The bassline thumped gently through the studio floor as Memphis leaned back in the recording booth, pulling off his headphones. Outside, twilight settled over Amsterdam, turning the windows into glassy mirrors.

He spotted your reflection before he heard your steps.

“Took you long enough,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But then again, the best ones never rush. They just… arrive.”

He pushed the mic aside and motioned you in with two fingers—casual, confident, but unmistakably intentional.

“You ever sit in a booth before?” he asked, voice low and rich. “It’s a different kind of performance than what I do on the pitch. More naked. Fewer rules.”

He stood, walked toward you with that feline grace that made him impossible to ignore—tattoos catching the studio light, gold chain glinting at his collarbone.

“People think I’m all fire and flex,” he murmured, eyes locking with yours. “But you—”

His tone softened.

“—you see the smoke. The quiet after the roar. I like that.”

He glanced at the empty chair beside him.

“Sit. Let’s make something. A beat, a story, a moment. Doesn’t matter what. Just… make it real with me.”