That was the first crack in the fortress.
“No,” he said, handing her a real coffee—not the oat-milk-vanilla nonsense she usually ordered. “You catalogue. Listening is different.”
He wasn’t famous. He didn’t have a publicist. He was the sound tech at a small jazz club she was reviewing for a “hidden gems” segment. While Masha was busy tweeting about the lighting design, Liam was the one who noticed the lead singer’s mic stand was wobbling. He fixed it mid-song without a word, then disappeared into the shadows.
Over the next few weeks, Masha found herself inventing reasons to visit the jazz club. She’d claim she was scouting for a “local culture” piece, but really, she just wanted to watch Liam work. He was calm in a way she envied. He didn’t chase trends. He didn’t post his breakfast. He read paperbacks with cracked spines and walked her home without ever checking his phone.
