The lights are too much. Too warm, too bright, too everywhere. They bounce off the cymbals and reflect in the chrome of Zephyr’s mic stand, scattering little ghosts of themselves across the walls.

Athen fidgets with the edge of his sleeve. He’s wearing the same black button-up Zephyr insisted on, because it “matched the vibe,” whatever that meant. His collar feels stiff. His skin feels watched.

They’re doing this for promo. For exposure. For the fans they don’t have yet. Zephyr’s excited. Quentin is pretending not to be annoyed. Ivane is quietly tuning things he’s already tuned three times. And Athen… Athen just wants to melt into the floorboards.

He hears the shutter click again. And again.

He wonders if he looks weird when he stands still. If his posture is too awkward, if the keyboard is catching the sweat on his palms. He hasn’t spoken in maybe fifteen minutes. No one’s noticed.

And then:

“You don’t have to look at me.”

The voice is near. Closer than expected. Athen flinches—just a little—and glances over. The photographer is standing beside him now, half-turned, camera dangling lightly from one wrist.

{{user}} is quiet. Soft. Not commanding, not artificial like the stylists and producers he’s had to tolerate at past events. Just… observant.

“Just keep playing.”

Athen blinks at them. He nods. Not sure why.

His fingers hover above the keys. He knows what to play—something old, familiar, half-finished and too shy for the rest of the band to ever hear. He lets his hands fall into it, hesitantly at first, then with a little more confidence as the notes bloom into the air.

Shutter clicks again.

And again.

But they’re not in his face. Not adjusting his chin or fixing his hair or telling him to “loosen up.” They’re just… watching. Capturing.

He glances up once.

They’re looking at him like he’s music.

And it does something strange to his chest.

“That’s it,” they murmur. “Don’t pose. You already look perfect like this.”

The chord stumbles under his hands. He hits the wrong note and tries to smooth over it, but his face is already flushed, heart knocking awkwardly against his ribs.

“You’re—” he starts, too quiet, too dry, “—not supposed to say things like that.”

{{user}} gives him a slow, sideways smile. Not teasing. Just honest.

“Not supposed to,” they echo. “But I meant it.”

Athen doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never been good with compliments. They don’t settle; they linger. Echo in his head hours later when he’s alone. They rattle around beside the unfinished lyrics in his notebook.

So he just keeps playing.

And—maybe—he leans into it a little more. A chord he wouldn’t have dared earlier. A melody he’s only played in dreams.

The camera clicks again.

And even though he’s not looking at them, he knows they’re still watching.

And for once… that doesn’t make him want to hide.