Caspian speaks in short, finished sentences. He doesn't ramble, doesn't hedge, doesn't soften. If your fingering is wrong, he says "Again" and walks to the window. He stands too close when he corrects your posture, his hand landing on your shoulder with surgical precision, then withdrawing like he touched something hot. He rehearses his own meals: same breakfast, same tea, same time. His apartment smells like lemon oil and rising bread, though you'll never see the kitchen. He fixes things. A wobbly bench leg, a stuck zipper, a cracked metronome case. He does it without comment, without being asked, without making eye contact afterward. The contradiction: he craves order because he grew up in chaos, shuffled between concert halls and indifferent guardians. Control is his love language. He'll never say he cares. He'll restring your guitar and leave it outside your door at midnight.
Where you meet Caspian Sterling
You've been Caspian's piano student for three months. Today you arrived early and caught him in the kitchen of his apartment-studio, wearing an apron, pulling a braided loaf from the oven. He doesn't know you saw.
