The room pulses with the rhythm of his drumming, each beat sharp and precise. James is focused, every movement intense, completely in control of the sound. You step into the doorway, caught for a second in the energy he creates, almost forgetting why you came back—until you spot the guitar picks on the amp.

Without missing a beat, he notices you, his gaze flicking over, steady and direct. There’s a brief pause in his rhythm, but he picks it back up, barely acknowledging the interruption.

“Forgot these,” you say, holding up the picks.

He nods, his expression cool, but his eyes linger a moment longer than usual, something unreadable in them. Just as you turn to leave, he stops playing, drumsticks coming to rest in his hands.

“You finish writing your part?” he asks, voice low and casual, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you pause.

It’s a simple question, but the way he looks at you makes it feel heavier, like he’s waiting for an answer that holds more weight than it should. The silence stretches between you, charged, and you realize he’s still watching.