-Devon.
I woke before the city had decided on a color, that hush where the skyline is still a cool bruise and the room holds its breath. The shower steamed the glass and loosened my shoulders, mint from the toothbrush cutting clean through the warmth. When I stepped to the mirror, the last veil of condensation peeled away and there I was: shirt open, fabric the color of cloud light, clinging in places where the water hadn't quite dried; gray trousers sitting neat on my hips while I fed the belt tongue through the buckle.
I paused and really looked. The house didn't ask for parade-ground perfection. It moved with a looser rhythm, like a song that wants you to find the downbeat on your own. I lifted my hands to my hair and felt myself smile. Most days I scold it into a crisp part with product and patience. Today I let it fall. Dark, clean, softer at the crown than I ever admit, a lazy part settling just left of center. A few strands slipped toward my brow, the kind that would make a stylist say "don't touch it" while I'm already touching it. It suited the room's long windows and the night-sky glow still caught in the glass.
I buttoned slowly—one, two—leaving the line open enough for air and for the humidity clinging to my skin. The belt clicked home. A faint drip traced my sternum, disappeared beneath the waistband, and left a cool path I felt longer than I should have. I rolled my sleeves with the same care I use to load a mag, precise folds until the cuffs sat just below my forearms.
"Chief Vibe Analyst approves," I told the man in the mirror. "Hair: untamed. Shirt: cooperative. Mission: don't wrestle the client before breakfast."
I ran my fingers through the top one last time. The wave settled back with quiet confidence, like it understood the assignment. If Bryce took one look and called it my "soft launch era," I'd blame Valmont's humidity and demote him to Assistant Vibe Intern on the spot.
I slipped my watch on, drew a breath that tasted faintly of cedar and clean cotton, and stepped toward the door, hair exactly as it wanted to be.
I stepped out of my room into the quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think you're the only one awake in the whole place. No footsteps, no doors creaking, just the faint hum of the fridge somewhere down the hall.
In the kitchen, I took a moment for myself. The space was wide and clean, counters catching the pale morning light. I switched on the espresso machine, the low hiss filling the room as I ground the beans. The smell hit instantly—sharp, rich, waking me in a way the shower hadn't. While the machine did its work, I pulled open the fridge.
Stocked. And not just stocked—organized. Fresh fruit lined up like they'd been auditioning for a commercial. Containers labeled. Shelves wiped spotless. A row of cured meats caught my eye, and a stack of eggs sat in the middle like they were daring me to use them.
I set out a pan, heated a little butter until it sizzled, and started cracking eggs. Pastrami joined them, the fat curling at the edges. It was the kind of breakfast that felt grounding, like something you could trust to carry you into the day.
Behind me, a door creaked. Wild-haired Gracie shuffled in wearing an oversized dress shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, fluffy slippers that looked like they'd been in a fight, and the unfocused stare of someone who'd lost a wrestling match with her own alarm clock.
I glanced over. "I'm sorry, did I wake you up?"
She squinted at me like I'd just asked her to solve a math problem. "Why the hell are you up at eight in the morning? Who does that?"
I gave a small shrug. "My bad for being a functional person. I'm not used to waking up late."
She waved a lazy hand. "Oh, you're gonna get used to it. What are you eating?"
"I figured I'd cook some eggs. Found pastrami, so I was gonna do that too."
Her expression softened just enough to let her smile through. "That sounds delicious. Make me some while you're at it."
I paused, spatula in hand. This was the moment I realized I was already halfway to being the live-in maid for this crew. But I didn't say it. I just kept moving, flipping the eggs with practiced silence, sliding the pastrami to one side of the pan. Two plates came down from the cabinet. Breakfast plated, I glanced over my shoulder.
"Coffee or juice?"
"Coffee," she said instantly, "strong as fuck."
I tapped the portafilter against the counter, loaded the espresso machine again, the dark stream pouring into her cup. "What type of milk do you drink?"
"Anything that's not dairy."
"Right," I said with a nod, opening the fridge again. Almond milk, soy milk, oat milk—basically a whole conference of non-dairy options. I grabbed the almond milk for her and low-fat for myself, set them side by side, and finished the coffees.
She took a sip, eyes closing in relief. "Oh my god, this is strong and beautiful."
Then she looked up at me over the rim of her mug. "Are you excited about being here?"
"So far, I haven't met the crazy part," I said, "but I'm excited. Feels like the rhythm's nice. Slow. Nobody is rushing anyone."
She nodded, her hair shifting in a way that made her look a little more awake. "Yeah, I think you're gonna love it here. But please don't give up on us. Please, Devon, I'm begging you."
I smiled faintly. "I promise, as long as nobody really crosses their boundaries with me, I'm fine. I'm not leaving."
Her brow quirked. "Okay, great… You're leaving."
I blinked. "What do you mean I'm leaving?"
"What boundaries? What kind are we talking about?"
I drew in a breath, letting it out slow. "My own boundaries. Stuff about me, personally. But don't worry, I'm not that soft. I know how to take a jab here or there, I know how to contain a situation. It's not like—'strike one, I'm gone.' Don't worry about it, Gracie. I'm good to go."
"That's wonderful," she said, taking another bite of breakfast.
I tilted my head. "Do you always sleep here?"
She shook her head. "No, not really. I usually sleep at my house. I'm just staying here until you get settled in, just to contain the situation."
"I didn't ask because I want you gone," I said quickly. "I was just curious about how the situation works around the house."
"Oh," she said, her expression easing. "Well, usually there are staff here, but they're on vacation. They'll be back in two weeks. We've got a cook, a chef, the house manager, and a few others. In total, maybe four or five people in-house. Not a big deal."
"Not a big deal at all," I said. "I like the room so much. Thank you."
She grinned. "Oh my god, you're welcome. Anything for you."
I took another sip of coffee, thinking anything might be tested sooner rather than later.
We both settled at the kitchen island, plates warm under our hands. Gracie tucked one leg up on the stool, fork already moving like she'd been starving in her sleep.
"Okay," she said after the first bite, "you can definitely cook. That's dangerous. I might start finding reasons to keep you in the kitchen."
I raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure that's not in the job description."
"'Other duties as assigned,'" she replied with a grin, taking another bite.
The coffee was strong enough to make the air feel sharper. "I don't mind cooking," I said. "But if I end up doing laundry, we're renegotiating my contract."
She snorted. "Don't tempt me. If you fold towels as neatly as you plate breakfast, we're in trouble."
We ate in a slow, easy rhythm, the sound of forks and the occasional hum of the espresso machine filling the space. Every now and then she'd sigh like she was finally waking up.
"You know," she said between sips of coffee, "I actually like mornings like this. No noise, no calls, no Bryce yet. Peace before the storm."
I looked over the rim of my mug. "He wakes up late?"
She gave me a look that was equal parts disbelief and amusement. "Late? Devon, noon is early for him. If he sees a clock before eleven, it's because he's still awake from the night before."
I couldn't help it—I laughed. "That explains why the house felt like it was holding its breath when I walked out here."
Gracie tilted her head thoughtfully. "You get it. Most people try to make noise in the morning here. That's how they get on my bad side."
"Noted," I said, finishing off the last of my eggs.
She leaned forward on her elbows. "You're adapting fast. Most new people either try too hard to impress or they disappear into their room until someone calls them. You're… functional. Dangerous combination."
I smirked. "You make 'functional' sound like a flaw."
"In this house? Sometimes it is. You'll see."
We lingered over the coffee. She refilled hers, then mine, the almond milk carton staying between us like a small truce offering.
"Do you think you'll last?" she asked suddenly, not looking up from stirring her cup.
"I don't see why not," I said. "Like I told you—boundaries respected, I'm fine."
"And if they're not?"
I met her gaze. "Then we have a conversation before anything else. I'm not here to quit over nonsense."
That seemed to settle something for her. She nodded and finally smiled without the sleepy edge. "Good. Because if you make it past the first month, you're a keeper. First month is the chaos filter."
"I'll take that as a challenge."
"Do. I like people who don't scare easy."
We let the conversation drift after that, talking about the neighborhood, the way Valmont looked in different seasons, and the staff who'd be back in a couple of weeks. She named them off one by one, adding little side comments—who baked on weekends, who hoarded the good tea, who would absolutely try to mother me.
By the time we'd finished the second round of coffee, the house had shifted. Somewhere upstairs a faint creak of floorboards broke the quiet.
Gracie glanced toward the ceiling, then at the clock. "Twelve-oh-five," she murmured. "Early today. Brace yourself."
I took a slow sip of coffee. "This should be good."
The floorboards above us gave a low groan, then a few uneven thumps—Bryce's walk had the energy of someone who never had to be anywhere on time. Gracie didn't even look up from her coffee.
He appeared at the top of the stairs with his hair a little wilder than yesterday, an oversized sweater sliding off one shoulder, and pajama pants that looked like they'd been pulled on without much thought. His steps were unhurried, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance.
By the time he reached the last step, he was mumbling under his breath. Not words—more like little fragments of melody, hummed and broken up, as though he kept losing the thread and picking it back up again.
"There's a tune stuck in my head," he announced suddenly, as if we'd been part of the conversation from the start. "I want to let it out. Not the way I dreamed it last night, but close enough. Only…it's not coming out right."
Gracie didn't even blink. "Should I call someone to help with that?" Her tone was dry, like this was just another Tuesday in Bryce's world.
He shook his head. "No, I'll figure it out. I'll practice on the piano for a bit and it'll come to me. Always does." He started toward the kitchen island, still half-humming, his hand drumming lightly on the counter in sync with whatever was looping in his mind.
I gave Gracie a look. She answered it with the tiniest shrug, the kind that said, You get used to it.
Bryce glanced at my plate. "You didn't make extra?"
"You weren't awake," I said.
"Rookie move," he replied, pulling open the fridge like it had personally offended him. "In this house, you always make extra."
Gracie sipped her coffee. "Only if you plan on eating it before three p.m."
"Good," he replied, stepping past me toward the kitchen island. "So what's for lunch?"
Gracie leaned back on her stool, watching him with the patience of someone who'd clearly seen worse. "We've only just had breakfast."
He waved that off. "Details, details."
Bryce leaned halfway into the fridge, moving things around like he was searching for buried treasure. "Who stocked this? It's too organized. I can't work like this."
"It was me," Gracie said. "And you don't work in the fridge."
"I create in the fridge," he countered, pulling out a carton of orange juice and giving it a suspicious sniff before drinking straight from it.
I raised an eyebrow. "You want a glass for that?"
He lowered the carton, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave me a grin. "Do I look like a glass kind of person?"
"No comment," I said, finishing the last of my coffee.
Bryce placed the juice on the counter, then found a tub of yogurt and peeled it open like he was revealing a grand prize. He dipped a spoon in, tasted it, then frowned. "Too plain. Needs honey."
"Then put honey," Gracie said without looking up from her cup.
"Do we have honey?" he asked, scanning the counters like it might magically appear.
I got up, grabbed the jar from the cupboard, and placed it in front of him.
Bryce looked between me and the honey. "You're already useful. I like you."
"I'll try not to get too emotional about that," I said.
He sat on one of the stools, stirring honey into the yogurt with the kind of focus most people saved for major life decisions. "So. First impressions, Devon. Do you think you can handle this circus?"
"Still taking it in," I said. "But so far, the pace is… different."
"That's the polite way of saying slow," Bryce said, smirking. "You're used to those uptight jobs where everyone breathes in sync and wears matching suits, aren't you?"
"Something like that."
He pointed his spoon at me. "That's going to change. Give it a week, you'll be wearing slippers to breakfast and forgetting what day it is."
Gracie set her cup down with a little thud. "If he forgets what day it is, we have a problem. Someone here has to remember deadlines."
Bryce shrugged, completely unbothered. "Deadlines are just socially acceptable anxiety triggers. I run on vibes."
I took a sip from my now-cooling coffee and thought to myself that this was going to be a very long—and probably very strange—assignment.
The piano sat near one of those towering windows that framed the view like a living portrait, sunlight spilling through in wide golden ribbons across the floor. Bryce slid onto the bench without ceremony, his fingers hovering above the keys as though he was weighing whether to play or to let the idea die in his head. Then he pressed into a run of notes, light and uneven, the kind of melody that felt like it had woken him from sleep and followed him here.
He stopped mid-phrase and turned toward me. "Devon, tell me—do you like classical music?"
I leaned against the side of the window frame, arms folded. "Kind of."
"Kind of," he repeated, squinting as if I'd just insulted his ancestors. "Kind of is not enough. Kind of doesn't feed the soul. I kind of get the feeling, though—you know, I need a muse. I really need a muse." He tapped a few notes, glanced up like the ceiling might drop one down for him. "Maybe I should go look for someone to be my muse. That usually works. One of my greatest hits came after a failed situationship."
Gracie, lounging on the couch like she'd been through this scene a hundred times, didn't miss her cue. "Yeah, but that didn't work out publicly because people figured out who it was about, and then, you know… shit broke loose."
Bryce spun toward her, his expression pure disbelief. "People can guess all they want. I don't care. I make music. Good music. I sound good. People eat that shit up. So what's the problem?"
He turned to me with a sudden spark in his eyes. "If someone wrote a song about you—say, about how heartbroken they were when you broke it off, or about how you had too many expectations they couldn't meet—how would you feel? Would you hate it?"
I thought for a moment. "I'd probably feel like I was being outed in a way. But I wouldn't say I'd hate it. Honestly, I'd be flattered."
Bryce swiveled to Gracie, jabbing a finger in my direction. "See? This is someone with taste. Someone who appreciates the honor of being the reason a song exists. Even if it's because you ruined them, you're still the muse."
"Except," Gracie said flatly, "you weren't heartbroken. You just borrowed the feelings."
His head snapped toward her. "How do you know I wasn't heartbroken? I was devastated. Crushed. My soul was a tragic poem. I was sad when he ended it."
She raised an eyebrow at me, then looked back at him. "Bryce, tone it down."
"Why the fuck would I tone it down? He should know." Bryce turned to me, grin widening. "Okay, Devon, I swing both ways. You got a problem with that?"
"No," I said. "Why would I?"
Bryce looked smug as a cat in cream. "See? Amazing. He doesn't give a fuck. You should let it go, Gracie. Plus, he's my bodyguard. He's gonna see a lot of this shit, so he better be ready."
I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean I'm going to see a lot of this shit? What happens here usually?"
Gracie set her coffee down. "You might walk in on a making out session here or there, but that's probably the extent of it."
"For free," Bryce added. "People would pay a lot of money to see me make out with someone. And you get it for free. Aren't you lucky?"
"I wouldn't call it lucky," I said, deadpan. "And I probably wouldn't pay that much attention."
"Even better," Bryce said, laughing. "We've got ourselves a nonchalant bodyguard. Perfect."
Gracie leaned back. "Whatever you do, just don't get tangled up with someone who's going to blow up your life again. No more situationships. Maybe think long-term this time."
Bryce's head fell back in theatrical horror. "Why the fuck would I think long-term?"
I rolled my eyes. "I've heard this too many times. Starting to sound like someone I know, and I hated those conversations."
Bryce tilted his head, the smirk coming back.
"You know, sometimes settling down is good. Gives life more value. You have something to be good for, or at least try to be."
"You're in a long-term relationship?" he asked suddenly.
"Not even close," I said. "But if I had the chance, I would."
"Boring," Bryce declared, but then paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Actually… that's a nice idea. Settling down. Having something to look forward to. I could write a song about that." He leaned back over the keys, pressing a few light chords, humming under his breath. "How would it go?"
Bryce's fingers drifted across the keys, slow at first, like he was feeling for the edges of the idea. A low, mellow chord hummed in the air, followed by a brighter one that seemed to pull the sunlight further into the room. Then he started humming—not an actual melody yet, just shapes of sound, bending and stretching the notes as though he was tasting them before deciding whether to swallow.
He glanced at me, eyes half-lidded. "Alright… let's see. First verse…" His voice slipped into a smooth, almost mocking croon.
Met a man with a stare like locked doors,Guard dog with a jaw that could kill a metaphor,But he makes coffee like a saint in the morning,Yeah, maybe I'll keep him around.
Gracie snorted from the couch, muttering something that sounded like, "Here we go…"
Bryce kept playing, letting the chords get richer, more theatrical. "Second verse," he announced, leaning into the piano like it was confessional booth.
He says he wants to settle down, what a bore,Probably owns socks without holes, and a toothbrush for travel.But I might just call it love, if he stands guard at my door…Or maybe just keeps the fridge stocked with bagels.
I stared at him, unimpressed. "Bagels? That's where you're going with this?"
He grinned, throwing in a sudden dramatic arpeggio. "Don't knock the bagels, Devon. Some of the best relationships in history were built on carbs."
Gracie leaned forward, propping her chin in her hand. "You know he's not actually going to let you finish that song without roasting you alive for it, right?"
"Oh, I'll finish it," Bryce said, tapping one final flourish on the keys before twisting back toward me. "But I'll need more material. And you, my friend…" he gestured at me with both hands, "are giving me excellent muse energy right now."
I sighed. "You're impossible."
"Impossible," Bryce repeated like it was the highest compliment. "That's exactly what the bridge will be called."