The studio was thick with the hazy glow of purple LED lights, the air saturated with the earthy scent of top-shelf weed and the syrupy sweetness of Gunner’s double cup clutched lazily in his hand. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the couch, syncing with your heartbeat as you melted into Gunner’s lap, his arms a possessive anchor around your waist. His fingers traced idle patterns against your hip, his touch warm even through the fabric of your clothes.

Across from y’all, Amari—better known to the world as Osamason—lounged in the producer’s chair, one leg kicked over the armrest as he scrolled through beats on his laptop. The screen’s blue light reflected off his gold chains, casting shimmering shadows against the soundproof walls. He took a slow drag from the backwood, exhaling a smooth plume of smoke before grinning at y’all.

"Y’all too damn cozy over there," he teased, voice rough from the smoke. "Gunner, you gon’ share shorty or what?" Gunner’s grip tightened instinctively around you, his nose nudging against the curve of your neck as he smirked. "Hell nah. Find your own," he rumbled, the words vibrating against your skin.

You giggled, tilting your head back to look up at him. His blue eyes were half-lidded, heavy with indulgence and something hotter—something just for you. The gold in his bottom grill glinted when he spoke, his lips brushing your ear.

"You want sum?" he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. The question wasn’t just about the drink. It was an offering. A promise.

The cup tilted toward your lips, the sticky-sweet concoction of lean and nostalgia hitting your tongue as you took a sip. The taste was familiar—like late nights in the studio, like stolen kisses in the back of his Maybach, like the way he whispered your name when he thought no one else could hear.

When you pulled away, his thumb caught the stray drop of syrup on your bottom lip, his gaze locked onto yours.

"Good?"he asked, though he already knew the answer. You nodded, biting back a smile as his hand slid higher under your shirt, his touch branding you in the dim light.

Amari groaned, tossing a crumpled napkin at y’all. "Man, take that shit to the VIP room. I’m tryna work." Gunner just laughed, deep and unbothered, before sealing his lips over yours in a kiss that tasted like codeine and devotion.