Work Text:
The streets of Okhema were too small for stardom.
Mydei vaulted a fence, cut through someone’s overgrown garden, and sprinted down the alley behind the bakery, hoodie pulled low over his head like it could shield him from the fever dream of fangirl shrieks echoing behind him.
He rounded a corner, skidded on cobblestones, and muttered, “This is exactly why I don’t come home.”
They weren’t even supposed to know he was in town yet. He had gone as far as to arrive a week ahead of the rest of the band to have some down time. Just a quiet week before the charity show. Rest, recharge, maybe stare at a wall for three uninterrupted hours. That was the plan.
But then came the photo; one blurry shot of him holding a coffee near the train station, and the vultures of social media descended like it was feeding time.
@AmphoreanUpdates:🚨EXCLUSIVE: Mydei spotted in OKHEMA?? 👀👀 Is Vox Umbrae secretly filming their next video clip here?? 👀☕📍#MydeiInTheWild #VoxUmbraeReturns
@HephaestionsPookie: that hoodie is the SAME ONE he wore two years back i am so unwell rn 🥹🖤
@voidslut69: imagine breathing the same air as him. jail.
@cosmicarchive: manifesting a bump-into-you-at-the-cafe fanfic moment rn 🙏📖
@MarryMePtolemy: local girl sees MYDEI buying a flat white and doesn’t combust??? liar.
@No1Mydeistan: i will find him. i have skills.
He cut left through a narrow alleyway, dodged a pigeon, leapt over a row of trash bins, and slammed shoulder-first into a wooden fence that absolutely did not want to open.
“Of course it’s locked,” Mydei muttered, dragging in a breath and vaulting over it anyway, but his boot caught the edge. He tumbled gracelessly into someone’s garden, crushed a bed of begonias, and hissed a quiet, “Sorry, plants,” before scrambling back to his feet.
Somewhere behind him, shrill voices echoed.
“I saw him turn down this way!”
“Check the bakery! Check the florist! Check the graveyard!”
“I swear to the Titans,” he panted, “I just wanted a croissant and five uninterrupted minutes of oxygen.”
He hit the street again at a dead run, hood pulled low, heart jackhammering. His sunglasses were askew, and he was certain his dignity was bleeding out somewhere near the begonias.
But then, a small ray of hope; a small shop tucked between a cat café and an pharmacy with a crooked sign. The windows were shadowed. The “OPEN” sign had been flipped to “CLOSED / COME BACK NEVER,” and the only lights inside came from what looked like a constellation of fairy bulbs draped across the ceiling.
The bell above the door gave a traitorously cheerful ding-a-ling as he crashed through, but the peace he was met with was worth the possibly dislocated shoulder, and the shelf of books he almost knocked over.
Golden light pooled across wooden floors and dust motes shimmered in the air, suspended like tiny spells mid-cast. Every inch of space was filled with books; books stacked in precarious towers, books shelved sideways, books cradled in mismatched teacups. There were faded armchairs, hanging terrariums, and a large resident cat asleep on a table of poetry anthologies.
It smelled faintly of paper, lavender, and some warm, spicy tea. Vanilla and cardamom, maybe. Light spilled through stained glass windows so vivid they looked like they had been painted yesterday by some dreaming artist. Diamond-shaped splashes of color shimmered in rippling pools across the oak floor, like tiny prisms.
Mydei leaned against the door, dragging in a slow breath like he hadn’t taken one in weeks. Silence wrapped around him like a thick wool blanket and his pulse began to ease.
“Can I help you?” came a voice, gentle but unmistakably armed with sarcasm, causing him to turn.
Behind the counter stood a woman with a pencil in her braid, ink on her wrist, and a cardigan the exact hue of an overcast sky. A stack of hardcovers leaned toward her elbow and in her hands, she held a mug that said, “Fictional Men Have Ruined My Standards.”
They stared at each other.
One second.
Two.
“…No way,” she said slowly.
Mydei blinked. “Is that…Castorice?”
She squinted, as if someone had dropped a childhood memory directly in front of her.
“You’re...Mydei?!”
“I thought you moved to-”
“I thought you lived on a tour bus now.”
“I…well. Technically true.”
They both laughed, surprised and a little awkward, like the sound didn’t know what to do with itself.
Mydei chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh… wow. Yeah. Long time.”
“Ten years,” she said, tilting her head, assessing. “You still play guitar?”
“You still draw in the margins of everything?”
“Only during meetings,” she deadpanned, then caught herself. “Not…not on the actual books. Anymore.”
He snorted. “Some things don’t change.”
Her brow arched slightly. “You, however, look like you got chased here by a herd of teenage banshees.”
“That’s because I was.” He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “Did they follow me in?”
She stepped past the counter and tiptoed to the door, peeking through a narrow crack in the curtain. “Nope. You’re safe. They’re all sprinting toward the florist. Poor girl.”
“Tribbios’ shop?”
She nodded. “May the Titans protect her display vases.”
“Tribbios can handle herself,” Mydei said. “Mostly by panicking until Aglaea steps in.”
She smiled, then looked at him more closely. “You okay?”
“I didn’t expect to be chased through my own hometown,” he said, exhaling. “I thought I could sneak in, relax a little. I was planning to eat a croissant and stare at the ceiling for six hours.”
“Well,” Castorice said, with a hint of amusement in her voice, “you found the right place for staring at ceilings. Or escaping fame. Or…whatever this was.”
“I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think the lead singer of Vox Umbrae would come crashing into my library like he was being hunted by wolves.”
“To be fair, they had glitter signs and matching shirts.”
She stifled a laugh. “Want to wait it out for a few more minutes?” she offered. “There’s a reading nook that doubles as a panic room, if you squint.”
He followed her past sections with hand-painted signs, all of them with decorated borders that looked straight out of some old Amphorean fairy tale. “Epic Fantasies & Mild Emotional Trauma”, “Enemies to Lovers (and Other Poor Decisions)”, and “Sci-Fi That Will Break Your Brain Cell.” She tugged aside a curtain – which, if you asked him, was definitely a wizard’s cape – and revealed a cozy nook with cushions, a tasseled lamp, and a teacup candle that smelled like butter and cocoa.
He sank into it with a sigh. “You built this?” he asked.
“Dreamed it since I was fourteen,” she said, voice quieter now. “Finally made it real.”
He looked around, soaking in the warmth, the quiet magic of it all. “It’s perfect.”
She hesitated at the curtain, then offered, “I’ll let you know when the fangirl storm has passed.”
“Thanks,” he said, and for the first time that day, meant it deeply.
Ten minutes later, she returned with two cups of freshly brewed tea. “The coast’s clear.”
He stood, stretching, then glanced at her as he took the cup. Their fingers brushed and something paused between them.
“I owe you,” he said, suddenly unsure of his voice.
“You don’t,” she replied. “But if you come back with a coffee that isn’t from the train station, I won’t stop you.”
He smirked. “Library-approved peace offering?”
“Exactly.”
He stepped toward the door, hesitated again. “See you around?” he asked.
She leaned on the doorframe with a half-smile, arms folded and hear spilling over her shoulder. “Weirder things have happened.”
He left with a small laugh and a glance over his shoulder.
She watched him go with something soft and unreadable tucked behind her eyes.
XxxOxOxOxxX
The backstage room smelled like old dust and cheap vinyl. Mydei sat slouched in a metal chair, sipping from a bottle of water like it might cure whatever the hell just happened in his brain.
He was fine.
It wasn’t weird. It was just…odd seeing her again. That was all. A strange, coincidental, slightly surreal moment. Like opening a closet and finding your old school jacket staring back at you.
Totally normal.
The door slammed open.
“THERE he is!” Phainon burst in like a caffeinated storm cloud, arms full of coat hangers, a pair of sunglasses he didn’t own, and a suspiciously glittery water bottle. “We thought you got abducted. Or worse, that you went to an interview.”
“I texted you.”
“Yeah, ‘laying low for a sec’. That’s not a text, that’s an obituary.”
Stelle strolled in a beat behind him, holding two iced coffees. She handed one to Mydei like she was giving a sedative to a large cat. “He was spiraling. He asked if you’d been replaced with a body double.”
Phainon pointed dramatically. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You’re lying.”
Mydei sipped the drink. It was the right order, which made it worse, somehow.
“Okay,” Phainon said, setting down the coat hangers and immediately forgetting why he was holding them. “Where were you, really?”
“Walked into a shop.”
“What kind of shop?”
Mydei hesitated for a second too long.
Stelle narrowed her eyes. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“That was the pause. The pause of someone who just walked face-first into emotional territory.”
Phainon gasped. “Did you make eye contact with your own mortality again? That bakery on Aquilla Street has that effect.”
“It wasn’t a bakery.”
“Then what was it?”
“A library.”
A brief moment of silence followed, and then Stelle blinked. “You. Hid. In a library.”
“I was avoiding fans.”
“You mean the ones who found your location because you let Phainon post a selfie with the street sign visible?” she said, turning a slow death glare toward her boyfriend.
“It was the lighting!” he protested. “It was golden hour!”
“Focus,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Who was in the library?”
“No one,” Mydei said, far too fast.
“Oh my Titans, it was a girl.” Phainon looked personally betrayed. “You met someone and you didn’t immediately tell us? That’s character growth.”
“I didn’t meet her.”
“You already knew her?” Stelle guessed, tapping her chin in thought. “Wait, was it that quiet girl from high school? What was her name, something with stars…”
“Castorice,” Mydei muttered.
Phainon dropped into a plastic chair like his soul had left his body. “The one who ran that underground zine and used to sketch constellations on the math tables? She’s still around?”
“She owns the library.”
“Ohhh no,” Stelle said. “She’s too calm. You’re going to fall in love and implode.”
“I’m not..!”
“You already look emotionally winded,” Phainon pointed out, pointing a finger at his slouched shoulders.
“She let me hide for five minutes, it wasn’t a-”
“Did she offer you tea?”
“…Yes?”
“She soothed you.” Phainon clutched his chest, sighing dramatically. “You’ve been tamed.”
Mydei dropped his head onto the table. “I need new friends.”
Phainon raised both hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. So you accidentally found an obscure library, accidentally bumped into a girl you haven’t seen in nearly a decade, and then what? Shared a dramatic eye contact moment while the wind knocked over a stack of poetry books?”
“She gave me tea and pointed out where to hide,” Mydei grumbled. “That’s it.”
Stelle blinked. “She helped you hide?”
“She said it happens a lot.”
“To you?”
“To people in general!”
Phainon tilted his head. “Were there fairy lights?”
“…Yes.”
“Cushions?”
“Yes.”
“Books labeled ‘emotionally devastating’ or something equally threatening?”
“Yes. So what?”
Stelle leaned against the table, sipping her coffee. “You look rattled.”
“I do not.”
“You’re brooding harder than usual,” Phainon said. “You’ve got your ‘I just re-read my old songwriting notebook and now need to sit in the rain’ face.”
“I’m not rattled,” Mydei said stiffly. “I ran into an old classmate. That’s all. It was surprising.”
Phainon gave a slow, knowing nod. “Mmm. Surprise library girl. Mysterious. Literary. Possibly dangerous.”
“She is not dangerous.”
“That’s what all tragic backstory characters say right before they fall in love.”
“I literally just saw her again today.”
“I’m just saying,” Phainon continued, stretching out across two chairs, “this feels like the start of a fanfic.”
“It’s not.”
“Yet.”
Stelle looked at Mydei over the rim of her coffee. “Do you want to see her again?”
He paused for exactly 0.4 seconds too long.
“No,” he said, voice much too casual. “Why would I?”
Phainon and Stelle exchanged a look, and it was the kind of look that said: Oh, we’re going to make this fun.
XxxOxOxOxxX
Castorice set the tea tin down with more force than necessary.
“...You’re being weird,” Hyacine said immediately.
“I’m shelving,” Castorice replied. “Like a responsible adult. Whose life is very normal and not weird at all.”
“You alphabetized the entire ‘Found Families and Soft Tragedies’ section twice,” Cipher noted, not even looking up from her crossword. “You hate alphabetizing.”
“I don’t hate it,” Castorice replied, clutching a stack of novels like they might save her from interrogation. “It’s… meditative.”
“It’s suspicious.”
Hyacine narrowed her eyes, gently prying the books from Castorice’s arms and setting them aside. “Okay. Talk. You’ve been glitching out since I got here. Did someone try to smuggle coffee into the historical nonfiction section again?”
“No.”
“Someone left a copy of Wuthering Heights in Science Fiction?”
“No.”
“…Did a man speak to you?”
Castorice didn’t answer fast enough.
“Oh my god,” Cipher whispered, delighted.
“I knew it,” Hyacine muttered.
“It was nothing,” Castorice insisted, sweeping toward the counter like she could outrun the conversation. “Some guy came in, needed to hide from fans. That’s all.”
Cipher’s eyebrow arched. “Famous?”
“…Technically.”
Hyacine followed her behind the desk. “Like, TikTok-famous? Or ‘my mom would know his name’ famous?”
Castorice hesitated, then sighed. “It was Mydei.”
The silence that followed her admission was almost deafening.
“Mydei? As in Vox Umbrae Mydei?” Hyacine gasped. “As in 'that one song that made you cry in traffic for three weeks’ Mydei?”
“That was one time.”
Cipher blinked slowly. “You were in love with him in high school.”
“I was mildly fascinated. He was aloof and vaguely tragic-looking. That doesn’t count.”
“You once drew him on the back of your physics notebook like a melancholic vampire prince.”
Castorice flushed. “Okay. First of all, rude. Second of all, he looked like he only drank metaphors and espresso, it was artistic inspiration.”
Hyacine clasped her hands, eyes twinkling mischievously in the kind of way Castorice was all too familiar with. “So what happened?”
“He burst in like a storm cloud with a nice jawline, I told him where to hide, we chatted a little, then he left.”
Cipher nodded. “And now you’re reorganizing the tea blends by existential theme.”
“I am not.”
“You just moved Earl Grey into the ‘Mild Regret’ drawer.”
“…That’s a coincidence.”
Hyacine grinned. “Do you think he’s coming back?”
Castorice hesitated, biting her lip. “No. Why would he?”
“You told him where the excellent hiding spot was,” Cipher said. “That’s basically a love confession in the Castoricean language.”
Castorice turned to face the window. The sun caught on the dust motes and the corners of the library curved just slightly softer in the light.
She exhaled, shaking her head. “It was just an old classmate. That’s all.”
But her fingers lingered, just briefly, on the rim of the mug he’d held.
XxxOxOxOxxX
The bell above the door tinkled.
Castorice glanced up from cataloging the used donation pile and immediately clocked two people who absolutely didn’t wander in by accident.
The tall one with the scarf and candle-wax-splotched coat looked like someone who regularly broke into poetry slams just to cause chaos. The girl beside him wore sunglasses indoors and sipped an iced drink with all the energy of someone witnessing rather than participating.
“Hello there!” the scarfed one greeted, a little too brightly. “We’re here to… uh… peruse your fine selection of literature!”
Castorice blinked. “Peruse?”
“Yes! You know, browse. Support local library culture. Satisfy the thirst of the mind.”
“...Right.” She slid her laptop closed. “Any particular genre, or are you just following the scent of old books and potential drama?”
The girl finally pushed her sunglasses up and smiled faintly. “We were walking by and noticed how cozy it looked. He couldn’t resist.”
“I have a deep respect for charming independent establishments,” the white-haired man said with a flourishing bow. “I’m Phainon. This is the light of my life, my sun and stars, Stelle. We’re definitely not here for any reason involving people you might know.”
Castorice’s eyebrows lifted. “Not suspicious at all.”
“We contain multitudes,” Stelle said flatly, sipping her drink.
They separated…kind of. Phainon wandered vaguely toward the fiction section, picking up books and peeking over shelves with all the grace of a raccoon casing a bakery. Stelle trailed a finger along a shelf labeled “Soft Sadness & Other Comforts”. “You organize your fantasy and romance by vibe. That’s bold.”
Castorice offered a small smile, absently fidgeting with the vintage quill Hyacine had gifted her for her birthday a few years ago. “My system works.”
“I like it,” Stelle said. “No lies in vibe shelving.”
“So,” Phainon called casually, holding up a novel with a dramatic moonlit embrace on the cover. “Do a lot of… people pass through here these days? Locals? Travelers?”
“Some,” Castorice said slowly. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason,” he replied too quickly. “Just wondering if anyone particularly interesting might’ve wandered in recently. Like, say, I don’t know, a mysterious musician looking for a place to hide.”
Stelle sighed and turned to her boyfriend. “Smooth.”
Phainon smiled sheepishly. “I meant that more metaphorically.”
“You didn’t.”
“I tried.”
Castorice raised a brow but said nothing. She just walked around the desk and began shelving a stack of books in the “Lyrical and Slightly Doomed” section. “You two know Mydei,” she said, tone neutral.
Phainon perked up. “We do! He’s a dear friend. Quiet. Broody. Allergic to expressing himself with actual words.”
“And… you’re not here because he mentioned seeing me?”
Stelle held up her drink. “We’re not not here because of that.”
“I knew it.”
“We’re just getting the lay of the land,” Phainon said. “You seemed…cool. We like cool people. And we may have heard there’s a small music night happening tomorrow at Café Dromas.”
“Oh?” Castorice hummed, arranging books very slowly now.
“Very chill. Low-key. Acoustic set,” Stelle added. “Ambient lighting. Very romantic for no reason at all.”
Stelle took another sip. “Weird coincidence.”
Castorice looked at them both, then leaned one hip against the shelf. “So you’re not officially inviting me?”
Phainon crossed his heart, but the smile on his face was anything but innocent. “We are merely humble patrons sharing a calendar event.”
“You’re terrible liars.”
He grinned, making a show of bowing with a dramatic flourish. “Yes, but we’re enthusiastic.”
There was a brief silence, then Castorice huffed out an amused laugh, “I’ll think about it.”
Phainon gave Stelle a look of triumph, which made her roll her eyes, “Don’t get smug. You almost tripped on the rug trying to spy on her earlier.”
As they made their way toward the door, Castorice called, “Tell your mysterious musician friend he still owes me an apology for nearly knocking over the mythology shelf.”
“We’ll make sure he gets the message!”
The bell jingled as they left, but Castorice stood there for a moment longer, then looked down at the book she’d been holding.
Songs for the Starsick.
She set it aside.
Just in case.
XxxOxOxOxxX
The greenroom smelled like hairspray, tension, and a suspicious amount of lemon tea.
Mydei sat on a cracked leather couch, tuning his guitar for the third time in five minutes. He wasn’t nervous. He just didn’t like surprises. Or distractions. Or-
“Hey, do we have glitter for the finale?” Phainon called from behind a clothes rack, already half-dressed in something that looked like a wizard’s fever dream. “I asked March to pick some up. Something subtle, tasteful; ethereal gold shimmer, nothing too aggressive.”
“You’re not even in the finale,” Mydei muttered.
“Spiritual finale. Emotional support glitter.”
Mydei didn’t look up. “You are exhausting.”
“I’m a gift.” Phainon emerged dramatically, arms spread, scarf resettled like he was about to predict the future. “How’s the pre-show angst? Feeling adequately tortured and mysterious?”
“Focused,” Mydei said, adjusting a string. “Centered.”
Phainon peered at him. “You’re vibrating like a wine glass in an opera house.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m-”
The stage manager peeked in. “Ten minutes.”
Mydei gave a tight nod, Phainon saluted for some reason.
As the door shut again, Mydei stood, stretched once, and moved toward the side curtain to sneak a glance at the crowd. Just one peek. Call it…professional interest.
He scanned the small venue; warm lights, buzz of conversation, cozy tables lit with flickering candles, Castorice-.
Wait, Castorice…?
There. Third row. Curled into a seat like she’d been born there, cardigan sleeves tucked into her palms, eyes flicking over the program with a thoughtful little frown.
He stared for a beat too long. “She came,” he said under his breath.
Phainon, who was untangling a microphone cable behind him, paused mid-loop.
“…Oh. So you saw her already. Good! I was trying to figure out the best time to tell you I invited her.”
Mydei whipped around to look at him. “You what…”
Phainon held his hands up, taking a cautionary step back. “Casually. Not…formally invited. I just mentioned it might be happening. Strongly. With eye contact. And Stelle was there, so it was at least semi-classy.”
“You ambushed her?!”
“It was a vibe-based suggestion! And she seemed intrigued! Possibly threatened, but intrigued!”
Mydei turned back to the curtain, then away, then back again like he couldn’t decide whether to faint or throw Phainon into a bass amp. “She’s not even a concert person!”
“She’s a librarian who wears capes and reads poetry for fun. Poetry. For fun,” Phainon said. “She’s exactly a concert person. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
Mydei dragged a hand down his face. “Why would you…what if this is weird now? What if she thinks I put you up to it?”
“Then say you didn’t.”
“I’m not even interested. We bumped into each other once!”
“Oh yeah,” Phainon said, completely unconvinced. “And you definitely didn’t look like a man who forgot how words worked the moment you noticed her in the crowd.”
“I was surprised.”
“You are smitten.”
“I am tired!”
The door creaked again, and the stage managed popped his head in again. “Two minutes. Let’s move, people.”
Mydei turned toward his guitar like it could protect him from this entire line of conversation.
Phainon patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. If you pass out on stage, I’ll pretend it’s performance art.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet, here I am.”
As they headed toward the stage entrance, Mydei dared one last glance at the audience.
Castorice wasn’t reading anymore.
She was looking at the stage.
Waiting.
He swallowed and walked out into the lights.
XxxOxOxOxxX
Castorice wasn’t exactly sure how she had agreed to this.
One moment, she was reshelving a stack of fae romance novels that Cipher had haphazardly borrowed; the next, Phainon had waltzed in with his cosmic scarf and conspiratorial grin, humming something about “supporting local rockstars with great hair and unresolved tension.”
Then she was here, third row, middle seat, the room dimmed to a dreamy low-glow hum of anticipation and murmuring voices.
“Isn’t this romantic?” Hyacine whispered beside her, popping a piece of candy into her mouth. “Low lights, pretty man on stage, your childhood crush playing live? Feels like fate.”
“It’s not-he wasn’t-” Castorice floundered, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It was barely a crush. A mild…aesthetic appreciation.”
Hyacine wiggled her eyebrows. “Sure. You only sketched him seventeen times in the back of your math notebook. Totally aesthetic.”
Castorice groaned into her cardigan sleeve, careful not to smudge her painstakingly applied eyeliner. “I’m going to teleport into the void now.”
Cipher leaned in from the other side, eyes sparkling. “Hey, if this is the void, can we get popcorn?”
Before Castorice could reply, the lights dropped lower, and the crowd stilled.
Mydei stepped onto the stage. He looked taller somehow, sharper. All cool lines and dusk-slick leather, his hair tousled like he’d walked through a windstorm of artistic intent. He adjusted the mic, strummed his guitar once; a single note that melted into the hush like honey into tea.
Castorice didn’t blink.
He was silent for a beat longer than expected. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone. Then, he looked up and his eyes found hers. It wasn’t dramatic. No thunderclap or cinematic zoom-in. Just…a look.
Still, it hit her like a chord pressed against her sternum. Recognition. Surprise. A flicker of something she hadn’t felt since she was seventeen and hiding in the library stairwell, sketching the back of his neck while pretending to read Plato.
He started playing and the song wasn’t one she’d heard before. It was slower, quieter than Vox Umbrae’s usual sets, something raw, stripped down, like a thought turned into melody. His voice, gravel-edged and golden, wrapped around the lyrics like it meant every word.
Castorice tried not to read into it.
Really, she did.
But then he sang the line “I didn’t know the quiet could be beautiful until you walked in”, and his gaze brushed hers again.
Hyacine leaned in without taking her eyes off the stage. “So…what’s it like being someone’s accidental muse?”
Castorice didn’t answer, but her fingers tightened around the edge of the program. Her heart beat against her ribs like it had somewhere to go and didn’t trust her to take it there fast enough.
He finished the song with a gentle slide of his hand along the strings, head tilted down, lashes casting shadows.
The crowd erupted.
She clapped too - automatically, like muscle memory - but her eyes didn’t leave him.
XxxOxOxOxxX
The crowd had cleared out in a soft tidal wave of laughter, selfies, and the faint smell of craft beer and perfume. Castorice lingered in her seat long after the last note had faded, fingers curled around the strap of her bag like it might anchor her to something sensible.
“Stelle and I are gonna go,” Phainon said cheerfully, appearing beside her like an overly dramatic stage magician. “You know, give the band room to emotionally decompress.”
Stelle, behind him, casually plucked the half-finished cocktail from his hand and took a sip. “We’re giving you a moment alone,” she said bluntly. “Try not to combust.”
Castorice blinked. “Wait, I didn’t-”
But Phainon had already linked arms with Stelle and steered her toward the exit, calling behind them, “You’re welcome!”
The door clicked softly shut. The venue was quiet now, lit only by a few stage lights humming on a low dimmer. Her boots echoed faintly as she crossed toward the side of the stage, feeling just a little like she was trespassing in a dream.
“Hey.”
She turned and Mydei was there, leaning against the doorway, one hand still curled around his guitar neck like he didn’t know how to put it down. His stage jacket was gone, hair a little messier now, sweat curling at his temple. He looked…unsure.
“I didn’t think you’d stay,” he said.
Castorice gave a half-smile. “I didn’t think you’d remember I was here.”
“I noticed.”
She tilted her head. “That line in the second song. About quiet being beautiful.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Too on the nose?”
“Maybe,” she said. Then: “Didn’t hate it.”
A beat passed.
Then two.
“…I’m glad you came,” he said, more quietly. “Even if Phainon made it weird.”
“He’s got a talent for that,” she said, stepping closer. “So…Rockstar by night, library invader by day. Do you usually hide from fans by crashing into people’s peaceful lives?”
He gave her a lopsided grin, one that set her cheeks on fire and her heart aflutter. “Only the ones who stock poetry and smell like chamomile.”
Her breath hitched, not expecting that line to land so softly.
“Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you want to grab a drink? Or tea? Or whatever it is people do after emotionally scarring their audiences with acoustic ballads.”
“I could be convinced,” she said.
They didn’t move for a second; just stood there, eye to eye, caught in that strange, charged space between old memories and new beginnings.
Then she looked at his hand on the guitar. “You always did carry that thing around like it was part of you,” she murmured.
He glanced down, thumb brushing the strings absently. “Helps me say the stuff I don’t know how to talk about.”
“I get that,” she said, her voice soft.
Another pause followed, more loaded this time.
Castorice tried to will her heart back to a reasonable rhythm. “Hyacine’s going to be so smug,” she muttered without thinking.
He blinked. “Why’s that?”
“Nothing, just…” Her cheeks began to heat again. “She said I’d always had a thing for you. Back in school. And she wouldn’t shut up about it after the show.”
Mydei tilted his head, a slow grin forming. “Oh?”
She groaned. “Don’t you dare.”
“No, no. Just enjoying the image of you, somewhere in the back row of homeroom, sketching me dramatically in a spiral notebook.”
“I didn’t-” She hesitated. “Okay. Once. Maybe twice.”
He beamed, all straight white teeth, and full lips, and spellbinding charm. “I feel so honored.”
Castorice rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curled. “For the record, I was very subtle.”
“You did give me a drawing of a raven in gym class.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Sure.”
They stepped out into the cool night air, the city around them soft and glinting, but it was the silence between them that felt charged; not awkward, but expectant.
“Castorice,” he said quietly, making her look up, and for just a moment, Mydei wondered how it was possible for a pair of eyes to feel like the embrace of a pleasant dream.
“I think I’d like to get to know you again. For real this time.”
She smiled. “I’d like that too.”
XxxOxOxOxxX
The bell above the door gave its now-familiar chime; softer, like it had been trained by routine.
Castorice didn’t look up right away. She was halfway through alphabetizing a new donation stack - all mystery novels with suspiciously shirtless men on the covers - and humming faintly along to the lo-fi mix playing behind the counter.
She didn’t need to look up to know who that slow, deliberate rhythm of boots on floorboards belonged to. The not-in-a-hurry kind. The “I belong here” kind.
“Hey,” Mydei said, offering the smallest smile. “Any chance this place has a policy for returning boyfriends?”
She snorted. “Only if they come bearing offerings.”
He held up a paper bag. “Warm croissant. Raspberry jam filling. I’m not here to play.”
Her grin bloomed before she could fight it. “Terms accepted.”
He leaned over the counter to kiss her, a soft, unhurried brush of lips. Familiar now, a luxury they hadn’t had in high school, and made up for now with casual, lingering ease.
“I like this version of you,” she murmured.
He kissed her again, just once, near her temple this time. “I like the part where I get to kiss the girl who used to ignore me in the school library.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you. I was cultivating mystery.”
“Mystery and complete avoidance are not the same thing.”
She slipped around the counter and slid her hand into his. “Come on, rockstar. Before your fans see you through my windows and decide to invade my library again.”
They walked past the shelves, a familiar path now, to the curtain near the back, where the little reading nook waited. The fairy lights still glowed overhead, and a teacup from his last visit had somehow migrated onto one of the shelves, now holding paperclips and a small plush bat.
Mydei sat first, stretching out long legs and tossing the croissant bag beside a pillow. Castorice moved to sit next to him, but he caught her by the waist and pulled her gently into his lap instead.
“You’re getting bold,” she said, laughing against his collar.
“I’m catching up on lost time.”
Her arms looped around his neck as she nestled in, her cheek brushing his shoulder. The room smelled like old pages, cinnamon tea, and something softer that was uniquely him. They stayed like that for a moment, just warm, quiet, and completely at ease.
“I missed this,” he murmured.
“It’s been two days.”
“I’m a musician. I feel things dramatically.”
“You also texted me twelve memes and three photos of a stray dog you met on the way here.”
“Exactly. Deep emotional communication.”
She laughed again, and this time tilted her head to kiss him, slow, soft, with that breathless kind of tenderness that says ‘this isn’t new anymore, but I’m still amazed it’s real’.
When they pulled apart, his thumb brushed over her cheekbone. “You know,” he said, “I used to think you were too quiet to notice me.”
“You used to wear your gym hoodie backwards and play sad guitar at lunch. You were very noticeable.”
He grinned, clearly pleased. “So you did watch me.”
“Of course I did,” she said, nestling back into his arms. “I was cultivating mystery. Not blindness.”
Outside, the rain began to fall in soft, even taps against the window. Inside the library, the world narrowed to the curve of arms, the warmth of bodies, and the kind of silence that says stay a little longer.
And he would.
Every time.
The End