The practice wing of St. Jude's Academy usually smelled of floor wax and old wood, but today, it smelled like salt. Ren's fingers were raw. He had been playing the same Bach suite for four hours, seeking a technical perfection that felt just out of reach. In the sterile white room, he was the "Golden Boy"—the legacy student whose name was already etched into the school's trophy cases.
Then, the floor shook.
It wasn't an earthquake. It was a kick drum. Thump-chick. Thump-thump-chick.
Ren's bow skidded across the strings, emitting a dying-cat screech that set his teeth on edge. He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. The noise was coming from Room 4B—the room right next to his. It wasn't just loud; it was aggressive. It was "Modern Music."
He stood up, his expensive cello handled with the care of a glass heart, and marched into the hallway. He didn't knock; he swung the door to 4B open with the authority of someone who had never been told "no."
Behind a battered pearl-white drum kit sat a boy who looked like he'd crawled out of a garage band and into a nightmare. His hair was a mess of dark curls, his shirt was damp with sweat, and he was grinning.
Jace had seen Ren coming in the reflection of the window. He'd been waiting for this. He'd been practicing this specific, annoying rhythm for twenty minutes just to draw the prince out of his tower.
"You're flat," Jace said before Ren could even open his mouth.
Ren blinked, his indignation momentarily sidelined by confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
"The cello. You're playing technically perfect, but you're flat. No soul." Jace twirled a drumstick between his fingers, his eyes—sharp and unnervingly bright—locking onto Ren's. "I'm Jace. And you must be the prince everyone's crying about."
Ren tightened his grip on his bow. "And you must be the reason this Academy lowered its standards this year. This is a conservatory, not a basement in the suburbs. There is a reason we have soundproofing, though clearly, it wasn't designed for... whatever that was."
Jace leaned back, balancing his stool on two legs. "It's called a polyrhythm, Your Highness. Though I guess they don't teach those in the 1700s."
"It's noise," Ren snapped, stepping further into the room. The clinical white light caught the gold in his hair, making him look exactly like the porcelain doll Jace had seen on the school's recruitment posters. "And I have a placement exam. If I hear one more kick drum, I'm reporting a disturbance to the Dean."
Jace let the front legs of his stool hit the floor with a loud crack. He stood up, towering just an inch over Ren, smelling of sweat and cheap citrus deodorant. He stepped into Ren's personal space—close enough to see the way Ren's pulse jumped in his neck.
"Tell you what," Jace said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly crawl. "I'll stop. On one condition. Play with me. One minute. You follow my lead. If you can keep up without looking like you're sucking a lemon, I'll pack up."
Ren should have walked away. But the way Jace was looking at him—like he wanted to eat him alive—made a spark of heat flare in Ren's gut.
"One minute," Ren whispered. "And when you lose, you stay out of my sight for the rest of the semester."
Jace's grin was predatory. "Deal. Sit down, Cello Boy. Let's see if you've got a pulse."
They played. It wasn't a duet; it was a dogfight. Jace pushed the tempo, his eyes never leaving Ren's face, watching Ren's composure crumble as the rhythm turned primal.
Suddenly, Jace dropped a stick and reached out, his bare hand slamming against the neck of Ren's cello, silencing the strings. The room went silent, save for their heavy, synchronized breathing.
Jace's hand slid up from the wood to Ren's jaw, his thumb grazing the skin with a heat that felt like a brand. "You're shaking," Jace observed, his voice dripping with a mock-pity that felt dangerously like a caress.
"I'm... annoyed," Ren lied, though his body was humming with an electricity he didn't understand.
Jace leaned in, his lips brushing against Ren's ear. "Is that what we're calling it? Because your heart is beating loud enough for me to sample it. Make me leave, Ren. If you hate me so much... make me."
Ren didn't move. He couldn't. He was trapped in the orbit of a boy who was supposed to be his rival, but felt like his inevitable ruin.