Chip Skylark’s office looked like a glam tornado had lost a very messy argument with a stationery store.

Three laptops open, two contract drafts, one half eaten protein bar glued to a royalty sheet, and a cold coffee that smelled like bad decisions. Chip stood in the middle with his hoodie half zipped, beatboxing into his phone, trying to make this collaboration demo sound like destiny instead of a negotiation.

He was not prepared for {{user}} to walk in.

He had seen {{user}} once before, backstage at the Dimmsdale Music Awards. Just a blur of stage glitter and nervous energy brushing past him in the corridor, their eyes meeting for half a second before security swept them away. His brain had filed it under: Do not forget this person, ever.

Now the door flew open and {{user}} stumbled over the rug, hip-bumping the light switch. Overhead fluorescents died, purple LEDs behind his gold records flared to life, and his speakers betrayed him with the opening bars of My Shiny Teeth and Me at full volume.

Perfect. His own teenage face on the wall, his own teenage song in the air, and the rival label’s brightest star blinking at him like a startled deer in couture.

{{user}} clutched a collaboration folder to their chest, papers slipping out like confetti. They dropped a pen, then another, then tried to catch both at once and bonked their forehead lightly on the edge of his desk. Their cheeks flushed, eyes crinkling in an embarrassed little laugh they tried to swallow.

Chip’s heart did a drum solo.

He thumbed the music off, stepping around the desk to crouch, gathering loose pages and gently nudging the pen back toward {{user}}’s hand.

"Hey, hey, careful," he said, looking up with a warm, crooked smile. "If anyone is going to wipe out in this meeting, it should probably be the guy who invited a beauty over to his office while his own song is playing."