changed it," he said.
"I made it yours," she whispered.
His gaze lingered on her lips. Her breath caught. For a moment, neither of them moved. The air felt charged, the distance between them shrinking without permission.
Her hand brushed his as she set the violin down. He didn't pull away.
"Amelia…" His voice was rougher now, unsteady.
She leaned in slightly, her heart in her throat. He was so close—closer than he'd ever been. The rain outside beat faster against the window, as though urging them on.
But then Elias froze. His jaw tightened, and he pulled back suddenly, standing from the bench as if the nearness had burned him.
Amelia blinked, her chest aching. "Elias—"
"It's late," he cut in sharply, his mask snapping back into place. "You should go."
The warmth in the room shattered. Amelia gathered her violin slowly, trying to hide the sting in her chest. She wanted to push him, to demand why he always pulled away—but something in his eyes stopped her.
Fear.
Not of her, but of himself.
She slipped her coat back on, pausing at the door. "You can't keep running from everything, Elias," she said softly. "One day, you'll run out of places to hide."
He didn't answer. He just stood there, rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.
And when Amelia left, the sound of her absence was louder than the rain.