1dvision

[1dvision]

02 || The Second Glance

August Barg had always hated how quiet his apartment felt after long days. The silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the pipes.

Tonight, though, it wasn't the quiet that bothered him. It was the memory of laughter, his own, fuller and freer than it had been in weeks, spilling out across a crowded restaurant table.

Breadsticks.

Of all things, breadsticks.

He sat cross-legged on his sofa, script pages scattered around him like fallen leaves. He should have been memorizing lines for his next shoot, but every time he tried, the words blurred.

His thoughts kept drifting back to Brede Bremnes: the way the model's eyes seemed to see right through him, how he spoke so little but managed to cut to the core with a single observation.

It unnerved him, in a way but it also made something in him want to lean closer. His phone buzzed. A message from Kyle lit up the screen:

Kyle: "So... thoughts on Brede?"

August's fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was he supposed to say? That he hadn't been able to stop thinking about a stranger's half-smile and the ridiculous argument over breadstick consistency?

Instead, he typed carefully:

August: "He seems... nice."

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. Kyle was clearly savoring this.

Kyle: "Nice. That's all?"

August: "Yes. Nice."

Kyle: "You're hopeless."

August rolled his eyes but couldn't help the smile tugging at his mouth.

Two days later, Kyle invited them both again, this time to a casual gathering at his flat in Oslo. A few mutual friends, pizza boxes, music playing low in the background.

August almost declined, nerves curling in his stomach, but he forced himself to go.

When he arrived, the flat was already warm with conversation. Kyle greeted him with a bear hug and immediately shoved a soda can into his hand.

"Relax," Kyle said, reading him instantly. "It's not an ambush. Brede's here, yes, but I didn't plan it like that."

August raised an eyebrow. Kyle's smirk suggested otherwise.

He spotted Brede across the room, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up as he helped someone slice vegetables for a salad no one was going to eat once the pizza arrived. The sight of him, calm, grounded, casually beautiful, made August's pulse stumble.

Brede glanced up, meeting his eyes, and for a second, the noise of the room dimmed The look wasn't dramatic, not cinematic. Just steady. A second glance that landed heavier than the first.

"Hey," Brede said when August drifted over, his voice low enough to cut beneath the chatter.

"Hey," August echoed, shifting his weight awkwardly. "No breadsticks this time."

That earned a quiet chuckle. "We'll have to improvise."

They stood together as conversations ebbed and flowed around them, not needing to fill every silence. August noticed things he hadn't before: the way Brede's hands moved with care even in mundane tasks, how he tilted his head when listening, how he didn't rush to fill pauses but let them breathe.

At one point, Brede asked about his acting. Not the usual shallow questions "What's it like being on set?" or "Do you want to go to Hollywood?" — but thoughtful ones

"What kind of roles feel like you?"

"Do you ever feel like you lose yourself in the characters, or do you always keep a part of August separate?"

The questions unsettled him in the best way. No one had asked him like that before, not as if the answers mattered deeply.

And when August admitted quietly, "Sometimes I feel like people only see the character, not me," Brede didn't offer clichés or advice.

He just nodded, his gaze steady, like he understood more than he said.

Later that night, as guests trickled out, Kyle caught August by the door.

"So... still just 'nice'?" he teased.

August glared, cheeks burning but his silence gave him away.

As he stepped into the cool Oslo night, August realized something terrifying and exhilarating at once:

This wasn't just about breadsticks anymore.

It was about the way Brede looked at him like he mattered and August wasn't sure he wanted to let that go.

[1dvision]

02 || Over Lunch

Kyle's friends stared at Corey like he had wandered into the wrong movie. Marcus leaned back in his chair, smirking.

"You're telling me," Marcus said, pointing at Corey's tray, "you passed up pizza for... knekkebrød and a carrot?"

Corey looked at him as if Marcus had just asked whether water was wet. "Yes. It's healthier. And less of a waste of kroner."

One of the girls at the table, Ingrid, giggled behind her hand. "He even talks like a spreadsheet."

Kyle didn't laugh. He just tilted his head, watching.

Corey, unbothered, adjusted his glasses. "It's not a spreadsheet. It's statistics. For example—" he gestured at Kyle's pizza—"that slice will slide completely off the crust within the next thirty seconds."

The group leaned in. Sure enough, the cheese drooped forward dramatically, and with one sad plop, half of it fell onto the tray.

The table burst into laughter.

"Bro, he just roasted you with math," Marcus said, nearly choking on his soda.

Kyle grinned, licking tomato sauce off his thumb. "Maybe. Or maybe I just need better luck with my slice."

He looked back at Corey, and for some reason, Corey looked right back at him. Unflinching.

It wasn't a glare: it wasn't shy either. It was... curious. Like he was already analyzing Kyle the way he analyzed cafeteria food. And for reasons he couldn't explain, Kyle didn't look away first.

The bell rang faintly in the distance, signaling the end of lunch. Students started shuffling trays, chairs screeching against the floor.

"See you at rehearsal," Marcus said, nudging Kyle as he stood.

"Good luck with Spreadsheet Boy."

Corey raised an eyebrow. "You know I can hear you."

Marcus smirked. "Yeah, that's why I said it."

The group dissolved into laughter again, leaving Kyle and Corey as the last two standing. For a moment, neither spoke. The cafeteria emptied, the noise fading into echo.

Finally, Kyle picked up the fallen cheese from his tray and tossed it in the bin.

"You know," he said lightly, "you could've just told me the pizza was bad, instead of giving me a full risk analysis."

Corey shifted his notebook under his arm. "If I tell people something, they usually don't believe me. If I show them... they remember."

Kyle blinked, caught off guard. It wasn't a cocky answer. It wasn't shy. It was just... true.

He smiled. "Fair enough."

As Kyle headed out toward rehearsal, he glanced over his shoulder. Corey was still there, notebook in hand, watching the last crumbs of pizza being swept away by the janitor.

It was small. Insignificant. A Friday lunch with bad food but when people looked back, they'd point to this moment. The first spark. The slice of fate.

The music room was always warmer than the rest of the school. Probably because twenty teenagers practicing vocals together generated the kind of heat usually reserved for saunas.

The scent of sheet music, old wood, and faintly sour instruments hung in the air, but it was where Kyle Alessandro thrived.

He slipped into his usual spot by the piano, tossing his bag down with easy confidence. This was his stage, even if there wasn't an audience yet.

"Alright, folks," their choir director, Mr. Rønning, clapped his hands.

"We've got regionals in less than a month. Which means: no more slacking, no more mumbling, and definitely no more TikTok harmonies in the back row, Marcus."

Marcus groaned, sinking lower into his chair as everyone laughed.

Kyle just smiled faintly. He wasn't worried. Singing wasn't work for him, it was breathing. Notes lined up for him the way numbers lined up for Corey Nilsen. He hit harmonies without thinking, carried melodies without strain.

When the warmups started, voices rose in uneven patches, some cracking, some sharp. But when Kyle's voice cut through, clear, smooth, golden, everyone else adjusted unconsciously to match him. It was subtle, but real. He led without ever having to be told he was the leader.

Still, as the rehearsal went on, Kyle found his mind drifting, not to the lyrics, not to the melody, but to Corey.

That boy with the notebook, the one who looked at pizza like it was a crime scene and at Kyle like... like he was a problem to solve.

It should've been funny. It was funny but for some reason, it stuck.

Across campus, Corey Nilsen wasn't thinking about choir at all. He was in the library, notebook open, pen tapping against the page. Numbers spilled across it like tiny footprints.

He wasn't calculating cafeteria pizza this time. No, today he was working on something new: patterns of human behavior.

It had started as a side thought during lunch, how Kyle Alessandro had laughed at being wrong, when most people tried to argue their way back to dignity.

How his friends treated him like a sun in the middle of their orbit. How, despite being the center, Kyle had looked back.

Not many people looked back, Corey underlined a phrase in his neat handwriting:

Variable: Kyle Alessandro. Outcome: unpredictable.

He hated unpredictable. Numbers were supposed to line up, behavior was supposed to follow rules. People didn't, not usually.

But now... now Corey found himself sketching graphs that didn't make sense, because for once, he didn't have enough data.

Back in the music room, Kyle leaned against the piano as the rehearsal wound down. Mr. Rønning was talking about vowel shapes, but Kyle barely heard him. His eyes had wandered to the window, where the late afternoon sun painted stripes across the floor.

And for some reason, he wondered what Corey was doing. Not in the mocking way his friends had wondered. Not in the "isn't he weird" way. Just... genuinely.

Because Kyle Alessandro wasn't used to being studied. He was used to being admired, sure. Envied. Even adored. But Corey had looked at him differently, like a puzzle, like he wasn't obvious.

And maybe, Kyle thought with a strange little smile, he kind of liked that.

It was small. A rehearsal. A notebook. Two boys in different corners of the same school.

But fate doesn't need fireworks. Sometimes it just needs a song...and the memory of bad cafeteria pizza.

[1dvision]

02 || After The Stream

The "Stream Ended" screen flickered into place, the chat still flooding with hearts and inside jokes. Shay leaned back in her chair, slipping her headset off and letting out a deep breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

She should've been tired, it was past midnight, but instead she felt wired, buzzing. That was the thing about tonight. It hadn't been just another stream. It had been... something else.

A notification pinged on her screen. Discord.

Hálfdán: You're officially the most evil Minecraft partner I've ever had.

Shay: 😂 come on, that river saved you. I could've pushed you into lava.

Hálfdán: Oh, so you're saying I should be grateful??

Shay: Exactly.

She laughed to herself, shaking her head. It was stupid, just little typed words on a screen, but she felt lighter somehow. Like the weight of the day had finally lifted.

Another ping.

Hálfdán: No, but really. That was fun. Like, actually fun.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. A small smile tugged at her lips.

Shay: Yeah. Same. It didn't even feel like a stream... just, like, hanging out.

Hálfdán: Exactly.

There was a pause, three dots blinking, disappearing, blinking again. She waited, curious.

Hálfdán: We should do it again. Maybe not even on stream. Just us messing around on the server.

Her heart skipped once. Then again.

It was nothing. Just a casual offer. But still, her stomach did that fluttering thing she couldn't explain.

Shay: I'd like that.

She hit send before she could overthink it.

And when his reply came almost instantly—

Hálfdán: Good. It's a date.

Shay froze, staring at the words.

Did he mean it like that? Or was it just... casual?

She didn't know. But suddenly, she couldn't stop smiling.

The server loaded in, the familiar pixelated world spreading across Shay's laptop screen. She adjusted her headset, a grin tugging at her lips when Hálfdán's voice crackled through Discord.

"You're late."

She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see it. "It's literally two minutes. Chill."

"That's two minutes of me fending off skeletons by myself," he countered, feigning indignation. "A tragedy."

Shay laughed, the sound coming out easier than she expected after such a long day. Something about talking to him: just him, no chat, no stream, felt... lighter. Like she didn't have to filter herself.

"Where even are you?" she asked, scanning the blocky horizon.

"Hold on, I'll come find you."

His character appeared a minute later, sprinting over a hill in mismatched diamond-and-iron armor, a torch in hand like some victorious hero. She snorted. "Wow. You're ridiculous."

"And yet you needed me." He made his character bow dramatically.

They fell into rhythm quickly, gathering supplies and half-joking about building a new base "far away from creepers this time." It

wasn't chaotic like their stream had been—no screaming, no pressure to keep entertaining. Just the steady comfort of shared silence, broken up by easy conversation.

After a while, Shay leaned back in her chair, her voice softer. "You know... I don't usually do this."

"Play Minecraft?" he teased.

"No," she said with a laugh, shaking her head. "I mean... just hanging out like this. Off-stream. No cameras. It's kinda nice."

There was a pause on his end. For a moment she thought the call had glitched. Then his voice came through, quieter this time.

"Yeah. I like it too."

Something in her chest tightened:

gentle, unexpected. She didn't know how to respond, so she made her character start building a fence instead. "So... are you saying you'd miss me if I stopped playing?"

"Obviously," he said, and even though his tone was playful, it carried weight. "Who else would push me into rivers?"

Her cheeks warmed, but she smiled. "You make it sound like that's my only skill."

"It's your best one," he said simply.

And for a second, with the blocky sound of cows mooing in the background, Shay forgot it was all just a game.

It felt real. Too real.

[1dvision]

02 || The Coffee Between

The next time JJ saw Charles, it wasn't planned.

It was a quiet Tuesday morning in Vienna, one of those deceptively ordinary days where the city hummed at half-speed. JJ had ducked into a small café near the rehearsal studios, desperate for caffeine before the long day ahead.

He had pulled his hood low again, not because anyone inside seemed to care, but because habit told him to hide.

He was staring blankly at the chalkboard menu, trying to decide between a cappuccino and the strongest black coffee they had, when a voice spoke beside him.

"Cappuccino," Charles said, without looking at him, eyes fixed on the pastries behind the glass.

"Trust me. Black coffee will just remind you how tired you are."

JJ turned his head slowly, disbelieving. "You again?"

Charles glanced at him then, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Good morning to you too."

For a moment, JJ debated retreating, grabbing his coffee and disappearing back into anonymity, but Charles wasn't pressing, wasn't demanding.

He just was: calm, grounded, like he'd always belonged in whatever space he occupied.

JJ sighed. "Fine. Cappuccino. If I regret it, I'm blaming you."

"You'll thank me," Charles replied lightly, moving toward a corner table as if he already knew JJ would follow.

And, annoyingly, JJ did.

The café wasn't crowded, just a scattering of students hunched over laptops and an older couple reading newspapers. It smelled of cinnamon and roasted beans, and the music playing was soft, forgettable jazz.

They sat opposite each other, steam rising between them from their mugs. For a while, neither spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable.

JJ traced the rim of his cup, eyes down. "You're not going to give me some speech, are you?"

Charles tilted his head. "Do I look like I prepare speeches?"

"You look like you could."

That earned a laugh, low and easy. "No speeches. Just coffee."

JJ didn't want to admit it, but it was... nice. The world had felt too sharp lately, every interaction with his team layered with expectation and pressure.

Charles didn't ask about Eurovision, didn't prod at the sore parts of his heart. He just sat there, sipping his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world to share silence with him.

After a while, Charles leaned back, studying him. "You seem less... stormy today."

JJ raised an eyebrow. "Stormy?"

"You know," Charles gestured vaguely, "like last time. When you looked like you were ready to set Vienna on fire."

A reluctant smile tugged at JJ's lips. "Maybe your cappuccino suggestion saved me."

"See?" Charles said with mock solemnity. "I'm already improving your life."

JJ shook his head, hiding his smile in his mug. He wasn't used to this, someone slipping into his orbit without force, without drama. Someone who seemed content to let him exist exactly as he was, fractured edges and all.

For the first time in weeks, JJ didn't feel like a star under scrutiny or a broken man trying to hide it. He just felt... human.

And sitting across from Charles Eder, with the hum of the café around them and the steam curling in the morning light, being human felt like enough.

[1dvision]

01 || Breadsticks & Beginnings

The restaurant was loud, the kind of loud where voices blended into the clatter of plates and the hum of Friday-night energy. August Barg sat at the edge of the booth, shoulders tense, chewing absently on the inside of his cheek.

He was nineteen, newly thrust into the spotlight after a breakout role on a Norwegian drama series, and still not quite used to the way people glanced at him a beat too long in public places.

It wasn't the stares that unnerved him most tonight, though. It was the fact that Kyle Alessandro had insisted he come.

"Just friends, Auggie," Kyle had said earlier with a grin.

"A casual dinner. You need to get out of your head. And besides, you'll like Brede."

August hadn't argued, though his stomach had knotted with the kind of nervous anticipation he hated admitting to. He didn't know much about Brede Bremnes except that he was twenty-four, a model with that effortless Scandinavian look: tall, sharp-featured, and somehow both intimidating and magnetic.

Now, sitting here with a napkin twisted in his hands, August wondered if Kyle had set him up.

Brede arrived late, slipping into the booth across from him in a leather jacket and a quiet confidence that made August straighten unconsciously.

His presence shifted the air — as though the chatter in the room dimmed just slightly, bending around him.

"Sorry," Brede said, his voice low and even, "traffic."

"No worries," Kyle chimed, sliding the basket of breadsticks across the table. "You're just in time. Auggie here was about to eat them all."

August flushed, protesting, "I wasn't!" but his hand froze mid-reach, caught in the act of grabbing another breadstick.

Brede's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "They must be good, then."

It was a small thing, just breadsticks, but something about the exchange lodged itself between them. When August offered the basket across the table, their fingers brushed for a moment too long: accidental, yet strangely grounding.

The conversation, at first, stayed safe. Kyle led with anecdotes about rehearsals, about life after Eurovision, about all the little details that kept him busy. August nodded along, adding the occasional quip, while Brede listened more than he spoke.

He wasn't silent, no, he had a way of speaking sparingly but meaningfully, like every word carried weight.

And yet, when Kyle ducked away to take a phone call, leaving just the two of them with the breadsticks between them, something shifted.

Brede leaned back, studying him. "You don't like being here," he said simply.

August blinked, defensive. "What? No, I'm fine."

"Fine," Brede repeated, like the word itself told him everything. His gaze wasn't sharp — it was steady, thoughtful.

"You'd rather be anywhere else."

August swallowed hard, torn between bristling and laughing it off. "Maybe," he admitted after a beat. "Crowds aren't really my thing."

Brede nodded slowly, breaking a breadstick in half. The crisp sound was oddly grounding in the pause that followed. Then he offered August one piece.

A peace offering. A wordless gesture.

August hesitated, then accepted.

The corner of Brede's mouth lifted again, and this time, it wasn't intimidating at all. It was warm. Human.

They ate in silence for a while, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind that stretched out like a bridge, thin but strong enough to carry weight neither of them had expected to share.

When Kyle finally returned, grinning and oblivious, he found them both leaning slightly forward, mid-conversation about the most random thing: breadsticks, of all topics.

"I'm just saying," August was insisting, "they taste better when they're uneven, like when one's burnt a little on the edge."

"And I think consistency matters," Brede countered, his tone mock-serious. "They're meant to be uniform. That's the point."

Kyle blinked between them, then smirked knowingly. "You two are arguing about... bread?"

Both of them froze, then laughed, genuinely laughed, at the absurdity.

It didn't matter how unusual it seemed, this pairing of a nineteen-year-old actor still finding his footing and a twenty-four-year-old model who carried the world on his shoulders with quiet grace.

Breadsticks had pulled them into each other's orbit, and something told August that this was only the beginning.

As they left the restaurant later, the cool night air sweeping around them, August felt a tug in his chest. He couldn't explain it.

And Brede, walking just a step ahead, glanced back with a look that said he felt it too.

Hopefully, nothing would ever change that.

[1dvision]

01 || The Slice Of Fate

The cafeteria at Steinkjer videregående skole always smelled like three things: burnt bread, disinfectant, and the faintest trace of despair.

It was the kind of place where gossip traveled faster than Wi-Fi, where the popular kids sat at their invisible thrones by the window, and where everyone else scrambled for the remaining scraps of territory.

Kyle Alessandro, of course, never had to scramble. He was already seated: centre table, where sunlight seemed to fall on him like the spotlight he was born to stand under. His laugh carried across the room, easy and musical, like he was performing without even trying.

He wasn't just a student. He was the student. Star of the school choir, MVP of school performances, the one whose TikTok videos had half the town humming along.

Teachers bragged about him to other teachers. Students either adored him or pretended they didn't.

Today, however, Kyle was distracted. His tray held a single slice of pizza, the school's Friday "special." The cheese had slid almost completely off the crust, leaving it lopsided and sad. Still, it was pizza, and pizza had power.

"Bro, you're staring at that thing like it's your soulmate," teased Marcus, one of Kyle's friends from the music program.

Kyle grinned. "Maybe it is. At least pizza never disappoints."

Before Marcus could fire back, a voice cut in from behind them.

"It disappoints every Friday at 11:30. Statistically speaking."

Everyone turned.

Corey Nilsen stood awkwardly with his tray, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, a notebook tucked under one arm. He wasn't part of Kyle's world, not really. If Kyle lived under a spotlight, Corey lived under fluorescent bulbs in the back corner of the library.

He was the school's audit genius: known for correcting teachers on grading formulas and once calculating, during math class, the exact percentage chance the fire alarm would go off during exams. (He had been right, and nobody had forgiven him for predicting it out loud.)

Corey's tray had no pizza. Just a carton of melk, two pieces of knekkebrød, and something that looked suspiciously like a carrot.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "You've... kept track of the pizza?"

"Of course," Corey said matter-of-factly, adjusting his glasses.

"Over the past eight weeks, the average student dissatisfaction rate with Friday pizza is seventy-four percent. Today's slice is, predictably, below standard. It's barely holding structural integrity."

The group of friends snorted with laughter. Marcus whispered something about "human calculator" under his breath.

But Kyle... Kyle didn't laugh. He tilted his head, studying Corey with that curious kind of interest he sometimes gave to new songs.

"Well," Kyle said, lifting his slice of half-cheese, "maybe statistics don't tell the whole story. Sometimes you just gotta take a chance."

And before Corey could respond, Kyle took a dramatic bite, cheese stretching comically before finally snapping.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Kyle coughed. "Okay... maybe you're right. This is objectively terrible."

The table erupted in laughter again, but this time Kyle was laughing hardest.

Corey blinked, then, for the first time anyone could remember, smiled faintly.

It was small, insignificant. A slice of pizza on a Friday.

But later, when people looked back, they'd say that was where it started.

Not with fireworks, not with destiny, but with bad cafeteria food, an arrogant school star, and a boy who knew too much about statistics.

And neither of them complained about it.

[1dvision]

01 || Pixles And Sparkles

The blocky sunlight of Minecraft glowed across the screen, warm and strangely comforting. Shay leaned back in her chair, her headset slightly crooked as laughter escaped her lips.

"This sheep is literally stuck in the tree. I can't—" she wheezed, covering her mouth as the chat exploded with crying-laughing emojis.

What was supposed to be just another casual stream—a quick hour of mining, building, and maybe some chaotic survival antics—had turned into something else entirely. Something better.

Because Hálfdán was here.

His voice filtered through her headset, low and steady with a soft Icelandic lilt that somehow made even the most ridiculous Minecraft commentary sound... beautiful.

"Shay, don't you dare push me off this ledge. I swear."

Her grin widened. "Oh, I would never."

The second he turned his blocky avatar to look away, she gave him a gentle shove.

The screen filled with pixelated falling, his character plummeting into the river below.

Chat lost its mind.

"Shayyyyyyy 💀💀💀"

"RIP Hálfdán 😂"

"stream highlight fr"

Shay pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh but failing miserably. "Okay, okay, in my defense... you were standing right on the edge."

On the other end, Hálfdán chuckled—low, unbothered, almost warm. "You're dangerous. I should've known."

Something fluttered in Shay's chest. She brushed it off quickly, focusing on the game, but it lingered like a glow that didn't fade.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. The stream had started as nothing more than a favor, a quick collaboration arranged through mutual friends.

He was a musician; she was an actress dipping into the streaming world for fun. Their audiences overlapped just enough to make sense.

But instead of stiff small talk or awkward silence, it was... easy. Too easy.

They built a crooked little cabin together, argued over whether the floor should be oak or birch, and laughed so much the hours slipped by unnoticed. Chat kept spamming that they should stream together more often.

Neither of them disagreed.

For once, Shay didn't feel like she had to perform. She wasn't Shay Rudolph, the actress, the one always expected to be polished, perfect.

She was just... Shay. And he wasn't Hálfdán Matthíasson, the rising name in music. He was just Hálfdán: the guy who screamed when a creeper blew up their crops and laughed like he didn't have a single care in the world.

The casual Minecraft stream ended up not so casual. Yet nobody complained.

Least of all, her.

Because it was actually nice. For once, something good was happening to her.

And Shay had a feeling this was only the beginning.

[1dvision]

01 || Fractures In The Spotlight

Vienna was buzzing.

Everywhere JJ Pietsch went, it seemed like people were whispering his name, pointing their phones at him, eager for a picture, a smile, a scrap of proof that he was Austria's next hope for Eurovision.

And normally, JJ would've given it: he knew the rules of the game, but tonight, walking out of the rehearsal studio, all he wanted was to disappear.

He tugged the hood of his jacket higher, weaving through the late-night crowd spilling across the square. His chest felt tight, each camera flash stabbing at him like a reminder:

You're supposed to be dazzling. You're supposed to look like a star.

But he didn't feel like a star, he felt broken.

The breakup had stripped something vital from him, and no matter how many rehearsals he powered through, the songs felt empty. The lights too bright. The stage too wide.

And the worst part, he couldn't even hide it properly. Not tonight, not with tears threatening at the edges of his eyes.

He ducked into a quieter street, pressing himself against a stone wall to catch his breath. The city's noise blurred behind him, but his thoughts screamed on. You're not ready. You're going to fail. They'll all see it.

"Rough night?"

The voice startled him. JJ looked up, blinking through the haze, to see a tall figure leaning against a lamppost a few feet away. He recognized the face immediately—it was impossible not to. Charles Eder. The actor every magazine in Austria seemed to have plastered on their cover this year.

"What—are you following me?" JJ asked, too defensive too quickly.

Charles's brows lifted in amusement. "Not exactly. I was at the same studio. Doing a script read-through upstairs."

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "You stormed out like the building was on fire. Hard to miss."

JJ swore under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Exactly the impression I wanted to make."

Charles stepped closer, not intruding but not retreating either. "You looked like someone who needed air. Not like someone failing at anything."

JJ let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well. You clearly weren't listening in rehearsal."

"Maybe not," Charles admitted, his tone easy. "But I know what it looks like when someone's carrying too much on their own. You've got that look."

JJ hated how quickly the words cut through him. He should've brushed them off. Should've told Charles to mind his own business.

Instead, what came out was a mutter: "Then you should know I don't really want company right now."

Charles's eyes softened. "Fair. But... sometimes the best company is the kind that doesn't demand anything from you."

He gave a small shrug. "If you want, I'll walk with you. No talking required."

JJ hesitated. He didn't know why the offer hit him the way it did—simple, quiet, not pitying. His chest loosened just a little.

"Fine," he said finally, pulling his hood lower. "But if you do talk, it better not be about Eurovision."

Charles smiled at that, a flash of warmth against the cool night. "Deal."

And so they walked. Side by side. Two strangers in the dark, bound not by cameras or scripts or songs, but by a silence that,for the first time in weeks, didn't feel unbearable.

[1dvision]

60 || Epilogue

The Norwegian coast glittered under a warm July sun, a soft breeze carrying the smell of saltwater and waffles from a food stand down the pier. The small crowd clapped and cheered as Rylee and Kyle finished their acoustic set, their voices blending so naturally that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Kyle glanced at her as they bowed, his eyes catching the sunlight. He still got that same rush he'd felt the very first time they'd sung together: like the world had shifted into place.

After packing up, they wandered to the far end of the pier, away from the bustle, their guitars slung over their backs. They sat with their feet dangling over the water, sharing a paper cone of fresh strawberries dipped in sugar from a nearby stall.

The waves lapped lazily at the wooden posts below, and gulls cried overhead.

"Remember last New Year's?" Rylee said suddenly, brushing sugar off her fingertips.

"How could I forget?" Kyle chuckled. "You wore three pairs of gloves and still complained about the cold."

She smirked, nudging him lightly. "And you kissed me during the fireworks."

"Best decision I ever made," he said, no hesitation.

She looked at him then, really looked, and saw not just the boy from Eurovision rehearsals but the man who'd stood beside her through long-haul flights, studio sessions that ran into the small hours, and quiet mornings where they didn't need to say anything at all.

"Next summer," he said softly, leaning a little closer, "let's make it ours. No competitions. No deadlines. Just... us."

Her lips curled into a slow smile, the kind that reached her eyes. "Deal."

Somewhere down the pier, a little kid waved a sparkler in the broad daylight, the tiny bursts of light dancing against the sea. Kyle reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers, and for the first time in months, the future felt wide open.

They stayed like that for a while, talking about everything and nothing, until Kyle pulled his phone from his pocket with a sly grin.

"What?" Rylee laughed, suspicious.

"I think it's time for tradition," he said, already opening TikTok. "Full circle moment."

The "tradition" was a callback to their hard-launch video: the dance they'd done months ago that had sent the internet into a frenzy. This time, instead of a hotel room in May, they filmed on the sunlit pier, their guitars leaning against the railing behind them.

The breeze caught Rylee's hair, Kyle's hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and they stumbled through the dance steps with exaggerated expressions, laughing so hard they had to start over twice.

When they finally nailed it, Kyle gave her that mischievous look, the one he'd given her the first time, and at the end of the lip-sync, he leaned in, kissing her just as the music cut out.

"Perfect," Rylee said, slightly breathless.

He hit upload without overthinking it, adding only the caption: Next summer's ours.

By the time they reached the café on the corner for coffee, the video already had hundreds of comments: fans calling them "relationship goals," people crying over the full-circle moment, and others begging for an album together.

Kyle scrolled through them, smiling at the screen, but when he glanced up, Rylee was watching him with that same quiet warmth she always had.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head and leaning back in her chair. "Just... I think next summer's going to be pretty great."

He didn't doubt it for a second.

Authors Note!

Hi guys! This is the end of the book, I really hope you enjoyed it. If you would ever like a second book in the future about Kyle and Rylees future life then let me know. Stay tuned as more books are to come. Love you guys !!

[1dvision]

59 || Counting Down

Snow crunched under Rylee's boots as she stepped off the train in Oslo. The night air bit at her cheeks, but she barely noticed, her pulse was too quick, her suitcase handle warm in her grip.

It had been a week since Christmas Day. A week of long calls and little videos, of both of them wishing they could close the distance sooner.

When Kyle texted Come for New Year's, she'd said yes before even checking flights.

She spotted him instantly, waiting by the station doors in a heavy navy coat and a beanie pulled low over his ears. When his eyes landed on her, his whole face lit up.

They didn't say much at first: just met halfway, her suitcase forgotten as his arms closed around her, holding tight, his breath warm against her hair.

"Hi," he murmured, and it wasn't just a greeting. It was relief, and I missed you, and you're here.

"Hi," she whispered back, grinning into his scarf.

The city was buzzing that night, the streets dusted with snow and alive with people heading toward the harbor for the fireworks. Kyle had planned ahead, taking her to a cozy rooftop bar that overlooked the fjord.

Lanterns swung gently above them, casting soft gold light over their table.

They shared food — warm bread, small plates of salmon and cheese — and caught up properly, laughing about how different their families' holidays were.

By the time midnight was near, they were outside on the roof with the crowd. The air hummed with anticipation, people holding phones ready to capture the moment. Rylee tugged her gloves tighter, her breath puffing in the cold.

Kyle was close beside her, his hand slipping into hers.

"You know," he said, glancing down at her, "last New Year's, I didn't even know you."

She smiled. "And now?"

"And now," he said softly, "I can't imagine the next one without you."

The first firework burst overhead, lighting the sky in white and gold. She turned to him just as the crowd began to cheer.

"Happy New Year, Kyle."

"Happy New Year, Rylee."

And then he kissed her, unhurried, warm, the fireworks still blooming in the sky above them. The noise around them faded into a blur, the only thing real being his arms around her and the way he smiled against her lips.

Later, they walked back through the quiet streets, hand in hand, snow drifting lazily in the streetlight.

"So," Rylee said, glancing at him with a teasing grin, "does this mean we're starting the year as the most disgustingly in-love couple in Europe?"

Kyle laughed, swinging their joined hands lightly. "Without question."

And under the falling snow, with the whole year ahead of them, they both knew, whatever came next, they'd face it together.

[1dvision]

58 || Across The Miles

The first thing Rylee heard that Christmas morning was her phone buzzing on the nightstand. Still half-asleep, she fumbled for it, squinting at the screen.

Kyle Alessandro 🎵

🎄 God Jul, Rylee. I hope you woke up to something magical.

Attached was a short video — Kyle in a chunky cream sweater, sitting cross-legged on the floor by his family's Christmas tree. The room behind him was warm and golden, voices laughing faintly in the background.

"I wish you were here," he said in the video, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I saved you the biggest slice of kransekake in my head, so... you'll just have to imagine it."

She smiled so wide it hurt. Propping herself up against the pillows, she sent back her own video — still messy-haired, wearing an oversized jumper. "Merry Christmas, Kyle. And I hope you're ready for my very Irish, very chaotic family. Mum's already blasting Christmas FM and the dog's wearing a Santa hat."

They traded little snippets all morning — him showing her the view from his window, all snow and soft blue light; her showing him her grandmother's table groaning under a spread of roast potatoes and ham.

Around noon, a delivery van pulled up outside her house. Rylee raised an eyebrow as her mum called her to the door. A small box sat on the step, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with twine.

Inside was a knitted scarf, deep forest green, and a handwritten note in Kyle's careful script:

For when the Irish wind tries to mess with you.

Merry Christmas, Rylee.

—K.

She ran her fingers over the wool, suddenly feeling a little lighter, a little warmer. She grabbed her phone immediately.

Rylee: You had this sent before you even left Oslo, didn't you?

Kyle: Maybe. I like being prepared.

Rylee: You're ridiculous.

Kyle: You love it.

That evening, after her family's dinner plates were stacked high in the kitchen and everyone had collapsed into the living room, she slipped upstairs with a glass of wine and called him.

His face lit up on the screen — firelight flickering behind him, his hair a little messy from wearing a hat outside.

They talked for over an hour. About the strange Norwegian dessert that looked like a log but was apparently almond-flavored, about her uncle's disastrous attempt at karaoke, about nothing and everything.

"Next Christmas," he said finally, quieter now, "I want to be there. With you."

Her heart gave a little lurch. "Yeah... I'd like that."

Outside her window, the Irish wind rattled the panes. But wrapped in her new scarf, with Kyle's voice in her ear, Rylee felt warmer than she had all winter.

[1dvision]

57 || The Little Gift

Snow had finally come to Oslo.

Not the hesitant dusting from a few weeks ago, but the kind of steady, soft snowfall that coated everything in white. Rooftops glistened like sugared cookies, and the air carried the faint scent of pine from the Christmas trees lining the streets.

The city center had transformed into something out of a storybook.

The Christmas market was alive with music and chatter, wooden stalls glowing under strings of golden bulbs that hung overhead like captured stars. Somewhere in the distance, a brass band was playing a festive melody, the notes curling into the cold night.

Kyle tugged his scarf higher and glanced sideways at Rylee. She had her hood pulled up, her cheeks rosy from the bite in the air, and a grin tugging at her lips as she took it all in.

"You weren't kidding," she said, her breath forming little clouds. "This is... magical. Like a Hallmark movie, but less fake."

He chuckled. "Good to know my country lives up to the hype."

They strolled between stalls, their shoulders brushing, fingers occasionally grazing until Kyle's hand found hers. His grip was warm even through their gloves.

The first stall they stopped at was selling handmade ornaments, each one painted by hand, tiny brushstrokes catching the lamplight.

Rylee lingered over a delicate glass snowflake, its center catching the glow like frozen sunlight. Kyle noticed, but when she moved to look at a display of wool scarves, he doubled back to the vendor, slipping some cash into the man's hand with a quick nod.

By the time she returned to him, he was hiding something behind his back.

"What are you up to?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Close your eyes," he said.

"Kyle..."

"Trust me."

Rolling her eyes, she obeyed. When she opened them again, the snowflake ornament was in her palm, tied neatly with a thin red ribbon.

"For your tree," he said, his voice quiet. "Even if we're not in the same place next Christmas... you'll have a piece of this winter."

Her throat tightened in the best way possible. She wanted to tell him how much that meant, how she'd never been given something that felt so intentional before, but instead she just laughed and hugged him tightly.

"You're ridiculous," she mumbled into his coat, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her.

They wandered deeper into the market, stopping for a paper cone of hot churros dusted in cinnamon sugar. As they ate, Rylee noticed his eyes darting toward the sound of music.

A busker was playing an acoustic version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," the guitar chords floating gently over the snow.

Without a word, Kyle stopped walking and turned to her. "Dance with me."

"In the middle of the market?" she said, half-laughing, half-scandalized.

"Yeah." He offered his hand.

She sighed, but her smile gave her away. They swayed slowly on the cobblestones, churro cone still in her hand, his other arm wrapped warmly around her. A few people passed by with small smiles, but neither of them seemed to notice.

When the song ended, they resumed walking, shoulders pressed together for warmth. Kyle pointed out little details she wouldn't have noticed: the carved wooden nativity figures in one stall, the way Norwegians layered their scarves, the traditional heart-shaped waffles steaming on a griddle nearby.

By the time they reached the edge of the market, snow was falling harder, blanketing the street in white. They walked the rest of the way back to her hotel in comfortable silence, their boots crunching in unison.

At the entrance, she turned to him. "Thanks for tonight. For... all of it."

He smiled in that quiet way of his, then leaned in, pressing a slow, careful kiss to her lips, the kind that made her forget the cold entirely.

When they finally pulled apart, he whispered, "Merry Christmas, Rylee."

She held onto that warmth long after he'd walked away, the snowflake ornament tucked safely in her coat pocket.

[1dvision]

56 || Costumes & Confessions

The October air in Oslo was crisp enough to make your breath visible, the kind that hinted winter was just around the corner.

Halloween wasn't as big in Norway as it was back in Ireland, but Kyle had promised he'd give Rylee "the full experience" — his version of it, anyway.

When she arrived at his apartment, she almost dropped her bag laughing.

"You're... a vampire?" she asked, staring at his dark velvet coat, ruffled shirt, and slightly-too-dramatic eyeliner.

"Excuse me, a very stylish vampire," Kyle corrected, baring his plastic fangs. "And you're—"

"A witch," she said, twirling so her black dress flared out. "Classic. Doesn't require fake teeth."

They were headed to a small Halloween party one of Kyle's friends was throwing, nothing crazy, just music, snacks, and a few too many themed cocktails.

The tram ride there was already ridiculous. People kept staring, not because they recognized them, but because they were two fully dressed-up foreigners grinning like idiots at each other.

When they arrived, the flat was warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon and pumpkin. There were carved pumpkins glowing in the windows, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and someone had already put on a playlist of both pop hits and oddly creepy sound effects.

Kyle introduced Rylee to more of his Oslo friends, most of whom she'd only heard about through late-night FaceTimes. They were welcoming, teasing him instantly.

"So this is the Rylee?" one of them said with a grin, and Kyle rolled his eyes but didn't correct them.

They mingled, laughed, and, at one point, someone dared them to try the "mystery punch." It was way too sweet, and Rylee coughed, making Kyle laugh so hard he nearly spilled his own cup.

Later in the night, the music softened, and the crowd thinned. Kyle tugged her toward the balcony, where the cool night air wrapped around them. Below, the street was scattered with costumed strangers heading home, their laughter drifting upward.

"You cold?" Kyle asked, shrugging off his coat and draping it over her shoulders without waiting for an answer.

"A bit," she admitted, pulling it tighter. His coat smelled faintly of cedarwood and whatever cologne he'd worn since the day they met.

They stood there for a moment, the city buzzing below, before he turned to her.

"You know," he said softly, "this is the first time we've done something... normal."

Rylee tilted her head. "Normal?"

"Yeah. No stage lights, no interviews, no cameras. Just... this."

She smiled, looking down at the street. "I like this."

"Me too."

It was quiet for a beat, and then, without overthinking it, Kyle leaned in. The kiss was slow, unhurried — not the kind that belonged on TikTok or in a performance, but the kind you kept for yourself.

When they pulled apart, Rylee grinned. "You still have the fangs in."

Kyle laughed, embarrassed. "Well, that ruined the dramatic moment."

"Not really," she said. "Just made it more you."

[1dvision]

55 || The Song We Wrote

It had been almost three months since that day on the mountain in Flåm, but the song they started there had never left them.

Between tours, press events, and the constant whir of travel, Rylee and Kyle kept coming back to it, in hotel rooms at midnight, over voice notes sent from airports, even during brief layovers when one of them would hum a verse into their phone and send it off to the other.

Now, in early autumn, Rylee was back in Norway. Oslo was draped in gold and red leaves, the air sharp enough to make her cheeks sting as she walked from the tram stop to Kyle's apartment.

She knocked once before the door swung open.

"You're early," Kyle grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

"You're just late," she shot back, stepping inside. The familiar scent of coffee and vanilla candles wrapped around her.

The small living room was a mess of music sheets, half-drunk mugs, and Kyle's guitar propped against the couch.

"Ready?" he asked.

Rylee set her bag down and nodded. "Let's finish it."

They settled onto the couch, legs folded toward each other, notebook open between them. Kyle strummed through the chords, his thumb brushing the strings softly.

Rylee began to sing the opening line, her voice warm but delicate. It had changed since Flåm: not the melody, but the way she sang it. There was more weight to it now, like it had lived with her for months.

Kyle joined in on the chorus, their voices blending the way they always did, hers rich and grounded, his airy and bright.

By the second run-through, they both knew. The song was done.

They sat in the stillness that followed, both smiling without saying a word.

"You know..." Kyle began, fiddling with the edge of his guitar pick, "I've been thinking. We should play it. Properly. Live."

Rylee tilted her head. "Like... at a gig?"

"Bigger." He met her gaze. "At the winter charity concert in December. It's in Oslo, and they asked if I'd perform. I told them I might have a duet."

Her eyebrows rose. "You didn't even check with me first?"

Kyle smirked. "I knew you'd say yes."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

And maybe she did, the way he believed in her, the way he made everything feel like an adventure.

As the evening faded, they made tea and sat cross-legged on the floor, running through the song again and again until the streetlights came on outside.

They didn't talk about what it meant to sing it together in public. But they both knew. This wasn't just their song anymore. Soon, the whole world would hear it.

[1dvision]

54 || Where Mountains Meet Sky

The train rocked gently as it curved along the fjord, the glistening water on one side, steep cliffs cloaked in pines on the other. Rylee leaned against the window, her breath fogging up the glass as she stared out at the surreal Norwegian landscape.

Kyle sat across from her, a proud smile playing on his lips.

"You're staring," he teased softly, sipping from a thermos of cocoa.

"I literally can't help it," she breathed. "It's like... fairy-tale level pretty."

Kyle's cheeks pinkened slightly, not from the chill, but from watching her fall in love with something he'd grown up surrounded by. "This is Flåm. One of my favorite places in the world."

"You came here as a kid?"

"Yeah," he said. "Family trips every summer. There's this spot I want to take you to — you've got to see it with your own eyes."

The train pulled into a tiny station, and they hopped off. A few tourists lingered, but Kyle led her confidently away from the bustle, toward a trail that wove into the mountainside.

She hiked beside him, boots crunching over soft gravel and pine needles. After twenty minutes and a few cheeky stops to kiss or catch their breath, Kyle suddenly slowed.

"We're here," he said.

It was a clearing that overlooked the valley, where the river below snaked between the mountains like silver thread. Snow dusted the peaks even in summer. A wooden bench stood under a single pine tree. Kyle motioned for her to sit.

Rylee sat down slowly, taking in the view. "This is insane. I feel like I'm on top of the world."

He sat beside her and didn't speak for a moment — just watched the sky stretch above them in pale blue silence.

"This is where I come when I need to remember who I am," Kyle said eventually. "Before Eurovision. Before the cameras. Before anything."

Rylee looked over at him — his wind-tousled hair, his soft jawline, the way his fingers nervously picked at the edge of his jacket.

"You're still that same boy," she whispered. "I see him."

Kyle smiled, touched. "And you're not what I expected."

She laughed. "Is that a compliment?"

"Definitely." He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small portable speaker. "Wanna do something stupid?"

"Always."

He connected his phone, scrolled, and hit play.

A gentle acoustic melody filled the air — a track they'd started writing together the week before. Just chords and a humming melody, but it sounded so pure, so theirs.

"I started working on lyrics," Kyle said, his voice shy again. "But only if you want to write it with me."

Rylee blinked back tears. "Kyle... of course I do."

So they sat together on the bench, scrawling in a shared notebook, laughing, scribbling out bad rhymes and humming melodies under their breath. There were no producers. No stylists. No stage. Just a Norwegian boy, an Irish girl, and a view that made the world feel small and infinite all at once.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, Rylee tucked her head onto his shoulder. "Thank you for sharing this."

"You make it better," he whispered. "Everything feels more real with you in it."

They sat in silence again, except now it felt full. Like something important had just settled between them — quiet, steady, and sacred.

Kyle didn't kiss her that time. He just held her hand. And somehow, it meant even more.

[1dvision]

53 || Buckets And Buttered Moments

Rain spattered lightly on the pavement as Kyle and Rylee stepped out into the cool Irish evening. The streets were still alive with laughter and chatter, a Friday night glow painting the town in shades of amber and blue.

Kyle zipped up his jacket a little tighter as a breeze caught him off guard.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked with a lopsided grin, catching up to Rylee, who was walking ahead with purpose.

"You'll see," she called over her shoulder. "We're doing something very Irish tonight."

"I thought we already did that. I literally drank tea while watching cows walk past your nan's house."

She laughed. "Okay, this is more 'Irish youth who can't be arsed to cook' energy."

Kyle tilted his head. "...That doesn't sound very traditional."

"Trust me," she said, turning into a brightly lit doorway. "Welcome to your first ever KFC."

Kyle stopped dead in front of the fast food chain, staring at the familiar red and white sign.

"This is it?" he asked. "The legendary chicken?"

Rylee smirked. "Yes. The chicken. The myths. The grease. The glory."

They grabbed a booth by the window, the overhead lighting giving everything a soft yellow glow. Rylee had already ordered: a big bucket, fries, corn on the cob, and a side of gravy.

Kyle eyed the tray as it was placed between them like it might explode. "So this is what every Irish teen eats at 2 a.m.?"

"Every cool Irish teen," Rylee corrected. "Now eat."

He picked up a drumstick carefully, almost reverently. "Should there be a ritual?"

"Yes," Rylee said, holding up her phone. "Take a bite. I'm filming this."

Kyle groaned but gave in, eyes wide as he bit into the crispy skin.

Silence.

Then: "Oh... oh wow."

Rylee laughed, recording his face. "You like it?"

"It's so crunchy. And weirdly juicy. And... oh my God is this MSG? I feel like I'm ascending."

She giggled. "You're so dramatic."

Kyle took another bite. "You don't understand. They don't have this in Norway. We have kebabs. Pizza. Maybe a Subway if you're lucky. This is sacred."

"You're going to be insufferable about this now, aren't you?"

He licked his fingers and grinned. "I want to name our first child after this chicken."

Rylee gasped through laughter. "Kyle! That is so not romantic."

"Not yet. But imagine. 'Come here, Lil' KFC.' It rolls off the tongue."

She buried her face in her hands, shaking with laughter. "You're actually broken."

Later, they strolled through the quiet, chicken-satisfied and warm, Kyle's arm looped around her shoulders. The rain had stopped, leaving a slick shimmer on the roads.

"That was fun," he murmured. "Not just the food. Just... being normal with you."

Rylee leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're allowed to have normal. You're still a person even when you're a pop star."

"I keep forgetting that," he admitted. "But you remind me."

She smiled softly, looking up at him. "Good."

Kyle slowed his steps. "So next time you visit me... we're going out for Norwegian kebabs."

"Deal," she said. "But if it doesn't involve gravy, I'm flying back early."

"Fair."

They reached her front door, the porch light casting a warm glow around them. Kyle kissed her, his lips still tasting faintly of chicken and sweetcorn, and Rylee laughed against his mouth.

"I think this is what they call romance," she teased.

"No," he whispered back. "This is what they call bucket list love."

Rylee groaned. "Goodnight, you absolute goblin."

[1dvision]

52 || The Emerald Hours

The wind in Ireland was softer than Kyle expected: less of a bite, more of a breeze that tangled gently through his hair as he stepped off the train. The skies were overcast, but there was something calming in the soft greys above.

Rylee was waiting on the platform, bouncing slightly on her heels. Her hoodie swallowed her frame, and her eyes sparkled as soon as she spotted him.

"Kyle!" she called, half-laughing, already pushing through the small crowd.

He barely had time to drop his bag before she launched into his arms. "Hi," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"Hi," he whispered back, tightening his arms around her.

It had been weeks since they'd last seen each other in person. Weeks of texts, FaceTimes, the occasional blurry selfie one of them would post just to tease their followers. But this — this was real.

Her flat was small, warm, and full of music. Literally. Guitar stands leaned against the wall, a dusty keyboard rested by the window, and old CDs were stacked in every corner. The smell of coffee and something cinnamon-like lingered in the air.

"This is so... you," Kyle said with a grin, spinning slowly in her living room.

"I hope that's a good thing."

"It is."

They spent the day walking through her hometown, grabbing pastries from her favourite bakery, and listening to her point out places from her childhood.

He met two of her closest friends by accident when they ran into them at a park, they both squealed a bit too loudly when they saw Kyle and immediately begged for a photo, teasing Rylee the whole time.

Later That Night: Writing Together

Back in her flat, Rylee lit a few candles and brought out her notebook. Kyle pulled his guitar from the case: he'd brought it all the way from Oslo.

"Do you want to?" she asked gently, nodding toward the book.

He smiled. "More than anything."

They wrote for hours, laughter and lyrics bouncing off the walls. Every now and then, they'd hit a line that stuck and they'd freeze, exchange a look, and both scribble it down at the same time.

It was chaotic and imperfect, but something about the way they worked together just clicked. Eventually, Kyle sat back, his fingers idly strumming a soft chord.

"I like this," he said quietly. "Not just the song. This. Being here with you. Creating something with you."

Rylee smiled, her cheek resting against her palm. "Me too."

They sat side by side on her tiny couch, a blanket over both their legs, watching the candlelight flicker.

"You don't have to say anything," Kyle began, "but this, us, it feels real, Rylee. I'm not just caught up in the Eurovision high. I'd still want this, even without the cameras, without the stage."

Rylee turned toward him. "I know," she said. "Me too."

He kissed her then: soft, sure, and unrushed. It was the kind of kiss that didn't need to prove anything.

The song they'd written the night before still hung in the air as they recorded a rough demo. As the last note faded, Kyle reached over and stopped the recording.

"Can I stay a little longer?" he asked.

Rylee grinned. "You'd better."