*Camille*

I didn’t know what to say, so I did what I always did—brushed the ache off with the practiced ease I used to flick lint from a jacket.

“I didn’t know there was an Italian version,” I said, pretending I didn’t feel cracked open.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing lightness. “There’s even a Spanish version. A salsa one, too.”

He glanced at me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Couldn't bring myself to sing the French one, and the salsa felt a little too... optimistic for the moment."

"What a shame," I said, my own smile turning wicked. "I guess I'll have to wait for the Daniele remix."

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “A remix? Maybe some day, but you'd have to ask nicely''

The conversation faded, replaced by the soft percussion of rain against the path.We walked in silence for a while—comfortable, almost dangerous in how easy it felt.

His leather jacket brushed my painted sleeve, his hand near the small of my back as if he were measuring the distance he was allowed to cross. The whiskey on his breath mixed with the cinnamon from my cider—a dizzying mix I felt in my knees.

I caught a glimpse of his profile—sharp in the amber streetlight, his mouth... soft —and felt a tug deep in my chest, a hook I hadn’t seen coming.

‘Comfortably Numb,’ he’d said — not just a title, but a confession. Now I understood why it hurt to hear it.

The silence between us thickened—not awkward, but alive. I could feel him pulling back again.

He exhaled, a slow, grounding breath. “So,” he said, his voice scraping low, deliberately shaking off the song’s ghost. “Do you actually play an instrument, or is it all just fashion and paint stains?”

I blinked, the sudden shift yanking me back. “Wow. Is that your signature move? Critiquing a woman’s life choices to break the tension?”

His smile was a slow, deliberate curve. “Not a critique. A challenge.”

I tilted my head. “Is that so? And what’s the first lesson, maestro?”

He didn’t move closer, but his gaze dropped to my mouth. “That you can’t just stitch rhythm into fabric. You have to feel it in your bones first.”

A laugh escaped me—half defense, half surrender—to the shiver his words sent down my spine. “Are you offering to teach me?”

“Depends,” he said, his tone a low challenge. “You think you can keep up?”

I met his gaze, refusing to blink. “I’m not the one who’s already out of breath.”

He gave me a long look—half smirk, half something softer. “I like your accent,” he said, deftly changing the subject. “Makes every sentence sound like a secret.”

My cheeks flushed instantly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, biting back a smile.

“You should,” he murmured, eyes on my mouth. “It is.”

I rolled my eyes to hide the heat creeping up my neck. Merde. Flirting shouldn’t feel like this much work.

*Daniele*

Her hand brushed mine—light, hesitant, electric.

Her perfume lingered—sweet, with a hint of smoke. I couldn’t stop watching the way her lips moved when she spoke—full, flushed, French. They looked as though they belonged in a dream.

Or between mine.

I wanted to know what she looked like when she let go.
Not the girl in the perfect jacket. The one underneath—
Freckles smudged. Voice breaking. Fingers fisting the sheets. Or my hair.

God. Focus.

We stopped beneath a willow, the kind of quiet spot people stumble into and forget how to leave. A busker strummed something soft. Camille tilted her head toward the sound.

“You play this one?” she asked, nodding at the melody.

“Used to.”

I stepped closer. Something in me said she should know who I am. Something else didn’t want to ruin this yet.

My eyes dropped to her mouth. The park, the city, Vince’s insistent texts—all of it faded to static. Vince could wait. The fans could wait. This was the first thing in months that didn't feel like a job.