The café Rhea dragged me to while avoiding the rain was tucked between a crooked bookstore and a flower shop that looked like it had given up trying to bloom in the salt-heavy mist. Ivy climbed one cracked wall like it was chasing a memory, and the windows were streaked with faint water trails from the passing rain. Above the door, a painted bell gave a half-hearted jingle as we stepped inside — the sound soft and worn, like a place too familiar with secrets to be startled by new ones.
The warmth hit me immediately. Not just the heat from the radiators, but the kind that lived in places built for lingering. It wrapped around me like a borrowed coat that still smelled faintly of someone kind. The air carried the scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon syrup, old paper, and something earthy and grounding — like cedarwood and sleep.
It was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn't need to perform. The kind that invited you to stay, but didn't beg.
The barista was an older woman with silver streaks in her braids and a cardigan hanging off one shoulder. She barely looked up from her book as Rhea stepped forward and rattled off her usual — black coffee, no sugar, and a slice of lemon loaf. There was something almost ritualistic in the way she said it, like this booth and this order were part of who she was.
I hovered behind her, reading the chalkboard menu like it might offer me a map. Everything sounded slightly too big for the space I was trying to take up. In the end, I asked for a vanilla oat latte. It felt safe. Sweet. Something that tasted like softness and quiet mornings. Like I was allowed to want comfort without explanation.
We found a booth tucked into the far corner, a rounded alcove surrounded by fogged glass and shelves lined with half-burnt candles and used books. The window beside us was starting to cloud again from the damp outside, but I could still see the shimmer of the sea peeking between buildings — steel blue and restless beneath the overcast sky. A gull wheeled sharply past, its cry distant but sharp.
Rhea kicked off one boot and folded a leg beneath her like she'd been coming here since she was born. She leaned back, one arm draped casually across the edge of the seat, her rings clicking softly as she tapped the ceramic cup.
"So," she said, lifting her drink with one brow raised, "it would seem that you're not a robot."
I blinked. "What?"
"You laughed. Earlier. In the studio." She smirked over the rim of her cup, eyes glinting with something sharp but not unkind. "First sign of humanity."
I laughed again, confused. "I'm not usually that stiff."
She tilted her head, all copper braid and mischief. "I don't know. You walked in like someone had dared you to breathe wrong."
"Okay," I admitted with a small grin. "Maybe I was a little nervous."
"A little?" she scoffed. "I thought you were gonna pass out or bolt. Or both."
I took a sip of my drink, the vanilla and oat milk curling sweet and smooth around my tongue. My chest eased a little. "It's just… been a weird couple of weeks."
Rhea's expression shifted slightly — not pity, but understanding. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and asked, "New town?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Running from something?"
"Maybe."
She gave a slow, knowing nod, like she wasn't judging — just adding pieces to a puzzle she'd already started building in her mind. Then she leaned in, voice softer now. "Anyone I need to hate on your behalf?"
The question caught me off guard — not just the words, but the ease with which she asked. Like we were already on the same side. Like she'd decided I was worth defending without a full list of reasons.
I smiled, surprised at how much I meant it. "It's more complicated than that."
"Complicated's just the scenic route," she said, reaching for her lemon loaf and tearing off a piece. "Longer drive. Better views."
We let the quiet fill the space again — not uncomfortable, just full. I watched steam curl lazily from my cup. My fingers weren't trembling anymore.
Then Rhea looked up again. "You sing like it hurts."
I blinked. "What?"
"That song back there? That wasn't just pretty. It hurt." She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "In the best way."
I looked down. "I've been through some things."
Her lips curved, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Same."
She didn't ask for more. Didn't offer anything extra, either. We both sat in the middle of what we didn't say.
She broke off another bite of loaf, chewing thoughtfully. "So. You gonna stick around Bellrow a while?"
I shrugged, fingers still curled around my warm mug. "I think so. For now."
"Good." She nodded, decisive. "I could use someone who actually listens when we sing. Half the people the label throws at me are just trying to out-belt the mic like they're auditioning for a disaster."
I smiled. "I'm not trying to be a star."
"Even better." She leaned forward, and for a moment, her gaze softened into something real. "You might actually become one."
The silence after that wasn't awkward. It was full. Like the sea before a storm. Like something was settling — shifting — between us.
I took a slow sip of my latte, letting the sweetness linger. Letting myself imagine, just for a second, that this could be a new beginning. That I wasn't Dwyn the Alpha's daughter. Wasn't the rejected mate.
I was just a girl with a song in her chest.
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The rain had stopped by the time we stepped back out into the street.
Everything smelled wet and green. Like moss and memory. The cobblestones beneath our boots shimmered faintly under the low coastal sun trying to burn through the fog. Around us, Bellrow moved with the lazy rhythm of a town still shaking off morning — shopkeepers flipping signs to "Open," a dog barking somewhere far off, the sea lapping steady against the edge of everything.
Rhea tugged her knit hat lower on her ginger curls and stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets as we walked.
"So," she said casually, like she hadn't been waiting to bring it up, "what would you think about posting the cover?"
I blinked. "The one we just did? Unknown/Nth?"
"Yeah." She glanced sideways at me. "We caught the audio clean. And the raw take felt right. No overthinking. No second passes. Just honest."
I let the idea sit in my head a moment, curling around it like steam around a mug.
It hadn't felt perfect. But it had felt true.
"I don't know," I said slowly. "I mean… that was the first time we met."
"Exactly," she said. "That's what makes it gold. It's not polished, but it means something. You can't fake the ache in that harmony. And people—my people—are drawn to the ache. They want to hear something that bleeds a little."
We passed a bakery with a fogged-up window and warm light spilling onto the street. A little girl stood on tiptoe inside, pointing at pastries. The quiet hum of life felt steady beneath our feet.
Rhea bumped her shoulder lightly into mine. "You nervous?"
"Yes," I admitted.
She gave a short laugh. "Good. That means you care. I'm not trying to shove you in front of a spotlight. We can keep it soft. Just the audio on a simple background. I'll post it on my Insta grid and maybe YouTube. Tag you if you're comfortable. If not, I'll keep it low-key. Let it speak for itself."
"What if people hate it?"
"Then screw 'em." She said it easily, like the thought didn't even make her flinch. "But they won't."
I glanced at her, surprised. "How do you know?"
"Because," she said, her voice steady, "I've been doing this long enough to know when something cuts through the noise. And that? That cut clean."
I bit the inside of my cheek. The idea of people hearing my voice—our voices—twisting around a song that already meant too much… it felt both terrifying and electric.
"I'll think about it," I said.
Rhea smiled. Not pushy. Not disappointed. Just… patient.
"Good," she said. "You should. And if you want, you can listen to the final mix before I post anything. Total transparency. No surprises."
We reached the end of the street where it bent gently toward the sea. The breeze picked up, pulling strands of hair across my face, and I tucked them behind my ear.
"I never thought I'd end up here," I murmured.
"Same," Rhea said. "But sometimes the places we land aren't accidents."
We stood there a moment, side by side, the wind whispering around us and the sea breathing slow and steady in the distance.
Then Rhea nudged me. "C'mon, girl. Let's get you home before the rain decides to come back for us."
And just like that, we kept walking — two girls in a damp little town by the ocean, carrying a song and something that might, maybe, become a future.