We don’t talk about the drawer the next day.
Or the one after.
The villa falls into a strange, brittle rhythm—me in the studio, him in his offices, our orbits close enough to feel the gravity, far enough not to collide.
Mia clocks something is off, of course.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says on day two, flopping onto the studio couch as I pick at a melody. “Where your eyes look like you haven’t slept in a week, but your eyeliner is flawless. That’s a bad combo.”
“I’m just tired,” I say.
“Of him? Of music? Of life?” she asks. “Circle all that applies.”
I strum harder than necessary.
“Drop it, Mia.”
She does.
For about five minutes.
“You know you’re going to have to talk to him,” she says eventually. “Actually talk. Not just kiss‑fight, fight‑fight.”
“Thank you, therapist,” I
