Chapter 13

The door opened. Kieran was back from his call.

"Got a big contract signed. We have to celebrate tonight. Mom, you in? There's a new place over on—"

He stopped. His antennae were sharp. He'd picked up the weight in the room in a second.

His brow pulled, barely there, and then he was back in character, the easy, laughing version of himself.

"What's going on? Mom, are you going through the 'remember when it was hard' tour with Sis again? Don't make her cry. She's on the protected species list in this house now."

Iris gave him a look and rose. "Alright, you two talk. I'll head out."

She patted the back of Magpie's hand. Her eyes had weight in them. Then she left.

The studio had only the two of them now.

Kieran walked to Magpie's desk and leaned forward slightly, palms flat on the edge.

He was close enough that she could feel the warmth off him.

"Did our great composer hit a creative wall?" He tilted his mouth up, that casual thread in his voice. "Your forehead's so tight you could crush a fly in it. What's got you so far away?"

Too close. Close enough that Magpie could see the reflection of herself in his eyes.

And under the smirk, something steadier, something tender. Something careful. Like a small flame, patient.

Her pulse skipped. Her breath caught, just a fraction.

Any other day she would have felt nothing out of the ordinary.

But her mother's words were still in her head. All the old pieces were suddenly rearranging themselves.

She didn't move away. She lifted her eyes and met his.

The air shifted into something delicate.

Seconds ticked.

Kieran was the one who stepped back first, putting a polite distance between them, pretending that brief pull across the air had never happened, sliding back into the lazy voice.

"Listen, food is sacred. Come on, artist. Treat your overworked manager, would you?"

He held his hand out. Palm up. An invitation.

Not the brother's hand that had guided her across the street as a kid. Something different in this one. A test, light-footed.

Magpie looked at his open palm for two seconds. The calluses at the base of his fingers. Years of holding a pen.

Then she slowly laid her hand into his. Her fingertips were cool.

"Okay."

In the days that followed, a quiet, unspoken something ran between them.

Kieran was still all around her. Jokes, errands, the usual presence. But the touches that used to be offhand carried a thread of intention.

Magpie didn't pull back. She also didn't move forward. She let the new closeness wrap around her, and every so often, when he pushed just a bit too far, she'd lift her eyes in a quiet, pointed look.

Every time, he'd raise both hands like a surrender, plaster on a who, me face, the amusement in his eyes going deeper.

He stopped relying on the older-brother frame. He was in her life in different ways now, small ways.

When she was up late arranging a piece, he'd quietly cook something warm for her and set it at her elbow.

He'd show up with two tickets to a film, claim a client had handed them off, insist it would be a waste.

Magpie knew exactly what was happening.

Her mother's conversation hadn't been a disclosure. It had been a carefully played assist. And the strategist behind it, looking cool and accidental on the outside but working the board on the inside, could only be him.

He wasn't settling for the brother seat anymore. He was patiently, gently, writing himself a different role.

And Magpie, coming out of a marriage that had hollowed her, found herself strangely unbothered by the calculation.

She watched him moving around her space and, for the first time, seriously considered whether this feeling, quiet, grown out of years of steady love, might be worth stepping into.

She just needed a little more time. She wasn't ready to decide when, or how, she'd take that step.

She hadn't taken that step yet when the quiet was broken.

Magpie was bent over the mixing console, adjusting a string passage she'd just recorded. The studio door was tapped lightly.

She thought it was the sound engineer she was expecting. She didn't look up. "Come in."

The door opened. No one came in. Just silence.

Magpie paused and slowly straightened.

Damon was standing in the doorway.

He was in a tailored dark gray overcoat. Tall. A gift box in his hand.

His face was unreadable. His eyes, heavy, didn't leave her.

He spoke first. His voice came out even, stripped of anything. "You picked a place to hide."

Magpie set her headphones down. Nothing crossed her face. "What do you want?"

He stepped in and dropped the gift on the couch as he passed it. "Where's Wren? I came to see my daughter."

"She's at school."

Magpie's voice was flat. She moved around the workstation and started collecting scattered sheets of music. Her body language said leave.

Her composure destroyed him. There were no tears, no demands, no breakdown, none of the storm he had counted on.

This total lack of response was worse than anything he could have handled.

He stepped forward and blocked her path. His voice dropped.

"Magpie. Enough. This little disappearing act. Is it fun? Is this what we're doing?"

Her eyes came up to his. They were the flat surface of a frozen lake.

"Damon. Are you confused about something? The divorce is signed. We have no relationship. You want to see your daughter, you schedule a time. This is my workplace. You aren't welcome here."

"No relationship?" He laughed. Short. Sharp.

"A signed paper. And what. Is that supposed to convince me? You? Unable to leave me? You're playing hard to get and you think it's going to land? Little late in the game."

"Name your number. What'll it take to bring you and the kid home? Don't test my patience."