JAX FOLLOWED HIM into the conservatory. The room held the kind of charm only old houses earned—floor tiles worn smooth by decades, plants in mismatched pots, a desk cluttered with sheet music and mechanical pencils. Near the center of the room, a baby grand waited beneath a lace-draped cloth, its curved silhouette catching the spill of moonlight from the glass panels overhead—an instrument slightly out of tune, perhaps, but still holding the echo of every melody ever played on it.

Jax gravitated toward it without thinking; Julien watched him with an amused tilt of his head. “You play?”

“A little,” Jax lied; the truth rested in years of piano recitals and dozens of awards to show otherwise.

He lifted the cover. The keys were yellowed, one or two chipped. When he pressed down experimentally, the note wavered—flat, a little sad, but warm. He played another. Then a few more. A simple progression he hadn’t touched since high school. Something about its out-of-tune imperfection made it easier to breathe.

Julien leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely. “It seems music grounds you.”

“Something about it always has,” Jax admitted. His fingers drifted over the keys again, softer this time. “Haven’t played in years, not since I started spinning.”

“Feel good?”

Jax hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”