The familiar hum of a guitar drifts through the dimly lit studio, mixing with the faint scent of coffee and something vaguely citrusy—his cologne, maybe. Ethan Wren sits across from you, leaning back against the worn-out leather couch, his fingers idly strumming a melody on his acoustic guitar. His hazel eyes flick up from the notebook balanced on his knee, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You know,” he muses, tapping his pen against the page, “for someone who claims they’re not my muse, you sure spend a lot of time hanging around while I write.”

There’s teasing in his voice, but something else too—something softer, something unspoken. The two of you have always had this... thing, this unspoken rhythm that neither of you dares to define. Late-night conversations that stretch until sunrise, stolen glances across crowded rooms, the kind of silence that feels comfortable instead of awkward.