Lia's POV
The hallway smelled like bleach and burnt popcorn, the signature fragrance of student housing. I balanced my suitcase on one hip, clutching the dorm key like it was a golden ticket. Four years of hard work, late nights and scholarship essays had brought me here. A clean start,a quiet place to focus.
I slid the key into the lock of Apartment 217, whispering a silent prayer for a studious roommate who color-coded her notes and maybe enjoyed herbal tea. The door creaked open.
And my prayer combusted on sight.
The living room looked like a crime scene staged by rock stars. A leather jacket slung over a lamp. An ashtray balanced on the windowsill. A guitar case open on the floor, strings snapping like it had been in a fight. And on the couch, sprawled out like he owned the entire universe, was him.
He had one boot on the table, dark hair that looked intentionally messy, and a smirk that told me he'd already sized me up and found me amusing.
"You lost, sweetheart?" he asked, voice low and drawling.
"No," I said tightly, rolling my suitcase inside. "I live here."
His smirk widened. "God help you, then."
The first rule of survival, my mom always said, was to set boundaries early. So, thirty minutes later, while he lounged on the couch scrolling his phone, I taped a list of rules to the refrigerator.
Apartment Guidelines:
1. No smoking inside.
2. No parties on weekdays.
3. No strangers crashing overnight.
4. Respect shared spaces.
5. Quiet hours after midnight.
The paper had barely kissed the fridge before a hand snatched it down.
"You serious?" His eyebrows rose as he read aloud in mock solemnity. "No parties, no smoking, no fun. What are you, my parole officer?"
I crossed my arms. "Some of us came here to actually graduate."
"And some of us," he said, balling the paper and sinking it into the trash like a basketball shot, "came here to live."
I unpacked in silence, refusing to rise to the bait. But around midnight, when I was rereading class schedules in bed, a sound floated through the thin wall.
Music.
Not loud, raucous bass. Not electric guitar shredding.
Piano.
It was soft, hesitant at first, then swelling, rippling into something raw and devastating. Notes that ached and lingered, weaving sadness into the air. I sat frozen, pen slipping from my hand.
The last thing I expected from a guy like Jaxon Reed was music like that.
The bad boy next door wasn't supposed to play the piano like his heart was breaking.
And yet, as I lay awake listening, I realized the rules I had taped to the fridge weren't going to save me.
Not from him.