mielli never meant to distract you.

she just cooked the way she did everything else. fully. barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hips swaying slightly as a pan hissed on the stove. music played low from her phone, more suggestion than soundtrack.

you sat on the couch with a book open in your lap. same page for a while now. eyes moving. nothing sticking.

then she started singing.

soft at first. almost to herself. a low note that slid easily into the next, warm and effortless. the kind of voice that didn’t ask for attention but stole it anyway. rich. clear. unfairly good.

you stopped pretending to read.

her voice filled the apartment, bouncing off walls that were never meant to hold something so big. she moved between counters, stirring, tasting, singing like the kitchen was a stage she’d known all her life. like the rest of the world had simply missed its cue.

you thought, briefly, that it was criminal only the people in this apartment ever heard her like this.

calesta leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with that quiet, proprietary calm. a corner of her mouth curved upward. not pride. certainty.

mielli hit a note that made your chest tighten. held it. smiled to herself when she landed it perfectly.

she glanced over, caught you staring, and laughed. “sorry,” she said, not apologetic at all. “i forget myself sometimes.”