Chapter 5: Breakfast, Flowers, and Skepticism
The first text came at 6:47 AM.
Nova was still in bed, one arm thrown over her eyes, her phone buzzing against the nightstand like an angry insect. She groaned, reached for it blindly, and squinted at the screen.
Unknown number. No message. Just a photo.
She sat up.
The image was grainy, taken from an angle that suggested someone had been standing in the shadows when they snapped it. A bench—her bench, the one near the music building where she always ate breakfast before her 8 AM theory class. On it sat a paper bag, folded neatly at the top, with a cup of coffee beside it. Steam curled up from the lid, catching the morning light.
She stared at the photo for a long moment.
Then she typed: Who is this?
The reply came fast.
You know who this is.
She did.
She got dressed in a hurry—jeans, a faded sweatshirt, hair pulled back in a knot that she didn't bother to check in the mirror. The walk to campus took fifteen minutes, but she made it in ten, her backpack bouncing against her spine, her breath fogging in the cold air.
The bench was exactly where the photo had shown it. Exactly as it had looked.
She slowed as she approached. The bag was still there. The coffee was still warm—she could feel the heat through the cup when she picked it up. She opened the bag and found a breakfast sandwich: egg, cheese, bacon, on a croissant that looked like it had been made by someone who actually cared.
No note. No name.
She looked around. The courtyard was mostly empty at this hour—a few students drifting toward the library, a groundskeeper raking leaves near the fountain, a professor unlocking the door to the humanities building. No sign of him.
She ate the sandwich anyway.
It was good.
——
The second move came three days later.
Nova had been in the studio until 2 AM, layering vocals on a track she'd been wrestling with for weeks. The song was about her grandmother—about the way she used to hum while she cooked, about the recipes that had never been written down, about the sound of her laugh echoing through a house that had since been sold.
She'd cried twice while recording. Not because she was sad, exactly. Because the song was finally saying what she'd been trying to say for months.
When she stumbled out of the music building, eyes heavy, ears still ringing with playback, she found something waiting on the windshield of her car.
Sunflowers.
A bouquet of them, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. They were bright and ridiculous and way too big for her to hold comfortably, and she stood there in the empty parking lot, holding them against her chest, trying to figure out what to feel.
There was no note this time either. No text. No explanation.
Just flowers.
She drove home with them in the passenger seat, their heads bobbing every time she hit a pothole. She put them in a mason jar on her kitchen counter and stared at them while she ate cold leftovers for dinner.
Her roommate, Mei, came home an hour later and stopped dead in the doorway.
"Who sent those?"
"No one."
"Bullshit."
"I don't know. That's the thing."
Mei walked over and touched one of the petals. "These are expensive. Like, florist expensive. Not gas station roses."
"I know."
"So you have a secret admirer."
"I have a problem."
Mei raised an eyebrow. "That's a weird way to describe a man buying you flowers."
Nova didn't answer. Just picked up her phone and typed a message.
I got the flowers.
The reply came twenty minutes later.
Good.
——
The Venmo notification hit two days after that.
Nova was sitting in the cafeteria with Mei and three other friends, picking at a salad that had seen better days, when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and nearly choked on a cherry tomato.
Isaiah Carter sent you $120.
For lunch. Y'all eat good.
She stared at the notification like it might disappear if she blinked.
"What?" Mei asked.
"Nothing."
"You're making a face."
"I'm not making a face."
"You're making a face."
Nova turned the phone around. Mei's eyes went wide.
"One hundred and twenty dollars?"
"For lunch."
"For all of us?"
"Apparently."
Mei grabbed the phone and showed the others. The table erupted.
"Oh my God," said Jasmine, a girl from Nova's songwriting class who had opinions about everything. "He's down bad."
"He's not down bad."
"He sent you money for your friends. That's not normal."
"It's not normal," Nova agreed. "That's the problem."
"What's the problem?" Mei asked. "He's feeding us. Let him feed us."
"It's not about the food."
"Then what's it about?"
Nova pushed her salad away. "It's about the fact that he thinks he can buy his way in."
The table went quiet.
"That's kind of harsh," Jasmine said.
"Is it?"
"He's not asking for anything. He's just... doing things."
"That's what makes it worse." Nova leaned back in her chair. "If he asked for something, I'd know what he wanted. I could say yes or no. But this—" She gestured at the phone, at the notification, at the whole situation. "This is him trying to make me owe him without ever having to ask."
Mei frowned. "You think he's keeping score?"
"I think men like him always keep score."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough."
The others exchanged looks but didn't push. They ate their lunch—paid for by Zay's money, because Nova wasn't going to let it go to waste—and the conversation moved on to other things. But Nova's mind stayed stuck on the notification, on the implication, on the way her chest felt tight every time she thought about him.
——
The third move came in person.
Nova was walking out of music history, her brain still buzzing with the professor's lecture on the migration of the blues from the Delta to Chicago, when she saw him.
Zay was leaning against the brick wall across from the lecture hall, hands in his pockets, wearing a black jacket and a gray hoodie underneath. He looked like he belonged there, like he'd been standing in that exact spot for hours, like the wall had been built specifically to hold him up.
He didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just watched her approach with those dark eyes that missed nothing.
She stopped three feet away.
"You're here," she said.
"I'm here."
"Why?"
"Figured you might be hungry."
She looked at him. Then at the bag in his hand—paper, folded at the top, same as the first one.
"You brought me food."
"I brought you lunch."
"I already ate."
"Then eat again."
She didn't take the bag. Just stood there, arms crossed, studying him like he was a problem she hadn't decided how to solve.
"The sandwich was good," she said.
"I know."
"The flowers were too much."
"I know."
"The money—" She paused. "That was a lot."
"It was lunch money."
"It was a statement."
He tilted his head. "Was it?"
"You know it was."
They stood there, the courtyard half-full of students moving in every direction, none of them paying attention. The air smelled like coffee and dead leaves. Somewhere behind them, a car alarm went off and then stopped.
"You've been making moves," Nova said.
"I've been showing up."
"Same thing."
"Is it?"
She uncrossed her arms. "Let me ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"What do you want from me?"
It wasn't a rhetorical question. It wasn't flirtation. It was a real, direct, on-the-table ask. And she watched his face to see what he'd do with it.
Zay didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just held her gaze and said, "I want to know you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She shook her head. "No. It's the one you've practiced."
He didn't deny it.
"The sandwich," she said, ticking off her fingers. "The flowers. The money. The texts. You're doing everything right. You're hitting every mark. And that's what bothers me."
"Why?"
"Because it feels like a transaction." She took a step closer, her voice dropping low. "You give me things. You show up. You prove you can provide. And then what? I'm supposed to open up? Give you access? Let you in because you bought your way past the front door?"
Zay's jaw tightened. But he didn't interrupt.
"I've seen this before," she continued. "Men who think generosity is a key. Men who keep receipts. I'm not saying you're one of them. I'm saying I don't know yet. And I need you to understand that."
She reached out and took the bag from his hand. Not because she was hungry. Because she was making a point.
"I'll eat this," she said. "Because I skipped breakfast and I'm not stupid. But I'm not for sale, Zay. Not for sandwiches. Not for flowers. Not for anything."
She waited for him to react.
He didn't. Not at first.
He just looked at her—really looked—like he was seeing something new. Like she'd surprised him. And maybe she had.
Then he spoke.
"I never thought you were."
"Then why all this?"
"Because I'm not good at words." He said it plain, without decoration. "I'm good at actions. I'm good at showing up. I'm good at doing things that don't require me to explain myself."
"That's convenient."
"It's true." He took a half-step closer. "I'm not trying to buy you. I know better than that. But I'm also not going to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Showing up." He said it like it was obvious. Like it was the only option on the table. "You can call it whatever you want. I'm not doing it for credit. I'm not doing it because I expect something back. I'm doing it because it's the only thing I'm good at."
"And what's that?"
"Proving people wrong."
She blinked.
"I've spent my whole life being underestimated," he said. "People look at me and see a gang leader. A dropout. A kid from the wrong side of the city. They think they know who I am before I open my mouth."
"And you want to prove them wrong."
"I want to prove you wrong."
She didn't have a response for that.
"You think I'm transactional," he said. "You think I'm running a playbook. And I get it. That's fair. But I've been doing this for two weeks, and you haven't asked me to stop once."
"That's not—"
"You could've blocked my number. You could've left the sandwich on the bench. You could've sent the money back." He tilted his head. "You didn't."
She felt heat rise in her cheeks.
"So here's what I think," he said. "I think you want to trust me. I think you're scared to. And I think you're waiting for me to give you a reason to walk away so you don't have to risk anything."
He stepped back.
"So I'm not going to. I'm not going to give you a reason. I'm just going to keep showing up. And eventually, you're going to have to decide if you're going to let me or not."
Nova stared at him.
The bag was warm in her hands. The courtyard was still buzzing around them. The sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the pavement.
"You're infuriating," she said.
"I know."
"You're also right. Which makes it worse."
"I know that too."
She shook her head. "I don't trust you."
"Yet."
"Yet." She pulled the bag open and peeked inside. A sandwich. Turkey and hummus on sourdough. Same attention to detail as everything else.
"Where'd you get this?" she asked.
"Made it myself."
She looked up.
"I'm not joking," he said. "I went to the grocery store. Bought the ingredients. Assembled it this morning."
"You made me a sandwich."
"I did."
"At six in the morning."
"Earlier."
She didn't know what to do with that.
"You're weird," she said.
"I know."
"You're also persistent."
"I know that too."
She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"It's good," she said.
"I know."
She rolled her eyes. But a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.
Zay saw it.
He didn't smile back. But his expression softened, just slightly, like a door cracking open.
"I've got to get to class," she said.
"I know."
"You don't have to walk me."
"I'm not walking you."
She looked at him.
"I'm just going in the same direction," he said.
They moved together toward the humanities building, weaving through the crowd, not talking. The silence between them wasn't heavy—it was full. Full of everything they'd just said, everything they hadn't, everything that was still waiting.
At the door of her lecture hall, Nova stopped.
"I'll see you," she said.
"I'll see you."
She turned to go.
"Nova."
She looked back.
"The sandwich wasn't a bribe," he said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
She held his gaze.
"I'm starting to."
Then she walked inside, the door swinging shut behind her, and Zay stood there for a long moment afterward, watching the space where she'd been.
——
That night, Nova sat on her bed with her phone in her hand.
She scrolled through the text thread with Zay, reading the messages she'd ignored earlier in the week. They were sparse, deliberate, each one chosen with care.
The breakfast photo. The flowers. The money. The quick check-ins that asked nothing in return.
She typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another one.
Finally, she settled on something simple.
You made the sandwich yourself.
The reply came fast.
Told you.
What else can you make?
The dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Depends on what you're hungry for.
She laughed. Out loud. In her empty room, at midnight, with no one around to hear it.
She typed: You're still not funny.
He replied: I'm not trying to be.
She closed the phone. Put it on the nightstand. Lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, the faint outline of the sunflowers still visible from the kitchen light bleeding through the door.
She thought about what he'd said.
I want to prove you wrong.
She thought about the way he'd looked at her—not like a prize to be won, but like a question he was willing to spend years learning the answer to.
She thought about the sandwich. The flowers. The money. All the small gestures that had felt like chess moves at first, but now felt like something else entirely.
She fell asleep with the ghost of a smile on her lips.
And the next morning, when she found another sandwich waiting on the bench before her 8 AM class, she didn't hesitate before she picked it up.
She didn't text him thanks.
She didn't need to.
He already knew.
The text arrived while Nova was in the middle of a mixing session, her headphones clamped over her ears, her fingers dancing across the interface of her DAW.
She almost didn't check it. Almost let it sit there, unread, a tiny red badge that she could ignore for another hour or two. But something made her reach for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen before she could talk herself out of it.
You free Thursday night?
She stared at the message. Read it twice. Then a third time, just to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.
Zay didn't ask questions like that. Zay made statements. Zay showed up without warning. Zay sent sandwiches and flowers and money with the confidence of someone who'd already decided the outcome.
This was different. This was a question.
She typed back: Depends.
On what?
On why you're asking.
Three dots. Then: I want to take you somewhere.
Where?
You'll see.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She could feel it, the pull at the corner of her mouth, the way her chest felt lighter than it had in days.
That's not how this works, she wrote. You don't get to mystery me into a date.
Who said anything about a date?
She laughed out loud. Mei, who was sitting on the couch across the room, looked up from her textbook.
"What?" Mei asked.
"Nothing."
"That's not a nothing laugh."
"It's a nothing laugh."
Mei raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Nova turned back to her phone, heart beating a little faster than it should have been.
Fine, she typed. Thursday. But if this is another rooftop situation, I'm leaving.
No rooftops, he promised. Just something I think you'll like.
She didn't respond right away. Let the message sit there, let him wonder. She finished her mixing session, saved the file, and then, just before she put her phone on the charger for the night, she sent one more text.
What should I wear?
Whatever makes you feel like yourself.
She stared at that one for a long time. Longer than she wanted to admit.
——
Thursday came faster than she expected.
Nova spent the afternoon cycling through her closet, pulling out options and discarding them with increasing frustration. Jeans felt too casual. A dress felt too formal. She settled on a black jumpsuit, gold hoops, and boots that made her feel tall. Then she changed out of it. Then changed back.
"You're spiraling," Mei observed from the doorway.
"I'm not spiraling."
"You've changed three times in twenty minutes."
"That's not spiraling. That's... calibrating."
Mei laughed. "Where's he taking you?"
"I don't know."
"He didn't tell you?"
"He said I'd like it."
Mei's expression softened. "That's actually kind of sweet."
"It's annoying."
"Same thing."
Nova threw a pillow at her. Mei caught it, laughing, and disappeared back into the living room.
At 7 PM, a knock sounded at the door.
Nova opened it to find Zay standing on the porch, hands in the pockets of a dark jacket, wearing jeans that fit him too well and a plain white tee beneath. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine he'd never admit to reading.
"You look nice," he said.
"So do you."
"I know."
She rolled her eyes. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She grabbed her coat and followed him to the truck. The night air was crisp, carrying the smell of woodsmoke from someone's chimney and the distant hum of traffic. The sky was clear, stars barely visible through the city glow.
They drove in comfortable silence, the radio playing low. He didn't reach for her hand. Didn't try to fill the space with small talk. Just drove, steady and sure, like he knew exactly where he was going and wasn't worried about getting there.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside a small building on the east side of town. The sign above the door read The Velvet Room in faded gold lettering, and the windows glowed warm with amber light.
"What is this?" Nova asked.
"Open mic night."
She turned to look at him.
"You brought me to an open mic?"
"I brought you to an open mic where you're performing."
Her mouth fell open.
"How did you—"
"You mentioned it. Once. On the roof." He shrugged. "I remembered."
She stared at him. The night on the roof felt like a lifetime ago—the city lights, the stolen record, the kiss that had left her breathless and confused. She hadn't thought he'd been listening. Not really. Not to the small stuff.
"You remembered," she said.
"I remember everything."
She didn't know what to say to that.
They went inside. The Velvet Room was smaller than she'd expected—maybe forty seats, all of them filled, a tiny stage in the back with a single microphone and a stool. The air smelled like coffee and cinnamon and the faint, sweet tang of incense.
Zay found them a spot near the back, two chairs against the wall, close enough to see but far enough to feel private.
"You've been here before?" Nova asked.
"Once or twice."
"You never told me you liked poetry."
"I never told you a lot of things."
She wanted to press him on that. Wanted to ask what else he was hiding, what other pieces of himself he was keeping locked away. But the lights dimmed, and a woman stepped onto the stage, and the room fell quiet.
The first performer was a man in his fifties with a gray beard and hands that shook slightly as he held the microphone. He read a poem about his father—about fishing trips and silence and the things they never said to each other. His voice cracked on the last line, and the room responded with warm, generous applause.
Nova watched Zay instead of the stage.
His attention was fixed on the performer, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his posture—a stillness, a receptiveness—that she hadn't seen before.
"He's good," she whispered.
"He's honest," Zay corrected. "That's different."
"How?"
"Good is technique. Honest is truth."
She considered that.
The next performer was a young woman with a ukulele and a voice that sounded like sunshine. She sang about falling in love at a bus stop, about the way strangers become familiar, about the small moments that add up to something bigger. The crowd laughed at the funny parts and sighed at the sweet ones.
Nova leaned toward Zay.
"She's cute," she said.
"She's nervous."
"You can tell?"
"Her hands. She keeps adjusting the strings."
Nova looked closer. He was right.
"You notice everything," she said.
"That's the job."
"What job?"
He didn't answer.
The third performer was a spoken word artist, all fire and fury, his words landing like punches. He talked about growing up in a city that didn't love him back, about the weight of expectation, about the way the system was designed to break people like him.
When he finished, the room erupted. Zay clapped loud, his face unreadable, but his hands moving with something that looked like recognition.
"You liked him," Nova said.
"I felt him."
"What's the difference?"
"Liking is opinion. Feeling is memory."
She filed that away.
They watched four more performers—a comedian who bombed, a guitarist who forgot the lyrics halfway through, a poet who read from her phone with her voice shaking. Each one got the same generous applause, the same warm reception. The Velvet Room wasn't a place for perfection. It was a place for showing up.
And then it was Nova's turn.
She stood, her heart hammering in her chest. She'd performed dozens of times before—hundreds, maybe. But this felt different. This felt like standing on the edge of something.
Zay caught her wrist as she passed.
"You got this," he said.
She looked down at him.
"I know," she said.
But she smiled when she said it.
She walked to the stage, climbed the three steps, and settled onto the stool. The microphone was cold in her hand. The lights were bright, too bright, washing out the faces in the crowd.
She found Zay in the back. He was watching her, his expression steady, his eyes dark and sure. He didn't nod. Didn't wave. Just looked at her like she was the only person in the room.
She closed her eyes. Took a breath.
And then she sang.
The song was one she'd written months ago, back when she was still processing the move from Tennessee, still missing the smell of her mother's kitchen, still trying to figure out who she was in a city that didn't know her name. It was about roots and wings and the space between them. About leaving home and finding home and realizing they weren't the same thing.
Her voice filled the room. Not loud, not flashy—just true. Every word landed. Every note carried weight.
The crowd went still.
Zay didn't move. Didn't blink. Just sat there, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth watching.
She hit the final note—soft, sustained, letting it fade into the silence—and opened her eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Zay was on his feet.
"YES!" His voice cut through the quiet like a thunderclap. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"
The room turned to look at him. Nova felt heat rush to her face. But she was laughing, too—laughing at the sheer volume of him, at the way he didn't care who was watching.
The rest of the crowd followed. Applause swelled, filling the small room, but Zay's voice was still the loudest, still the most insistent.
"THAT'S MY—" He caught himself. Paused. "THAT'S HER! THAT'S HER!"
Nova stepped off the stage, her cheeks burning, her heart full. She made her way back to him, weaving through the crowd, and when she reached him, she didn't sit down.
She just looked at him.
"You're loud," she said.
"I know."
"Everyone's staring."
"Let them."
She shook her head. But she was smiling. Smiling so hard her face hurt.
"You liked it?" she asked.
"I loved it."
"You're just saying that."
"I'm not."
"Prove it."
He reached out. Took her hand. Pulled her toward the door.
"Where are we going?"
"For a walk."
They stepped outside. The night air hit her face, cool and clean. The street was quiet, the sidewalks empty, the only sound the distant hum of a car passing somewhere far away.
They walked without talking. Past the coffee shop with its lights off. Past the bookstore with its window display of used paperbacks. Past the park with its empty swings swaying in the breeze.
At the corner, Zay stopped.
He turned to face her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something in them—something raw, something hungry.
"You were incredible," he said.
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He stepped closer. She didn't move back.
"The way you sang that song," he said. "The way you told that story. It was like—" He paused, searching for words. "It was like you opened a door and let everyone see inside."
"That's what music is supposed to do."
"Yeah." He reached up. Touched her face. Just a brush of his fingers along her jaw. "But not everyone can do it."
She leaned into his touch.
"You're not like anyone I've met," she said.
"Good."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was hungry and deep and full of everything they'd been holding back—all the texts, all the sandwiches, all the walks and the silences and the almosts.
She kissed him back. Her hands found his chest, his shoulders, his neck. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, closing the space between them until there was nothing left.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard.
"Come home with me," she said.
He looked at her.
"You asking?"
"I'm asking."
He didn't answer right away. Just stood there, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her skin.
"You want me to come over," he said.
"I want you to sleep."
"Sleep."
"Sleep and cuddle." She pulled back, just enough to see his face. "If you want."
"I want."
"We're not having sex."
He laughed. Loud and real.
"I know," he said.
"You know?"
"Yeah." He kissed her forehead. "I know."
She took his hand. Led him back to the truck. The drive to her apartment was quiet, but it wasn't the same silence as before. It was warmer. Fuller.
They climbed the stairs. She unlocked the door. Mei was already in bed, her light off, the apartment dark except for the kitchen.
Nova led him to her room.
It was small—a bed, a desk, a shelf full of records and notebooks and plants. The window looked out over the street, and the moon cast silver light across the floor.
She kicked off her boots. Pulled off her hoops. Wriggled out of the jumpsuit and into an oversized t-shirt and shorts.
Zay stood by the door, watching her.
"You can sit," she said.
He sat. On the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap.
She climbed under the covers. Held them open.
"You coming?"
He took off his jacket. His jeans. Left his t-shirt on. Then he slid into bed beside her.
The mattress dipped under his weight. The pillow smelled like lavender—her shampoo. He turned on his side to face her.
She turned to face him.
They lay there, inches apart. The moonlight caught his face. Softened the edges of his jaw.
"You're really here," she said.
"I'm really here."
"Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
She reached out. Placed her hand on his chest. Felt his heartbeat—steady, strong, real.
He put his hand over hers.
"Sleep," he said.
"I'm not tired."
"Then rest."
She closed her eyes. He did too.
They lay there, tangled in the sheets, breathing in rhythm. His arm found its way around her waist. Her head found its way to his shoulder. It was warm. Safe.
"I'm glad you came," she whispered.
"I'm glad you asked."
She smiled against his chest.
For the first time in a long time, she slept through the night.