Helloo?

Chapter 2: The Empty Practice Room

The party was already loud by the time they got there. The basement of the music building had been transformed into something between a DIY venue and a fire hazard. Someone had strung fairy lights across the exposed pipes on the ceiling, their soft glow competing with the harsh fluorescent overheads that nobody had bothered to turn off. The walls were concrete, sweating with condensation from too many bodies packed too close. A makeshift DJ setup occupied one corner, someone's laptop plugged into speakers that buzzed with static between songs.

The floor throbbed. Not from bass—there was no thumping dance beat, not yet. The throbbing came from movement. Dozens of people, all in their late teens and early twenties, swaying and shifting, shouting conversations over each other. Someone had spilled beer near the entrance and nobody had cleaned it up. The whole place smelled like warm lager and cheap perfume and something faintly acrid that might have been weed, drifting in from the stairwell.

Tor held his camera against his chest. The strap dug into his neck. He'd brought it out of habit, but now it felt like a shield. A way to make himself invisible while being seen. Engla had vanished almost immediately—swallowed by a group near the speakers, people who knew her, who hugged her and shouted things he couldn't hear over the noise.

He stood by the wall. He scanned the room. He looked for her. He looked for interesting light. He looked for the closest exit in case he needed an escape route.

She reappeared like she'd materialized out of the crowd. "You're not dancing," she said, leaning close so he could hear her.

"I'm observing."

"You're hiding." She grabbed his wrist—warm fingers, insistent grip—and pulled. "Come on. Nobody bites."

They danced. He was bad at it. His body didn't move the way hers did. She was all hips and shoulders and loose limbs, moving like she was still playing music even without her saxophone. He moved like someone counting steps. But she didn't laugh at him. She just kept dancing, kept her hands on his shoulders, kept her body close enough that he could feel the heat coming off her.

The music changed. Something slower. Something with a beat that felt like a heartbeat. The fairy lights caught her hair, turning it almost gold. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and the room disappeared again—just like it had in his dorm.

More people had arrived. The dance floor was packed now, a haze of body heat and condensation spreading across the low ceiling. Tor was about to say something—he didn't know what—when someone bumped into him.

He turned. A girl with too much glitter on her cheeks and a drink in her hand. She was swaying. Not with the music. Just swaying. "Sorry," she mumbled, then stumbled past him into the crowd.

When Tor turned back, Engla was watching him with an expression he couldn't read.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She smiled. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how you look at people. Like you're trying to figure out their whole story in five seconds." She tilted her head. "What did you see? With glitter girl?"

Tor glanced at the crowd, but the girl had disappeared. "She's not here for the music. She's here because she doesn't want to be alone. But she's still alone. She's been nursing that same drink for an hour."

Engla's smile widened. "See? That's what I mean. You see things."

"It's not a special skill. It's just paying attention."

"Most people don't." She stepped closer, her hand finding his again. "Come with me."

She led him through the crowd, weaving between bodies and conversations. Someone called her name—a tall guy with a beard and a guitar case slung over his shoulder—but she waved him off without stopping. They climbed the stairs, leaving the noise behind in layers. First the bass faded, then the voices, then the general hum of too many people in too small a space.

The hallway was empty. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow. Their footsteps echoed on the linoleum. Engla didn't let go of his hand.

"Where are we going?" Tor asked.

"You'll see."

She stopped in front of a door marked with a small brass plaque. Practice Room 7. She tried the handle. Locked.

"Damn." She jiggled it again, then pulled a key from somewhere—Tor didn't see where, maybe a pocket in her dress, maybe tucked into her bra—and slid it into the lock. The door swung open.

"You have a key?"

"I have lots of keys." She pulled him inside and closed the door behind them.

The room was small. Windowless. The walls were covered in acoustic foam, dark gray wedges arranged in a pattern that made his eyes hurt if he looked too long. A piano sat in one corner, upright and old, its black lacquer chipped in places. A music stand stood next to it, empty. The only light came from a single bulb overhead, flickering slightly, like it couldn't decide if it wanted to stay on.

The silence was immediate. Total. The foam swallowed everything—the hum of the hallway, the distant thump of the party, even the sound of their own breathing seemed muted. Tor felt like he'd stepped into a vacuum.

"Cool, right?" Engla said. Her voice sounded strange in here, closer somehow, like she was speaking directly into his ear.

"Doesn't anyone else use these rooms?"

"Not tonight. Everyone's at the party." She walked toward the piano, trailing her fingers along the keys without pressing them. "I come here sometimes. When I need to think. Or when I need to not think."

She turned to face him. The flickering light caught her at odd angles, making her features shift and change. Her hair was still tousled from dancing, strands escaping from whatever loose arrangement she'd had it in. Her cheeks were flushed. Her dress had ridden up slightly on one thigh.

Tor's mouth was dry. "Why did you bring me here?"

Engla didn't answer. She crossed the room in three steps and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle this time. It wasn't asking a question. Her hands grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him against her, and her mouth was hard on his, demanding, tasting like beer and something sweet. He stumbled, caught off balance, and his back hit the piano with a dull thud. The sound was flat, absorbed almost immediately by the foam walls.

Her fingers found the button of his jeans before his brain caught up with what was happening.

"Engla—"

"Shh." She kissed him again, softer this time, but her hands didn't stop. The button popped open. The zipper came down. "I've been thinking about this since you walked into your room. Since you stood there looking at me like I was something worth looking at."

Tor's hands found her waist. Her hips. The curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress. He was hard already, embarrassingly hard, and she noticed—of course she noticed—and smiled against his mouth.

"This okay?" she asked, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Yeah." His voice came out strangled. "Yes. Very okay."

"Good."

She sank to her knees.

The floor was cold. He could see her flinch slightly as her bare legs touched the concrete, but she didn't hesitate. She looked up at him, hazel eyes bright even in the dim light, and there was something in her expression he couldn't quite name. Determination. Curiosity. Hunger. Maybe all three.

She tugged his jeans down, just enough, and her hand wrapped around him. He sucked in a breath. Her palm was warm and dry, her grip firm but not too tight. She moved slowly at first, watching his face the whole time, cataloging his reactions like he was a piece of music she was learning to play.

"You're shaking," she said.

"I know."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No." The word came out too fast. "Don't stop."

She smiled. That slow, deliberate smile that made his stomach flip. And then she took him in her mouth.

Tor's head fell back against the piano. The sound of his skull hitting wood was muffled, distant. He closed his eyes, then forced them open again. He wanted to watch. He needed to watch. The sight of her—honey-blonde hair falling across her face, lips stretched around him, one hand braced against his thigh for balance—was something he knew he'd never forget.

The other hand, the one not holding him steady, disappeared beneath the hem of her dress.

He heard the sound before he understood what it meant. A soft, wet noise, rhythmic, matching the pace of her mouth. She was touching herself. She was on her knees on a cold practice room floor, her mouth on him, and she was touching herself.

That knowledge hit him like a physical blow. His hips jerked forward, involuntary. She made a small sound—mmph—and pulled back slightly, just for a breath, then went back to work with renewed focus.

The foam walls swallowed everything. His breathing, getting ragged. Her mouth, moving on him with unapologetic skill. The muffled thump of her back against the piano leg when she shifted positions. Even the wet sounds of her own fingers between her legs seemed to disappear into the acoustic blackness.

There was no world outside this room. No party, no dorm, no classes, no future. Just this. Just her.

He reached down and tangled his fingers in her hair. Not pushing, not guiding. Just touching. Holding on. She looked up at him, and her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and she nodded—a tiny movement, but he understood. He could move. He could take what he needed.

He did.

It didn't last long. He wasn't experienced enough to make it last, and she was too good—too focused, too eager, too completely present. The pressure built in his spine, his thighs, his stomach. A tightness that demanded release.

"Engla," he gasped. "I'm going to—"

She didn't pull away. She didn't stop. She just held his gaze and kept going, her hand speeding up on herself, her mouth perfect and wet and relentless.

He came with a shuddering gasp that seemed to disappear into the walls around them. His body convulsed. His fingers tightened in her hair. And she took all of it, swallowed it down, kept working him through it until he was too sensitive to bear, until he had to gently push her head away.

She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her chest was heaving beneath the sundress. Her cheeks were flushed all the way to her hairline. She looked wrecked and triumphant and beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.

"Holy shit," he managed.

Engla laughed—that warm, bubbling sound that he'd heard for the first time in his doorway, and knew he'd never get tired of hearing. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She stood up, slightly unsteady on her feet, and smoothed her dress down. Her hand was still damp. She didn't seem to care. She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear—a gesture so tender it almost undid him.

"We should probably clean up," she said. "Before someone comes looking."

Tor nodded. His brain wasn't working properly yet. He pulled his jeans up, fumbled with the button. His hands felt like they belonged to someone else.

Engla watched him with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and affection. "You okay?"

"I think so." He paused. "Ask me again in an hour."

She smiled. A real smile this time, not the performative one she wore like perfume. "Come on. There's a bathroom down the hall. We can wash up."

She took his hand and led him out of the practice room. The hallway was still empty. The fluorescents were still buzzing. The party was still going on somewhere below them, muffled and distant, like it belonged to a different world.

Tor followed her. He'd follow her anywhere.

At the bathroom door, she stopped and turned to face him. "I'm glad you came to the party," she said.

"I'm glad you invited me."

"I'm glad you didn't run away. When you found me in your room." She leaned up and kissed him—soft this time, almost chaste. "Most people would have run."

"I'm not most people."

"I noticed." She pushed open the bathroom door. "That's why I'm still here."

The bathroom was a single stall with a sink that had seen better decades. The mirror was spotted with age, its silvering peeling at the corners like sunburned skin. A fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting everything in that same sickly pallor as the hallway.

Engla turned on the tap and let the water run cold. She pumped soap into her palm—the cheap pink stuff from a dispenser mounted to the wall—and washed her hands with methodical efficiency. Tor watched her in the mirror. She caught his eye and smiled.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." He leaned against the doorframe. "Just... you're very calm about all this."

"Should I not be?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

She dried her hands on a paper towel, crumpled it, tossed it at the trash can. Missed. "Done what? Hooked up with someone at a party?"

"Any of it." He gestured vaguely at the room, the hallway, her. "The whole thing. Walking in on you. The party. The practice room. This."

Engla's expression softened. She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her again—lavender soap and sweat and something underneath that was just her. "You're overthinking it."

"I'm a film student. Overthinking is the job description."

"Then quit your job." She pressed a finger to his chest, right over his sternum. "Just for tonight. Can you do that?"

Tor looked at her finger. Looked at her face. The freckles scattered across her nose, faint but visible. The way her hazel eyes caught the ugly fluorescent light and somehow made it beautiful.

"Yeah," he said. "I can try."

"Good." She pulled her hand back and turned toward the door. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

They stepped into the hallway. The party was still thumping somewhere below, a distant heartbeat. Engla walked ahead of him, her sandals slapping against the linoleum, her dress swaying with each step. She didn't look back to see if he was following. She didn't need to.

At the end of the corridor, she stopped. A window overlooked the courtyard below—dark now, the trees reduced to black shapes against a navy sky. The moon was somewhere behind clouds, its light diffuse and silver.

"I used to come here at night," Engla said. "First semester. When I couldn't sleep. I'd sit on that windowsill and watch the courtyard and pretend I was somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Paris. New York. A tour bus. Anywhere that wasn't Svalöv." She turned to face him. "What about you? Where do you pretend you are?"

Tor thought about it. "The editing room. Usually. Sometimes a screening. Sometimes just... behind a camera. Watching."

"That's not somewhere else. That's just you."

"I know." He shrugged. "I like being me. When I'm behind a camera."

Engla studied him for a long moment. The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere in the building, a door opened and closed. Footsteps echoed, then faded.

"You're strange," she said finally. "I mean that as a compliment."

"I know."

"Most guys would be trying to get in my pants right now. Or bragging. Or pretending they don't care."

"I'm not most guys."

"I noticed." She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool from the water, still slightly damp. "Come on. I want to show you something else."

She led him down a different corridor, past doors marked with numbers and names, past a bulletin board covered in flyers for concerts and protests and lost cats. The building was older here—the floorboards creaked under their weight, the walls showed hairline cracks that had been painted over a dozen times.

They stopped in front of a door marked with a brass plaque. Engla pulled out her key ring again—there were at least a dozen keys on it, a jangling constellation of metal—and found the right one.

The room beyond was small. A single bed pushed against one wall, covered in a rumpled duvet. A desk cluttered with sheet music and coffee cups. A saxophone case propped in the corner, its leather worn smooth at the edges. Posters on the walls—Miles Davis, Nina Simone, a Swedish jazz band Tor didn't recognize.

"Your room," he said.

"My room." She closed the door behind them. "I share it with a girl named Petra, but she's staying with her boyfriend tonight."

"Convenient."

"I didn't plan it." She kicked off her sandals and sat on the edge of the bed. "Or maybe I did. I don't know. I'm not good at separating impulse from intention."

Tor stood in the middle of the floor, unsure where to put himself. There was a chair by the desk, but it was buried under clothes. The bed was the only clear surface, and sitting there felt like a statement.

Engla solved the problem by reaching up and pulling him down beside her.

The duvet was soft under his hands. She'd washed it recently—he could smell detergent, that same lavender soap she used on herself. Her room smelled like her. It was overwhelming in a way he hadn't expected.

"So," she said. "Tell me something true."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Something you've never told anyone. Something you think about when you can't sleep."

Tor considered his options. He could give her something easy. A childhood memory. A favorite film. A safe confession about a minor fear. But she was watching him with those bright hazel eyes, and he knew she'd see through anything less than real.

"I'm afraid I'll never make anything that matters," he said. "I spend all this time watching films, studying them, thinking about them. And I'm scared that when I finally make one, it'll just be... noise. Another thing nobody needs."

Engla didn't respond immediately. She traced a pattern on the duvet with her finger—a spiral, maybe, or a wave. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.

"I'm afraid I'll peak early. That the best music I ever make is already behind me. That everything from here is just... diminishing returns." She looked up at him. "I'm nineteen. That's insane, right? To already be scared of being washed up?"

"No," Tor said. "That's not insane."

"Everyone thinks I'm so confident. So free. They see me on stage, and they think I don't care what anyone thinks." She laughed, but it was hollow. "I care so much I can barely breathe sometimes."

The confession hung in the air between them. Tor didn't know what to say. He didn't know if there was anything to say. So he did the only thing that felt right—he reached out and took her hand.

Engla looked at their joined fingers. Then she looked at him. Something shifted in her expression, something he couldn't name.

"Stay tonight," she said. "Not for anything. Just... stay."

"Okay."

She stood up and crossed to the door. Locked it. Then she reached behind her back and unzipped her dress.

The fabric slithered down her body, catching briefly on her hips before pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it without ceremony, like she was stepping out of a coat. Underneath, she wore nothing but a pair of simple black underwear—no bra, no embellishments.

Tor's breath caught. The practice room had been frantic, urgent, a collision of mouths and hands. This was different. Slower. Deliberate. She was giving him time to look.

And he looked.

The freckles on her shoulders. The soft curve of her stomach. The way her breasts sat, full and natural, nipples hardening in the cool air of the room. Her hips, wide and inviting. Her thighs, strong and golden. The small tattoo on her ribs—he hadn't noticed it before. A single musical note, simple and elegant.

"You're staring," she said. But she didn't sound self-conscious. She sounded pleased.

"You told me to stay."

"I told you to stay. I didn't tell you to stare."

"I can stop."

"Don't." She reached behind her and unclasped something at the back of her neck—a thin chain he hadn't seen under the dress. She let it fall onto the desk. "I want you to look."

She crossed to the bed and climbed onto it. The mattress dipped under her weight. She lay back against the pillows, her hair fanning out around her like spun gold, and looked up at him.

"Your turn," she said.

Tor's fingers felt clumsy. He pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it on the floor. His jeans followed, then his boxers. He stood there, exposed and uncertain, while Engla's eyes traveled over him with the same deliberate attention he'd given her.

"Come here," she said.

He went.

They lay facing each other on the narrow bed. Not touching, not yet. Just looking. The room was quiet—no music, no traffic, no voices. Just the soft sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the building's old pipes.

Engla reached out and traced the line of his jaw. Her fingertip was cool and light, barely there. "I like your face," she said. "It's honest."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means you can't hide anything. Everything you feel is right there." She touched his forehead, his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth. "It's nice. Most people are so... armored."

Tor caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. Her skin tasted like soap and salt. "What do you want?" he asked. "Tonight. What do you want from me?"

Engla considered the question. Her eyes searched his face, looking for something. He didn't know what.

"I want to not think," she said finally. "I want to be here, with you, and not worry about anything else. Not music, not future, not what anyone thinks. Just this."

"Just this," he echoed.

"Just us."

She moved closer. Her body pressed against his, warm and soft, and he wrapped his arms around her because he didn't know what else to do. She fit against him like she belonged there. Her head tucked under his chin. Her breath warm against his collarbone.

They lay like that for a long time. Minutes or hours—Tor couldn't tell. The world outside the door ceased to exist. There was only this room, this bed, this girl.

At some point, Engla spoke. "Tor?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for not running."

He tightened his arms around her. "Thank you for not letting me."

She laughed—that warm, bubbling sound he was starting to crave—and pressed a kiss to his chest. "We're a mess, aren't we?"

"Probably."

"I like it."

"Me too."

The night stretched on. They talked in whispers, sharing pieces of themselves that they'd never given anyone else. Tor told her about his parents' divorce, about the first film he ever saw in a theater, about the way he sometimes felt invisible in his own life. Engla told him about her grandmother's jazz records, about the first time she picked up a saxophone, about the loneliness of being the loudest person in every room.

Eventually, the words ran out. They lay in silence, tangled together, while the moon moved across the sky outside the window.

Tor didn't sleep. He didn't want to. He wanted to remember every detail—the weight of her against him, the smell of her hair, the soft sounds she made when she shifted in her sleep.

She was naked. Completely, unapologetically naked, her clothes scattered on the floor like shed skin. And she was here, with him, in his arms.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Tor felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The window began to lighten. Gray dawn seeped through the blinds, painting the room in shades of silver and blue. Engla stirred, mumbling something he couldn't understand.

He watched her wake up. It was like watching a flower open—slow at first, then all at once. Her eyes fluttered. Her body stretched against his. She looked up at him, and recognition bloomed in her face.

"Hey," she said. Her voice was rough with sleep.

"Hey."

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

"Me neither." She sat up, the duvet falling away from her. The morning light caught the freckles on her shoulders, turned her hair into a tangled halo. "What time is it?"

"I don't know. Early."

She nodded. Stretched again. Then she looked at him, really looked, and smiled. "I'm glad you stayed."

"I'm glad you asked."

Engla leaned over and kissed him. Morning breath and soft lips and the taste of last night still lingering. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.

"We should probably get breakfast," she said. "Before Petra comes back and finds a strange film student in her bed."

"I'm not in her bed."

"You're in her general vicinity." She swung her legs over the side of the mattress. "Come on. I know a place."

She stood up and stretched, her naked body caught in the gray light of dawn. Tor watched her without embarrassment now. This was real. She was real. And she was choosing to be here.

Engla caught him looking and laughed. "You're still staring."

"You told me not to stop."

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

She threw a pillow at his head. He caught it, laughing, and pulled himself out of bed. His clothes were still on the floor where he'd left them, mixed with hers in a pile of fabric and memory.

He dressed slowly. She dressed slower. Every movement felt weighted with meaning. When they were both clothed, when the night was officially over, they stood facing each other in the tiny room.

"So," Tor said. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast." Engla pulled open the door. The hallway beyond was quiet, still sleeping. "But first—"

She kissed him one more time. Quick and light and full of promise.

"Now breakfast."

They walked down the corridor together. The building was waking up around them—pipes groaning, lights flickering on, the distant sound of someone coughing through a wall. Life was starting again.

Tor followed Engla toward the stairs, toward the day, toward whatever came next. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't worried about the ending.

He just wanted to see what happened next.