“King,” I called out. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t expect him to answer, but then he responded loudly over his shoulder, “I have to…I have to go somewhere.”

I couldn’t seem to catch up with him, so I pulled out the ballet flats I always kept in my handbag (I was practical like that) and quickly swapped them out with my heels. Finally catching up, I grabbed his elbow.

“King, will you wait a second?”

He didn’t stop. “I just need to walk, okay? You don’t have to come.”

I steeled my resolve. There was no way I was leaving him alone right then. “I’m coming.” Little did I know I’d come to regret that decision when we’d walked for over an hour, and my feet felt like they wanted to crawl away from my body and die. King didn’t seem to be walking in any random direction, though; I sensed he had a destination in mind. It became apparent that was the case when I recognised his old apartment building in the distance.

“Your old place,” I said, winded. Yeah, I definitely needed to work out more and, I don’t know, eat more carrots or something. I was in worse shape than King, who was overcoming an addiction and some serious illnesses to boot. It was kind of ridiculous. Damn you, cake! I inwardly groaned.

We’d just reached the entrance to the lobby when King turned back to me, his eyes fierce as he took me in. “Are you all right?”

I waved away his concern sheepishly as I tried to catch my breath. “Yep, that walk was just a little more, uh, vigorous than I’m used to.”

The fierceness quickly fled his expression as his lips shaped into something akin to amusement. He didn’t comment on it, though, and his expression sobered soon after. He turned back around, walking toward the door and holding it open for me. We stepped inside, and the night doorman pulled out his earphones, eyeing us curiously.

“I’ve lost my keys,” King announced with authority, and the doorman frowned.

“I’m sorry. I don’t recognise you. What number is your apartment?”

“Twenty-two. The top floor. My name is Oliver King.” The way he said it gave me a little shiver of awareness. This was the first time since I’d found him that he’d so confidently stated his name, like he had regained a sense of his identity. It felt monumental, made my heart thump hard.

The doorman’s eyes widened. “Oh, you mean the penthouse? Do you have any identification?”

King’s expression darkened in annoyance, and I suddenly remembered that I had keys. Elaine had asked if I’d drop by and check on things a few weeks ago, and had given me her spare set. I’d completely forgotten to drop by, of course, and the keys were still sitting safely in the inside pocket of my bag. I quickly began to dig for them before pulling them out triumphantly.

“Ah! Crisis averted. I found the keys,” I declared, jingling them in the air. King shot me a perplexed look, and the young doorman appeared relieved to be able to avoid further disturbance. Whatever he’d been listening to on those headphones, he seemed eager to get back to it. I faked a confident tone.

“Come on, honey,” I said, holding my hand out to King. “Let’s get going. I’m exhausted.”

He stepped forward and took my hand as I led him toward the lift. Once we were safely on board, King turned to face me. “Honey?”

I shrugged. “I was aiming for casual.”

His lips twitched in amusement again. “You have the keys for my apartment?”

“Your mum gave them to me. She wanted me to stop by and check on things. Make sure the plants got watered.”

“I never had any plants.”

I made a weird sound in the back of my throat. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

The doors to the lift pinged open, and there was a beat of silence where King just stared at me. I both loved and hated his stares in equal measure. I loved them because they made me want him. And I hated them because they made me want him.

He made his way out of the lift, and I followed. When he reached the door, he stood and waited for me to open it. I did so quietly and he hurried inside, going straight to a drawer and pulling out a pad of paper and a pencil. I found it fascinating that he remembered exactly where he’d left things. Then he went to his piano, which sat by the large panelled window that looked out onto the river. I watched as he sat down and opened the lid, revealing the keys. He ran his fingers over them, feather light, as though saying hello to an old friend.

I watched him with rapt attention. His face rose, and I noticed he was staring at something. Following his gaze, I saw it was fixed on the drinks cabinet on the other side of the room. Elaine hadn’t known about King’s alcohol abuse, so obviously she’d never thought to clear out the cabinet. King was still staring at it when he spoke, his voice strained. “Can you empty all those bottles down the sink, please?”

“Sure,” I said, slightly flustered, and hurried over. As quick as I could, I removed the bottles and carried them to the kitchen, where I promptly poured their contents down the sink. I was a mixture of nervous and triumphant, because the way in which King stared at the bottles was nerve-wracking, but the fact that he’d told me to empty them meant his strength had won out. Once it was all done, I turned back around and gave him a firm nod. King’s body sagged in relief, and he shot me a stoic look in return before his attention was back on the piano.

I suddenly became aware of my sore feet, and I just knew I had a bunch of blisters from the long walk. Why the hell hadn’t I suggested getting a taxi? Or even catching a tube? I’d been so anxious, so worried about how the concert had affected him, that my brain didn’t seem to be working like usual.

Seeing that the door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, I left King to his own devices as I stepped inside and slipped off my shoes. Just as I thought, my feet were red and raw from the walk, the edge of the flats having dug into the backs of my ankles and the sides of my toes.

The place was spic and span, courtesy of Elaine’s upkeep. In fact, there wasn’t a hint of dust or mildew in sight. Perhaps she’d always known her son would come back here one day. I made my way over to the large corner tub and filled it with a couple inches of water, just enough to soak my feet in. I ran the tap for a while, waiting for the water to heat up, and heard King press down on a couple of keys, testing. The piano must not have been in tune, because I heard him fiddling around with it for a while.

With the tub filled, I sank my feet into the warm water and practically groaned in relief. King started to play something, a melody I didn’t recognise, and I closed my eyes, savouring the sound.

He was playing.

I couldn’t believe he was playing. The song was sweet, and somehow reminded me of springtime. I wanted to go inside and watch him, drink in the skilled movements of his body as he created something close to true perfection. But I didn’t move, just listened, afraid if I went inside, I’d break the spell.

The music stopped, and I heard him muttering something absently to himself. Then it started up again, stopped, started once more. I got the sense that he was either trying to remember something old or compose something new. Whichever it was, I had no intentions of interrupting. I laid my head back against the tiles, enjoying the relief of the water at my feet and the sound of the music in my ears.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the door to the bathroom creaked and King stepped in. I opened my eyes, glanced up, and saw him studying me. His eyebrow quirked upward.

“What are you….”

“My feet were sore,” I explained quickly.

“Oh,” he said. “I forgot you might not be used to walking.”

“And you are?”

Self-consciously, he scratched his head. “Sometimes, when the circus is on a break, I wander.”

His answer intrigued me. “You wander? Where?”