I went to shut my window, but found myself closing my eyes instead. He was playing with the tune—not finding it, trying a deceptive cadence, a more prosaic resolution in a minor key. Then starting over. Almost right . . . almost . . .

I threw a cardigan over my camisole and pajama bottoms, slipped into flip-flops, hurried downstairs.

It had started drizzling. I ducked my head and sprinted around the corner to knock on his door.

It opened immediately. Oscar turned back into the apartment like he’d been expecting me.

“Come in, you’re getting wet.” He laughed, seeing me hesitate. I ducked inside and he reached out to wipe beaded raindrops from my hair. “I want to play you something.”

It’s too late at night. Just tell him to turn it down.

But my mouth was too busy gaping at the scene in front of me—our studio, transformed. His dorm bed, jutting from one side of the room, was unmade and rumpled. He appeared to be using the desk to hold the entire stacked contents of his luggage, while the roller bags served as nightstands, glasses of water perched precariously on top of each. Against the other wall, a sofa looked like a composition book had exploded onto it. The pages were brimming with music, some markings pristine, others almost violently scribbled out.

“Sorry. Just . . .” Oscar walked to a bare spot on the far wall, near the galley kitchen, then slid sitting and patted the spot beside him on the floor. “I’d clean the couch, but I’ve got all the pages the way I want them . . .”

I peeked as I passed, too furtive to get any real impression. I sat beside him, half hoping it wasn’t as completely out of my league as I suspected it would be.

His AC unit was turned off, the window open above it, which explained both the noise and the fact that it was so insanely warm in here.

I watched as he futzed with his phone. He was wearing an undershirt and the nice gray dress pants he’d had on at the Met. His belt was on the floor. He must have slowly shed his outfit when he got home before getting distracted by the tune in his head.

“Okay, here,” he said, and music started to play from small speakers I hadn’t noticed, framing the far side of the room. “There’s an app for this too!” He grinned, then put a finger to his lips like I was the one who’d been talking.

I primed myself with a polite smile, but the music was . . . not his. It was Daphnis et Chloé.

I peered over at him again. He had his eyes closed. This was what he wanted me to listen to? A hundred-year-old ballet?

My shoulders relaxed. Worse ways to spend an evening than listening to some Ravel. Especially this, the best part, the “Lever du jour.”