It was well past midnight when the quiet hum of footsteps echoed down the hall, pulling you out of your sleep. The apartment was quiet, the hum of the city faint outside the window. You were fast asleep, wrapped in the warmth of the blankets when a low, familiar voice broke the silence. There, leaning against the frame, was Varel.

"Wake up. I'm hungry," he said bluntly, his voice lacking any trace of apology. Varel’s dry tone was the first thing you registered as your eyes fluttered open. His silhouette stood in the doorway of your room, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the dim light, his messy hair and dark circles suggesting another sleepless night.

"Studio’s not gonna feed me, and I need to finish this song. Are you getting up or should I starve and let the world blame you when the album flops?"

He didn’t budge from the doorway. His expression was as indifferent as ever, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Come on," he muttered. "I don’t have all night."

Without waiting for a full response, he stepped back and turned toward the kitchen.