?

  It was a regular Tuesday afternoon after class, and Camille, Noah, and a few others from the orchestra club had gathered in the common area of the campus library to work on a small fundraising project for their upcoming concert.

  Camille, as usual, was already running around in circles, a half-empty coffee cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other, organizing and reorganizing papers as if the success of the entire project depended on the way they were stacked.

  “Okay, we need more volunteers for the concert prep,” Camille said, pacing back and forth, glancing at her phone. “I’ll message some people. We’re running out of time. We need, ”

  She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes darting toward a pile of scattered papers that had fallen off the table. “Ugh, seriously?”

  Noah, who had been sitting across the room, playing with his violin bow as he waited, looked up with a soft smile. “Need help?”

  Camille sighed, rubbing her temples. “Yeah, I can’t seem to get this right. Everything keeps falling apart, and I’m trying to stay on top of it all, but it’s like... nothing is working!”

  Noah stood up slowly, walked over, and picked up the papers one by one. He stacked them neatly without a word, moving at his usual calm pace. Camille watched him for a second, frustrated, but also impressed at how effortlessly he handled it.

  “Thanks, Noah,” she said, a little sharp but trying to mask the irritation. “But we really need more people signed up, and I’m not sure how to organize it all. We have like five different things going on and I’m, ugh!” She flopped into the chair next to him and rubbed her forehead.

  Noah sat down beside her, his calm presence never wavering. He didn’t seem bothered at all. “Okay, let’s take it one thing at a time,” he said, his voice low but steady. “What’s the most important thing right now?”

  Camille let out a dramatic sigh. “Everything!” She threw her hands up in the air. “We need people to hand out flyers, help with decorations, man the ticket booth, ugh, I don’t even know how to ask anyone. They’re all so busy.”

  Noah nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t seem phased.

  He reached for his violin case and started fiddling with the latch, casually as if the world around them didn’t matter.

  “How about we focus on one task first? Like getting people for the ticket booth. That’s a good starting point, right?”

  Camille frowned, clearly not agreeing. “But there’s too much to do! I can’t just focus on one thing, there’s everything else, and I feel like it’s all piling up, and I’m, ”

  “No, I get it,” Noah interrupted gently, but his voice was still calm.

  He turned to her, offering a small smile. “But if you don’t prioritize, you’ll burn yourself out. Let’s break it down. First, we get the ticket booth people, then we move on to the flyers, and so on. We’ll get it done.”

  Camille blinked, taken aback by his simple, laid-back response. For a second, she didn’t know how to react.

  Normally, she would’ve gotten caught up in the stress of everything, running around, doing ten things at once, but Noah, Noah was just... so calm about it all.

  His fingers were still fiddling with the violin case, his eyes focused on the task but not rushed, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Why are you so... calm?” she asked, her voice a little softer than she meant it to be.

  Noah paused for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess I just try not to stress about things I can’t control. If we focus on one thing at a time, we’ll get there. Besides, it’s not like we’re in a rush.” He smiled, and this time, it wasn’t a shy smile.

  Camille stared at him for a long moment. She hated to admit it, but she felt herself starting to calm down too. Maybe, just maybe, Noah was right.

  She had been running around in circles, trying to do everything at once, and it wasn’t working. She could feel her heartbeat slow, the knot in her chest loosening just a bit.

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh, still feeling a little frazzled but willing to listen. “Let’s start with the ticket booth.” She looked at him again. “I don’t know how you do it, but... thanks.”

  Noah just smiled again. “No problem. We’ll figure it out.”

  Camille couldn’t help but shake her head, a soft exhale escaping as she watched him. He really was the complete opposite of her, but maybe that’s what made him so... refreshing. She hadn’t realized how much she needed a little peace until Noah had offered it so effortlessly.

  “You heading out?” she asked, standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder.

  Noah looked up, adjusting the straps on his violin case. “Yeah, I was planning to. You?”

  “Same. But I’ve got a ton of emails to send, and I could use a coffee before I dive into that mess.”

  He smiled, the corner of his lips twitching. “Coffee sounds good.”

  Camille hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “You wanna join me? Not like I’m doing anything exciting afterward. Could use some company.”

  Noah nodded slowly, then, as if considering something, added, “Sure. I know a place not far from here.”

  They walked in comfortable silence toward the small café near campus. Camille noticed how easy it was to walk alongside Noah. He wasn’t the type to make small talk unless he had something to say, but his presence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was peaceful, in a way.

  They stepped up to the register together, each placing their order without fuss, hers a small pastry and tea, his something just as plain.

  When their orders were ready, Noah picked up the tray and carried it toward a corner table near the window. Camille followed without needing to be asked.

  They sat.

  Camille let her hands cradle the cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. Her copper-red hair, cut into a sleek bob that curved just above her shoulders, framed her face with an effortless charm. Her skin was a warm, golden brown, glowing softly in the afternoon light. Her eyes, somewhere between brown and red, held a muted fire, rich and observant beneath her lashes.

  “I hate asking for help,” she said eventually.

  Noah was still nursing his tea, as if even his patience had patience.

  “But I can’t do this alone.” She glanced at him. “Don’t say I told you so.”

  Camille took a breath and opened the group chat. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, then she pressed the mic icon.

  Camille: “Hey. Sorry for the late message, everything’s a bit chaotic and I really need help. We’re short on volunteers for the orchestra concert. Ticket booth, flyers, decorations, chairs, you name it. If you’ve got even half an hour free tomorrow or Thursday, I will pay you in cookies, gratitude, and possibly emotional collapse. Thanks.”

  She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

  Responses came almost instantly.

  Luca: ?? “Cookies and chaos? Count me in. Should I wear something glittery?”

  Mira: “I’m free after 5pm tomorrow. Assign me to anything that doesn’t involve climbing or glue.”

  Elias: “Thursday morning. I’ll bring tape, folders, and moral clarity.”

  Camille stared at the screen, then slowly lowered the phone and took a sip of her tea.

  Some of the tension in her shoulders finally started to loosen.

  “You were right,” she murmured without looking up.

  Noah glanced toward her. “About?”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “One task at a time.”

  He didn’t reply, just nodded softly, like that had always been the obvious answer.

  Camille studied the ceiling before letting the words drop: "Somehow, you remain the most annoyingly peaceful person I know."

  Noah smiled gently, barely more than a breath of expression. “Good. I think it’s working.”

  “I like how you always know what you want,” she said, teasing lightly as she took a sip of her latte. “You’re like… the opposite of me. I can never decide anything without overthinking it first.”

  Noah smiled, his expression almost shy. “It’s not about deciding. It’s just about knowing what works for you.”

  A brief silence followed, her expression shifting, thoughtful now. “Hmm, maybe I need to try that. I feel like I’ve always been running around trying to please everyone, overthinking every little thing. Maybe that’s why I’m always so… chaotic.”

  “I don’t think you’re chaotic,” Noah said softly, his tone thoughtful. “I think you just care a lot. And sometimes, that makes it hard to focus on just one thing.”

  Camille smiled, touched by his response. She hadn’t expected him to understand her that well. She had always been the one with a million things going on at once, but in this moment with Noah, she realized maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought.

  “So,” Camille said, changing the subject lightly, “What do you do when you’re not practicing or with the club? Do you ever just, chill?”

  Noah leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his tea. “I play the violin, study, and then I… chill.” He paused for a second, giving her a quick glance. “But I’m not great at it. I tend just to read or take walks around campus.”

  "See? You're so good at keeping it simple." The words came out softer than Camille intended, her usual sharp edges momentarily dulled. "Seriously, how do you... just exist without constantly planning for disaster?"

  “I could try,” Noah said, smiling softly. “But you’d have to promise not to overthink it.”

  Camille chuckled, tapping her fingers on the side of her cup. “You’ve got a deal.”

  For a while, they just sat there, sipping their drinks in comfortable silence. Every so often, Camille let her eyes rest on Noah. The way he carried himself, calm, thoughtful, was nothing like her own restless energy. It felt unexpectedly grounding.

  ?

  The projector shut off and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor filled the lecture hall. Students stood, stretched, and started filing out in loose lines, half-finished conversations trailing behind them. Bags zipped. Pens clicked. Pages rustled as people packed up with varying degrees of urgency.

  Elara stayed seated, her phone on one hand. Her lecture notes lay untouched beside her. She had three messages from Camille, a to-do list growing by the hour, and not enough volunteers for the orchestra event. She was trying to keep the text from sliding out of alignment when a familiar voice cut in beside her.

  “You know the class ended, right? Or are you launching a side hustle in visual diplomacy?”

  Elara blinked at the suddenly vacant room. Callum remained, an anchor in the stillness, leaning against a desk with that trademark relaxed posture, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder.

  She closed the tablet with a soft click. “Still here?”

  “Just checking if you were planning to out-stare the graphs into changing shape.”

  She gave a short exhale, then met his gaze. “Do you have time after this?”

  He straightened, eyes widening just enough to suggest mischief. “Is this a confession?”

  “No.”

  “A secret rendezvous?”

  She gave him a flat look. “I need help.”

  He placed a hand over his heart. “Crushed.”

  “It’s for the orchestra club,” she continued, adjusting the strap of her bag. “My friend’s performing tomorrow night. They’re short on people to help with setup, flyers, ticket booth, folding chairs. Not exactly glamorous.”

  “And you need me to carry things and not complain.”

  “Basically.”

  He considered for half a second. “Do I get anything in return? Or is this one of those selfless acts of community bonding?”

  “You get a concert ticket. First row.”

  “That’s surprisingly generous.”

  “There might be cookies.”

  He leaned in just close enough to make her pulse jump. "You're really making this hard to refuse."

  Elara turned toward the door. “So?”

  “I’m in,” he said, falling into step beside her. “But I expect full credit in the program.”

  She didn’t look at him, but her voice softened just slightly. “Fine.”

  They left the classroom together, the noise of campus life gradually rising around them. Whatever came next, at least she wasn’t doing it alone.

  ?

  The concert hall was empty when they stepped in. The overhead lights had been dimmed to half-power, leaving the space in a hushed, even sort of glow.

  Rows of chairs stretched out in gentle disarray, music stands scattered across the stage like half-forgotten thoughts. The faint scent of dust, metal, and varnish hung in the air, familiar in the way old libraries or tucked-away rehearsal rooms always were.

  “I thought it’d be louder,” Callum said, his voice lowered instinctively.

  Elara walked ahead, opening the checklist Camille had messaged. “We’ve got seating, signage, maybe the entry table if we don’t run out of time. The rest can wait until they get here.”

  He drifted toward the folding chairs stacked against the wall and tugged a couple free. “Should we alphabetize the seats or arrange them by vibe?”

  She held up the tablet and pointed to the seating plan. “Audience rows in threes, aisle spacing. Keep the far left section open.”

  “Got it.” He began unfolding chairs with a theatrical sigh. “And here I was hoping for a creative challenge.”

  Elara didn’t respond, just stepped off the stage and began marking intervals on the floor with strips of painter’s tape. She crouched to fix a crooked edge, then looked up when she felt Callum watching her.

  He had lined up five chairs perfectly... and the sixth one completely sideways.

  “Seriously?”

  Callum shrugged, unrepentant. “Artistic rebellion.”

  She walked over, nudged the chair back into place with the toe of her shoe. “We don’t have time for rebellion.”

  “I was testing you,” he said, moving on to the next row. “You passed. Ruthless, efficient, slightly terrifying, ”

  “Keep talking and I’ll assign you the bathroom signs.”

  He clutched his chest. “Cruel.”

  They settled into rhythm. Chairs clicked open. Tape stretched and snapped into place. Somewhere overhead, one of the house lights buzzed faintly, flickering as if it, too, was waking up for the night.

  At some point, Elara realized she wasn’t checking the time, or even double-checking the layout. Callum had matched her pace, row for row. Without being asked.

  When she stood to measure the spacing between aisles, she found him standing close, holding out the tape roll without a word.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  “No problem.” His voice was soft this time, not teasing.

  Just as Elara was finishing the last strip of aisle tape, her phone buzzed with a new message from Camille:

  We forgot the welcome stand signage + podium placard! I think they’re still in the back storage room. Might be dusty. Sorryyy ??

  Elara read it twice, then exhaled through her nose. “Camille forgot the signage.”

  Callum, now sitting backwards on one of the chairs like it was a horse, perked up. “Ooh. A quest.”

  “It’s in the back storage,” she said, already walking toward the side corridor that led behind the stage. “Come on.”

  Callum jumped up. “Lead the way, fearless general.”

  The hall’s side doors creaked as they pushed through. Down the narrow corridor, past stacked props and old instrument cases, the light dimmed noticeably. The storage room was wedged at the end of the hallway, locked, unlabelled, and clearly older than the last three renovations combined.

  Elara jiggled the handle. “Still works.”

  The door creaked open into a cramped room half-filled with poster boards, lighting rigs, and the faint smell of dust and metal polish. No windows. Just a single flickering light overhead.

  Callum reached up to tap the bulb. “Romantic,” he said with a smirk.

  He edged in beside her. The room was barely wide enough for both of them, and as Elara stepped over a box of tangled cords to reach a tall shelving unit at the back, her shoulder brushed his.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Hey, you invited me.”

  “You volunteered.”

  “Same thing.”

  She tried not to laugh. But when she reached up to pull down a placard box and it wobbled dangerously above her, Callum caught it from underneath without hesitation.

  For a moment, his arms were bracing the box just over her head, his chest close enough for her to feel the faint shift of his breathing. Neither of them moved.

  “Got it?” he asked softly.

  Elara nodded, but didn’t speak. Not right away.

  Then she took a small step back, enough to breathe again, and murmured, “We should get these cleaned up before they go out.”

  “Sure,” he said, still holding the box like it was made of glass.

  They stepped through the side door, back into the main hall. The chairs stood in tidy rows now, music stands aligned, the room finally resembling the polished stillness of a place waiting for sound.

  Callum walked a few paces ahead, still holding the box like it might shatter if jostled. He was smiling.

  “Volunteering after class isn’t bad after all,” he said over his shoulder, a lilt in his voice that made the words feel almost private.

  Elara followed, her steps even, eyes briefly skimming the rows again.

  He slowed beside the front row. “So... what happens next for you? After all this?”

  She set her tablet down on the corner of the stage, brushing her palms together. “I’m going to take a long bath. And then I’m getting something warm. Preferably with garlic, and music, and no checklist in sight.”

  Callum smiled. “Romantic.”

  She smirked. “For me, yes.”

  He nodded like it was the most reasonable thing he’d ever heard. “Then I should do the same.”

  Elara crouched to peel off a stray piece of tape from the floor, not answering.

  Callum watched her for a beat, then added lightly, “Want to share the reward?”

  That made her pause. She stood, slowly, and turned toward him.

  He lifted one hand, half-defensive, half-teasing. “I mean, we both worked. We both survived Camille’s prep list. No reason to eat alone, right?”

  Her eyes stayed on him, unreadable at first, but not cold.

  “If you want,” he added, a little softer now, “you can show me your favorite place.”

  Elara considered the proposal. “Only if you promise not to rearrange the utensils for aesthetic balance,” she said.

  “That’s a bold assumption, I’d never rearrange them. I’d just dramatically disapprove.”

  She let out something close to a laugh.

  Together, they walked the box to the entry table. There was still work to do. But somehow, it no longer felt like a chore.

  ?