Chapter 8 Of Music and Mystery Boys

DENZEL'S POV

Rule #8: Don't trust boys with guitars. Or smiles that feel like secrets.

I was cutting across the back garden path behind the admin building-the one students only used for skipping class or chasing signal--when I heard it.

A guitar.

Not the chaotic strumming of a beginner. Not a boy trying to impress someone with three messy chords and a pop chorus. This was different. Controlled. Calm. Like whoever was playing wasn't showing off-he was speaking.

I slowed.

It was a fingerstyle melody, one of those instrumental pieces you only stumble across in random late-night YouTube corners. Gentle. Intimate. Like a lullaby designed to pull you out of your own head.

I stepped quietly toward the source, pausing at the edge of the wall near the greenhouse. And that's when I saw him.

Basti.

Sitting on the old stone bench near the garden's koi pond, head slightly bowed, fingers dancing over the strings of a matte black acoustic guitar like he'd been born holding it.

He wasn't in uniform anymore. Just a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and ripped jeans that probably cost more than my monthly allowance. There was no crowd. No audience. Just him, the instrument, and the faint light filtering through the trees.

And me. Frozen.

I didn't know this side of him existed. The brooding volleyball captain, sure. The Mater Carmeli's golden boy, yes. But this? This was... quiet.

Careful. Private.

I should have walked away. I should've respected the moment. But I didn't. I stayed hidden, one foot behind the wall, heart beating faster than it had during any chess match.

He played until the last note hung like fog in the air.

Then-

"You planning to lurk there forever?"

I jolted.

He didn't turn, but his voice was low. Amused.

"You're not exactly subtle," he added.

"I wasn't hiding."

"Liar."

I stepped out.

He glanced up at me with one brow raised. "Did you like it?"

"I didn't hate it."

His smile was soft. Unbothered.

"What was that piece?" I asked.

"Something I'm writing."

"Oh." I blinked. "You compose?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Not lyrics. Just... pieces."

I nodded slowly, not sure why my throat suddenly felt tight.

"You have a music scholarship too?" I asked.

He chuckled. "No. That would make my parents nervous."

Right. Basti Garcia-son of a business tycoon, heir to things I couldn't even name.

"You don't seem like the music type," I muttered.

"Because I don't talk much?"

"Because you don't seem like someone who needs to escape."

He met my gaze. "Everyone escapes. Some just do it with prettier soundtracks."

We stood there in silence. I wanted to say something sharp. Something to reset the balance.

Instead, I said, "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A jerk."

"And now?"

I hesitated. "A mystery."

He tilted his head. "That sounds like a compliment."

"It's not. Mysteries are dangerous."

His smile shifted into something quieter. Thoughtful. "So are girls who play chess like they're hunting."

"Only when provoked."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves above us.

"I should go," I said, already stepping back.

He didn't stop me. Just said, "Hey, Damsel."

I turned, annoyed.

"Thanks for listening."

I didn't answer. But I didn't stop smiling either. Not until I was far, far away.

And it's Denzel!! Denzel! Not Damsel!

-

BASTI'S POV

I wasn't even supposed to be on Holy Cross' campus that afternoon.

Coach had set up a joint training progra for our team and theirs-a weird initiative between our schools as part of this year's "youth sports diplomacy" project. Something about goodwill, community outreach, and sharpening our game.

It sounded fake. Still, I volunteered and stayed late.

Not for volleyball. Not really.

I'd seen her slip away from the crowd after lunch. Headphones in, bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of the world in her posture. The damsel didn't walk like a student. She walked like a mission.

So I stayed. Waited. And when the campus started clearing out, I found a quiet bench behind the greenhouse and pulled out my guitar. I didn't expect her to actually find me.

But when I heard her footsteps falter behind the wall, when I felt that moment of stillness that only happens when someone's listening-you don't forget that kind of silence.

She didn't announce herself. She just stood there. So I played.

played until the nerves started showing in the strings. When I asked if she liked it, I was half-joking. Half-expecting her to brush me off.

But she didn't. She looked at me like she didn't know whether to slap me or memorize me.

I liked that.

No one ever looked at me without expectation. Not my classmates. Not my family. Not even my teammates, who, deep down, expected me to carry the team like some athletic god with a perfect serve and zero feelings.

But her?

She looked like she saw something else. And that scared me more than it should've.

After she left, I sat there for another ten minutes, fingers frozen on the strings. I couldn't play anymore. Not because the music had stopped. But because I didn't know what the hell was happening to me.

"Bro," a voice called from the path. "You still here?"

It was Tim. Holding two energy drinks. Way too chipper for someone who hated overtime practice.

"Was heading out," I muttered.

"You were playing again, huh?"

I didn't answer.

Tim handed me a can. "You thinking about her?"

I glanced at him. "Who?"

He smirked. "Come on. Everyone saw the way you looked at her after the match."

I looked down at the can in my hand. "She's different," I said quietly.

"No kidding. She wiped the floor with Bia. That was kind of hot."

I rolled my eyes. "That's not what I meant."

Tim's smile faded into something more knowing. "Yeah. I figured."

We walked out of Holy Cross together, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows on the pavement.

"She's not like the girls at Mater Carmeli," Tim said. "No filter. No fake laughs. It's refreshing."

"She doesn't like me."

"She doesn't know you yet."

That stuck with me.

Because I didn't know if I wanted her to. Not when there were so many things she shouldn't find out. Like the fact that I wasn't supposed to fall for anyone. Especially not a girl who played chess like a general and looked at the world like it had already disappointed her too many times.

But I was curious. And curiosity, I knew, was always the start of something dangerous.

Maybe she was worth the risk.