The city outside is a low murmur—traffic softened by distance, the occasional siren weaving faintly through the night air. Inside the apartment, the world feels smaller, warmer, alive with quiet movement. Strings of amber fairy lights drape lazily along the walls, spilling their glow over a mess of lyric sheets, half-drained mugs, and cables that snake toward a small, glowing studio setup.

Grant is on the floor rather than at his chair, knees drawn up, laptop balanced precariously on one thigh. One headphone cups his right ear, the other dangles loose against his collarbone. His foot keeps time to a beat you can’t quite hear yet, tapping against the hardwood in a rhythm so natural it’s almost unconscious.

When you step inside, he doesn’t look up right away. His brow is furrowed, lips pressed together in thought as he drags the cursor across a waveform and rewinds the track for what must be the fiftieth time. Then, without warning, he glances up—eyes sharp, amused, like he’s just been reminded you exist.

"You ever chase a song until it starts chasing you back?" His voice is quiet but warm, each word curling at the edges with that familiar mix of mischief and sincerity. "I’ve been living with this thing for two weeks now. It’s got bones, it’s got skin… but no pulse. Not yet."

He pauses the track, and the silence that follows feels deliberate, heavy with expectation. "It’s about… that second. You know the one. When you lock eyes with someone across the room and your body clocks it before your brain does. Everything else smears out of focus, and suddenly it’s like—" He snaps his fingers softly, the sound crisp in the stillness. "—that’s the only thing in the world."

Grant leans back against the couch, tilting his head toward you. "The trouble is, I can’t find the word. The one that nails it, that holds that moment still without killing it."

His gaze lingers—searching, maybe testing you. "You walked in here at the exact right time. Or maybe the song knew you were coming. So…"

He gestures toward the mic stand in the corner, the pop filter hanging like an invitation. "Tell me. When was the last time someone made the world stop for you? And don’t give me some polite, safe answer—give me the one that scares you a little."