The door swings open just as I'm about to knock a third time.

She's there. Fresh-faced, robe tied loosely at the waist, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends.

"Oh," she says, surprised but not startled. "Hey."

"Hey," I reply, heart thudding in a way I'm not proud of. "Didn't mean to bug you."

Her expression softens. "You're not."

She steps aside, and I walk in slowly. The suite is... elegant. High ceilings. Ocean breeze drifting through open windows. It smells like salt air and vanilla.

Everything is in its place - spotless, calm - except for the small desk by the window. That's where the storm lives. Laptop open. Scribbled-on music sheets spread out like fallen leaves. A worn guitar propped in the corner.

I glance at the desk. She notices.

"I was doing some writing," she offers. "Trying to, at least."

I nod.

"You want to sit outside?" she asks, already heading toward the glass doors.

"Sure," I say.

"I'll be out in a sec," she calls over her shoulder, disappearing into the bedroom.

I step onto the balcony and exhale. The view is perfect - deep blue water stretched to the horizon, palm trees swaying gently, the distant murmur of beach waves blending with the occasional seagull cry.

There's a small round table and two chairs. A tray of coffee, two mugs already there.

She was expecting someone. Or maybe just hoping to feel normal.

When she returns, she's in jean shorts and a soft black tank, her damp hair now loosely braided over one shoulder. She moves slowly, like her energy is half-charged but trying.

She takes the seat across from me and wraps her hands around a coffee cup.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well," I say.

"I'm okay," she replies. "Just... drained, I guess."

I nod slowly. "Still. I feel bad."

Her eyes flick up.

"I dragged you into a studio when you were here to relax. You should be lying by the pool or reading trashy novels in bed. Not working for free."

She smiles faintly. "You didn't drag me anywhere."

"I did a little."

She shakes her head. "Harry, it's not your fault."

I glance back through the open door at the room.

"You've got everything set up here. The desk, the guitar, the lyrics... Were you planning to write the whole time?"

She shrugs. "Maybe."

We sip quietly for a moment, the breeze tugging lightly at the corners of the napkins on the tray.

I break the silence.

"I should've at least offered to pay for your hotel."

That earns a raised brow.

"It's fine," she says. "Already paid for. I booked it months ago."

I smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Teaching kids how to play piano must pay really well."

For the first time, her face tightens. Subtle. But I catch it.

Shit.

"I didn't mean it like that," I say quickly. "I was joking."

She nods but doesn't respond.

I clear my throat and shift gears.

"Do you regret giving me that song yesterday?"

She looks at me, surprised.

"No. Not even a little," she says, voice softer now. "I'm more than grateful someone like you might sing it one day."

We fall into silence again. Not uncomfortable, just heavy with the things we're both not saying.

She presses her fingers against her cup, as if grounding herself.

Then she blinks rapidly and mutters, "Damn it. Me and my stupid feelings."

I lean forward just a little.

"Do you still love him?" I ask gently. "The person the song was about?"

She shakes her head. "No. Not like that."

I don't speak. Let her go at her pace.

"I just feel..." she pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I feel like he used me. For his own gain. And that hurt more than I can ever describe."

The ocean breeze shifts again, sweeping across the balcony.

I nod slowly.

"Do you think I'm using you, too?" I ask.

She looks over at me. Her eyes are steady.

"Are you?"

"No," I say. "I would never do that."

She takes a sip of coffee, the mug shielding part of her expression. Then, quietly:

"I don't think you're using me, Harry. If anything..." She hesitates. "I think I'm using you."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

She sets her cup down and leans back slightly.

"I'm using you to forget," she says. "To fill the space. To not feel all of it at once."

I don't answer right away. I let that sit. Because I get it. Because I've done the same.

"I'm here for you," I say finally. "Like you've been here for me. I don't care if you want to come back to the studio or not. But I do care about you."

She looks away, jaw tightening like she's holding something back - or maybe holding something in.

Then she nods once, more to herself than to me.

"Thanks," she says, almost like it costs her something to admit she needed to hear it.

The wind lifts a loose piece of her hair, and she tucks it behind her ear. We don't speak again for a long time. Just sit there, sipping lukewarm coffee as the breeze moves through the open balcony, sunlight glittering off the water below.

And in the quiet between us, something softens.

Not all the way.

But a little.

The silence stretches.

She stares out toward the horizon, one hand curled loosely around her coffee mug. The other rests on her thigh, fingers twitching slightly - not anxious, not fidgeting... just there. Like something wants to come out but hasn't found the right shape yet.

And then, she speaks.

"I met him at a friend's house."

Her voice is quiet, steady. Almost clinical. Like she's trying to distance herself from it, even as she brings it to life.

"He was a chef. Not just a chef - the chef that night. Catered the whole thing, but he was also a guest. Apparently, that's a thing when you're charming enough."

She gives a small smile, one that never reaches her eyes.

I don't interrupt.

"He was tall. Really handsome. The kind of guy who knows he's attractive and doesn't even try to hide it. Girls hovered around him like he was made of gold dust. And I..." She pauses. "I wasn't looking for anyone. Not then."

She takes a breath. I can hear the ocean behind her voice, somewhere just beyond the railing.

"But he came for me. Found ways to be where I was. My favourite café. My yoga class. The bookstore where I buy staff-recommended poetry collections I never finish. He cooked for me. He brought me flowers. He complimented everything I did - even the stuff that didn't deserve it. Especially that stuff."

My stomach tightens.

Not out of suspicion. Out of... something else. Something with a shade of jealousy I don't want to name.

She's not looking at me now. She's still watching the water.

"My friends warned me. Said it was too fast. Too good to be true. Unrealistic. But me - hopeless, romantic idiot me - I wanted to believe it was love. Or at least the beginning of it. I thought... maybe this was the kind of magic people sing about."

She sips her coffee again, but I don't think she tastes it.

"And then one day..." She trails off, then meets my eyes. There's no anger there. Just something hollowed out. "Don't ask me how I found out. But I did. I found out he was using me."

I nod, slowly.

"Using you how?"

She hesitates. A crack forms in her composure - brief, but real.

"To connect with people. Leverage. Social stuff. Doors that were previously locked suddenly opened after he was seen with me. That sort of thing."

She turns her face away again.

"Please don't ask me to say more," she adds, softer this time. "I'm not ready."

"I won't," I say, without missing a beat. "You don't owe me anything."

Her shoulders drop a fraction - not in defeat, but in something close to relief.

"The thing is," she continues after a moment, "I wasn't even angry at him. Not really. I was... disappointed. In me."

I frown. "Why?"

"Because I knew. Somewhere deep down, I knew. But I ignored it. I wanted to believe the compliments. The attention. The way he looked at me like I was the whole goddamn sky. And when I saw through it... when the curtain finally lifted..." She shrugs. "I felt like an idiot. Like I should've known better."

A breeze rolls in again, tugging lightly at her braid. She brushes a strand of hair off her cheek and doesn't notice that her hand is trembling just slightly.

I want to say something. Anything. But I can't find words that won't feel like trying too hard.

So I sit with her pain instead. Let it fill the space without rushing to fix it.

Because that's what she needs right now.

Presence.

Not platitudes.

Not performance.

Just... presence.

"I'm sorry," I say finally, and I mean it more than I've meant almost anything.

She nods, like she knows.

And then, after a moment, I ask gently, "Do you think it's changed how you trust people?"

She tilts her head, considering.

"Maybe," she admits. "I think I trust differently now. With less speed. With more silence. I've become a collector of pauses. If someone rushes me past the pause, I pay attention to that."

That hits.

And I think about every rush I've ever been in. Every time I pushed myself into the spotlight, or let others pull me into theirs. All the noise.

And how different this is.

Her story lingers in the air like smoke.

And before I can think better of it, I speak.

"I gave some of my best songs away," I say, not really knowing why I'm telling her this. "Back when I was starting out. Songs I wrote from places that hurt. Things that mattered. But I didn't think I deserved to sing them. Didn't think anyone would care if they came from me."

She turns to me now, really seeing me. The breeze lifts the corner of the blanket across her lap, and she folds it gently back in place.

"Why not?"

"Because I was the kid from the boy band," I say. "The cheeky one. The flirty one. Nobody wanted real from me - they wanted charm and hair flips."

She smiles at that, and I can't help but laugh a little.

"So I gave the songs away," I continue. "Let other people sing my truth. And they made hits from it. And I... watched."

Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are kind.

"That must've hurt."

"It did," I say simply. "But it also taught me something."

"What's that?"

"That if you don't value your voice, someone else will use it for their benefit. Or worse... they'll make it theirs."

We sit quietly for a while after that. The kind of silence that isn't empty, but full.

Eventually, she says, "Thanks for listening. And for not pushing."

"Thanks for telling me," I say.

She picks up her cup again, but it's gone cold. She doesn't seem to mind.

"I think I needed to say some of it out loud," she admits.

I nod. "And you still didn't say it all."

Her eyes flick toward mine. She's quiet for a beat.

"No," she says. "But maybe one day."

The wind shifts again, warm and salty, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

The sunlight glints against her coffee mug.

And in this moment, I know I won't push.

Not for songs. Not for stories. Not for more.

But I'll be here.

When she's ready.