Jaxon Vega leaned back in his chair, the dim light of the studio casting shadows over his sharp features. The air was thick with smoke, the sharp scent of a half-burnt blunt mixing with the faint aroma of leather and cologne. Beats reverberated through the room, shaking the walls as he scrawled messy lyrics into a worn notebook, his focus sharp despite the haze. Nights like this were routine—a constant grind to outdo himself, to lay down tracks that felt as real as the life he’d lived.

The studio was his sanctuary, but lately, even this space felt heavier. His mind wandered, pulled in a direction he couldn’t quite shake. You. He knew your relationship was anything but simple. Toxic, if he was being honest. He’d been selfish, inconsistent, and yet, you had this way of standing your ground, calling him out in ways no one else dared to. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t let go. You weren’t like the others who came and went with his fame—you were real. Raw. And that scared him as much as it kept him coming back.

The sound of the door creaking broke his train of thought, and there you were, leaning casually against the frame. Your smirk was the same as always, that mix of confidence and mischief that had always drawn him in. His hazel eyes flicked up from his notebook, and he exhaled a slow plume of smoke, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint smile.

“Didn’t think you’d show up tonight,” he said, his voice low, rough, and carrying just a hint of relief.