Chat With You

Romance. 1,000 words, 5 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

The practice room reeked of coffee and dry-erase markers, with a hint of the vanilla-scented candle someone had clearly been burning against building regulations. The janitors had already done their rounds, leaving behind that specific brand of silence that made every key strike feel like a confession. Olivia’s fingers traced the worn edges of middle C, not quite pressing down. A half-empty cup of yesterday's coffee sat atop a stack of dog-eared Sondheim scores. Next to it, her phone displayed an increasingly aggressive series of "where are you?" texts from the dramaturg committee.

"Found you." Jess appeared in the doorway, brandishing his laptop like evidence. His blazer was rumpled in that specific way that meant he'd been gesturing enthusiastically about musical motifs again. "You missed dramaturg night. We're supposed to be analyzing through-lines in Jonathan Larson's earlier works." He dropped his messenger bag by the door, its collection of theatrical pins creating a small symphony of clinks. "I'm guessing whatever you're working on was worth skipping for?"

"Bold of you to assume I'm working on anything." Olivia spun on the piano bench, deliberately facing away from the keyboard. A stack of composition papers scattered at her feet, covered in her characteristic purple ink – she'd never quite broken the habit from her Juilliard days of color-coding her emotions. "Maybe I just needed a break from your three-hour tangents about negative space in lyrics."

"They're two-hour tangents, max." Jess claimed his usual spot on the windowsill, spreading out with theatrical precision. A playbill poked out of his pocket – she caught a glimpse of last month's off-off-Broadway experimental musical about sentient coffee machines that he'd dragged her to, swearing it would be “brilliantly meta” (It wasn't.) "And I heard you from the hallway. Something new?"

"Something terrible."

"Play it for me?"

"Absolutely not." She pulled her sleeves over her hands, a nervous habit from conservatory days. Her oversized NYU sweatshirt – stolen from the drama department's lost and found – practically swallowed her whole.

"I'll trade you." He pulled a paper cup from his bag with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit. "One possibly-still-hot chai latte for a private concert."

"You're bribing me now?"

"Bargaining. There's a difference." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I even remembered the—"

"Extra shot of vanilla," they said in unison. The moment hung between them like a fermata.

"That's fighting dirty." But she was already reaching for the cup, her silver rings catching the corner lamp’s light. "Still no."

Jess pushed his glasses up with his knuckle, a habit she'd noticed he had when he was strategizing. The motion revealed ink stains on his fingers – probably from grading undergraduate theory papers. "Okay, counter-offer. Play it for me, and I won't mention how you secretly used Andrew Lloyd Webber as the main influence in your original thesis proposal."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me." His eyes glinted behind his glasses. "I have your proposal right here, with my notes. Including that particularly passionate defense of 'Cats.'"

"That was at four in the morning!" Olivia protested. "After six espressos! It doesn't count!"

"Tell that to the review committee."

The radiator clanked, a syncopated rhythm that seemed to mock her indecision. She took a long sip of chai, buying time. The familiar taste of vanilla and spice brought back memories of late-night script readings and theoretical arguments about the role of the chorus in modern theater. "You're kind of terrible, you know that?"

"I prefer 'dramatically motivated.'" He was already clearing her papers from the bench, making room for the moment they both knew was coming.

Her fingers found the first chord. It felt like stepping off a cliff.

"I'm supposed to be crazy, go out clubbing every night..."

Her voice cracked on "crazy," and she almost stopped. But Jess had shifted onto the bench and had an intense look on his face. She'd seen that look before, three weeks ago, when she'd deconstructed the harmonic progression in "Move On" during their 4 AM coffee run.

"...throw up in an XL uber with some guy I met on tinder who I don't even like..."

"Jesus," Jess muttered, almost too quiet to hear. She caught his reflection in the window – he was running his hand through his hair, the way he did during tech rehearsals when something finally clicked.

The melody carried her through the verses, each one a photograph she couldn't quite burn: Jess demolishing her argument about Webber over cold pizza; his pencil scratching notes in her margins; the way he'd looked at her in the orchestra pit, sheet music scattered around their feet, before either of them had moved.

When she hit the key change, her hands were steady but her voice betrayed her.

"Woah, hold up, take it slow, you can't love what you don't know..."

"Fuck," Jess breathed. He was leaning over the keys now, close enough that she could smell the hint of chai on his breath, see the coffee stain on his collar. His hand gripped the edge of the keyboard. "Liv—"

She played louder. "I'm supposed to be anti-romantic..."

And then she decided to tease him. As the final chorus began, she switched from singing to humming, cheerily refusing to reveal what the last few lyrics were. With a giggle and a flourish, she ended the song.

Jess was beside her now, close enough that she could see the coffee stain on his collar, the way his hands trembled slightly as he reached for the keys. He pressed a single note – G sharp, their private joke since the night they'd spent hours arguing about its use in "Sunday in the Park."

"So," he said, his voice rough. From his back pocket, he produced a crumpled flyer. "The Village Cinema is doing this midnight thing on Thursday. Double feature."

Olivia caught a glimpse of dancing, animated penguins. "You hate animated films."

"I hate bad storytelling," he corrected, then caught himself. His laugh was soft, real – the one that made him sound his age. "Want to hate it together?"

She played a final chord, letting it fade into the silence. Outside, a siren wailed past, its doppler effect a perfect diminuendo.

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