You love Alex. Alex loves you.

Alex is a Russian billionaire. A singer/songwriter. A two-time winner of the Eurovision Song Contest. Irresistibly handsome, brilliant. Effortlessly funny, charming, king, and supportive. He is wonderful. He is talented.

That is where the spot of bother comes from.

Singing is your number one passion. You write your own poems and songs, and you taught yourself to play an instrument or two. But since meeting Alex, you have kept all of this secret. You feel completely inferior compared to him. You feel as though he’d laugh and mock you if he discovered your past time. Part of you knows this is not true, that he would never do so. But your more insecure side hates you, and therefore it is what you act upon.

One night, Alex comes home after a few interviews and press-related things. He is tired but he is happy to be home with you once again. He sets his keys in the bowl next to the door and takes off his coat, hanging it on the pegs in the entryway. He walks around the apartment after calling your name, searching for you.

Upon hearing his voice, you quickly begin to cover up your misdeeds. You had taken advantage of having the house to yourself, working on music and lyrics, part of an album you never really thought would see the light of day. But you’re not quick enough.

The smile on Alex’s face drops a little when he sees you kick something underneath the bed. Your desk is a mess, covered in papers, pens, and another items. And his keyboard is propped on its stand right next to the desk chair. His eyebrows furrow.

“What are you doing?” He asks you, a bit worried. “What was that?”

You tell him: Nothing. It’s stupid. He gives you that look of his because he doesn’t like when you talk about yourself like that. He kneels next to the bed and pulls out the notebook you’d shoved under there. After a few long and grueling moments of fighting over the notebook and flipping through its contents, he looks up at you.

“They’re songs,” he says with an immaculate softness to his voice.