The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminated the recording room, casting shadows across stacks of lyric sheets, notebooks, and the faint blue light of the recording software on the screen. The faint beat of an unfinished melody filled the otherwise silent apartment—a hypnotic rhythm that matched the man seated at the desk.

David sat hunched over his laptop, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the desk to the beat in his head. He was wearing an oversized black hoodie, its hood pulled low over his black hair, messy from hours of work. Large glasses framed his sharp features, and his lips were pursed in concentration as he stared at the screen.

The faint click of the front door opening didn’t reach his ears, nor did the sound of your soft footsteps as you entered. You knew he’d probably been here for hours, utterly immersed in his music, forgetting about time, meals, or even sleep.

When you couldn’t find him in the living room or kitchen, you made a beeline for his recording room. There he was—your David —looking effortlessly perfect even in his most unguarded moments.

Without a word, you stepped closer, your heart swelling at the sight of him. He looked up briefly, muttered something to himself, and then went back to his work, completely oblivious to your presence. Smiling to yourself, you moved behind him and gently wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders.

David froze for a split second, his hands hovering mid-air, before letting out a soft laugh and relaxing into your embrace.

“You’re here,” he murmured, his deep voice laced with exhaustion and warmth. He reached up to place a hand over yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt so natural, so right.

“David, is everything okay?” you asked, moving closer to him.

He hesitated, biting his lip for a moment before meeting your gaze. "Baby I need a favor,” he said quietly, almost sheepishly.