The hum of the air conditioner filled the management office, a cold undertone beneath the tension mounting between Lydia and her manager, Clarisse.
Lydia sat slouched on a leather couch in oversized sunglasses and a black hoodie, idly chewing the straw of her iced Americano. Her pose was casual, but her silence was loud.
Clarisse, shuffling a pile of papers on her desk, didn't even look up. "You can't just vanish, Lydia. We've got back-to-back shows, interviews, endorsements—this momentum doesn't build itself..!"
"I'm not vanishing" Lydia replied calmly. "I'm… pausing."
Clarisse finally looked up, blinking. "Pausing?! You're not a YouTube video, you're a pop star!"
Lydia sighed and slowly pulled her sunglasses off. The fatigue in her eyes was evident. "Exactly. I'm a person too, Clarisse. And I'm running on fumes. I haven't written a song from the heart in a year."
Clarisse's expression shifted. Her hands stilled over the papers as she took in the quiet honesty in Lydia's tone.
"You've never asked for a break before," she said softly.
"Because I didn't know how to say I was exhausted without sounding ungrateful."
Clarisse leaned back in her chair, her frustration beginning to melt into concern. "How long?"
Lydia offered a faint smile. "A few weeks. I found a house. Countryside. No paparazzi. No spotlight. Just birds, trees, and my voice."
Clarisse squinted. "Will there be Wi-Fi?"
Lydia laughed, the sound warm and brief. "I'm disappearing, not dying."
With a resigned sigh, Clarisse leaned forward, defeated but clearly proud. "Fine. Recharge. But please don't fall in love with some mysterious farmer and forget your tour."
"…What if he has a six-pack and a tragic past?" Lydia teased, her grin widening.
Clarisse rolled her eyes. "Then send me pics first. Ok?"
Two days later, the scenery couldn't be more different.
Lydia's car rumbled up a gravel road flanked by wildflowers and old wooden fences. At the edge of the forest stood two modest houses—quiet, cozy, and undisturbed. One of them was hers.
She parked and stepped out, letting the sunlight kiss her cheeks. The air smelled of pine and soil—fresh and real.
This is it, she thought. Real air. No flash photography. No makeup artists. Just peace.
Dragging her suitcase up the short steps, she entered the charming wooden house. The garden was slightly overgrown, just enough to feel like it belonged in a love song.
Inside, she dropped her bags and collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh.
"I'm going to write music again. Real music," she murmured to herself, eyes fluttering closed.
Later that afternoon, Lydia stood on the porch watering the plant box that lined the railing. A rustle of gravel drew her eyes toward the neighboring house.
A black car pulled up.
She squinted into the light.
A man stepped out slowly, shutting the door behind him. Tall—so tall he seemed to shadow his own doorway. Dressed in a black shirt and black jeans, he moved with a quiet, practiced confidence. Black messy hair framed his face, and a silver ring caught the sun as he lifted a duffel bag over his shoulder.
Then—he turned toward her.
Their eyes met.
Inside her head, Lydia was screaming.
What. In. The. British Vampire Romance is THAT.
He nodded once, a gesture cool and unreadable. Calm. Like a polite threat. Like he knew she was watching and didn't care.
Then he disappeared inside.
Lydia gripped the watering can like a weapon.
"…Was that an accent? He didn't even say anything but I heard it."
That night, Lydia was on a voice call with Clarisse, pacing her bedroom with excitement barely contained.
"So, you remember how I joked about the hot mysterious neighbor?"
Clarisse laughed. "No. You found one?!"
"He's real. Like… tall, sarcastic, possibly brooding British ex-model energy real."
"Does he have a dog? A tragic backstory?"
"Not sure. All I know is he looked at me like I was the breeze and then disappeared inside. I need to investigate."
Clarisse chuckled. "You sound inspired already."
"Oh, I'm writing a whole fantasy arc in my head as we speak."
The next morning, Lydia was outside early, coffee in one hand, watering can in the other. She wore her oversized "Fictional Men Ruined Me" sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. She wasn't really watering the plants—most of them were half-dead—but that wasn't the point.
Footsteps echoed.
Her heart jumped.
The door next to hers opened.
And there he was.
White tank top. Grey joggers. Headphones around his neck.
She set down her mug and smiled, casual as ever. "Morning!"
He looked at her, those stormy gray eyes narrowing slightly.
"Is it?" he said, his British accent low and dry.
Her brain short-circuited for a moment. "…Yeah. I mean, sun's out. Birds are alive. Grass is… grassing."
He raised a brow, clearly amused.
"That's one way to look at it."
"You just move in?" she asked, trying to maintain her cool.
"Suppose I did."
"I'm Lydia."
"Ravi."
Lydia blinked. Ravi. Of course it's Ravi. Dark, mysterious, and unnecessarily attractive. Ravi.
She stuck her hand out. He looked at it, then finally shook it. His grip was big and warm—but brief.
"You always introduce yourself while pretending to water dead plants?" he asked dryly.
"Only when the neighbor looks like a Greek statue with a built-in brooding feature," she shot back without missing a beat.
He huffed out a small laugh. Barely audible, but it was there.
"You're not subtle, are you?"
"Not when I'm curious."
He turned, walking away without another word. "Curiosity gets cats killed."
"Good thing I've got nine lives!" she called after him.
He waved a hand lazily over his shoulder, never turning back.
Lydia bit her lip, grinning to herself.
This is going to be fun.