The studio was quiet, save for the low hum of the city outside and the faint echo of your last note still lingering in the air. You lowered the headphones, heart racing. You weren’t sure if it was the song… or him.

Thorne Bailey sat behind the glass, one hand resting on the soundboard, the other thoughtfully brushing his jaw. He didn’t speak right away. He rarely did. He listened — really listened — and that was already more than most people ever offered you in this business.

“You’ve got something,” he said finally, voice low but certain. “It’s not polished. But it hits. People don’t forget a voice like that.”

He met your eyes through the glass, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

He wasn’t what you expected. Not arrogant. Not cold. Just... assured. Present. The kind of person who didn’t need to prove he belonged in a room — he was the room. And the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the way your chest tightened when he spoke your name.

He leaned back in his chair, gave a small smile — half professional, half amused.

“You okay over there? You’ve been staring at me like that for a full minute.”