Later that night

It’s late — close to midnight — and the apartment hums quietly with the sound of Tom rinsing dishes in the kitchen. You’re curled up on the couch, hair damp from a shower, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies.

Your phone buzzes once, then again.

Rob: Still thinking about that record you played. You’ve got great taste.

Then another, a moment later:

Rob: Next time, I’m bringing my own — you’ll love this one.

You can’t help it — a grin spreads across your face.

Tom walks in, drying his hands on a towel, catching the look before you can hide it.

“Oh boy,” he says, leaning against the counter. “That the sound of a Pulitzer-winning journalist, or a girl getting texted by her crush?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, coming closer, that teasing smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got that look. The one people get when they’ve just been complimented by someone who isn’t supposed to matter but suddenly… kinda does.”

You laugh, trying to play it off. “It’s just Rob. He sent a nice message.”

Tom flops down on the armchair across from you. “Just Rob,” he echoes. “The same Rob who played you Fleetwood Mac and made you forget you were undercover for an hour?”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. “He’s interesting, okay? He listens. He’s kind.”

Tom’s tone softens, though the edge doesn’t quite fade. “Yeah, I bet. Real gentleman. Probably sends those nice little texts to all his fake cousins.”

You glance up from your phone, caught between irritation and amusement. “You’re jealous.”

He laughs, though it sounds just a little too sharp. “Jealous? Of a guy who thinks your last name’s Baker and that I’m your relative? Please.”

You smirk. “You sure? Because you sound a little—”

He cuts in. “—concerned. There’s a difference.”

Your phone buzzes again.

Rob: You’ve got this way of making small talk feel like a secret.

You stare at the message longer than you mean to. Something about the words makes your stomach twist — warm and uneasy all at once.

Tom watches you, sees the change in your expression, and sighs. “You’re falling for your source.”

“I’m not,” you say automatically. But the protest feels thin.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Claire, just… be careful. This is supposed to be about stories, not—whatever that is.”

You tuck your knees up, hugging them close, the glow of your phone screen lighting your face. “I know.”

But even as you say it, you’re typing a reply — something short, teasing, a little too personal — and Tom just shakes his head, muttering, “You’re trouble,” before heading down the hall.

When the door clicks shut, you stare at your message, thumb hovering over send.

For a second, you think about deleting it.

Then you hit send anyway.

he apartment is quiet now.

Tom’s door has been shut for half an hour, and the only sound left is the soft hum of the fridge and the faint crackle of a record still spinning, forgotten, at the end of its side.

Your phone lights up again.

Rob: Still awake?

You hesitate — thumb hovering, heartbeat quickening — before you type back:

You: Barely. But I guess I’m not great at sleeping after good music.

A pause. Then:

Rob: It wasn’t just the music.

You catch your reflection in the darkened TV screen — hair still a little damp, your face softer than you expected it to be. You start typing something clever, erase it, start again.

You: You really like saying the right thing, don’t you?

Rob: Not always. But I mean this one.

The words hang there, pulsing light on your phone. You don’t answer right away. You glance toward Tom’s door — the faint sound of him moving in his sleep — and feel something twist inside you.

You: You’re impossible.

Rob: You make that sound like a compliment.

You smile despite yourself.

The conversation drifts from there — talk of records, favorite concerts, childhood stories about music and road trips. The kind of soft, late-night conversation that feels like the start of something, even if you know you’re not supposed to let it be.

When your eyes finally close, the phone still glows faintly beside you, his last message unread:

Rob: Goodnight, city girl. Don’t dream about me too much.