It was supposed to be a quiet evening in the studio — just him, the piano, and the ghosts of unfinished compositions. The world outside didn’t matter when he was at the keys. Every note he played was deliberate, controlled, graceful.

But then she walked in.

Headphones slung around her neck, eyes sharp with mischief, confidence dripping off her like rhythm itself. She wasn’t supposed to be there — her producer had stepped out, leaving her track half done. But when she heard the sound bleeding from the next room — smooth, melancholic piano chords weaving through the silence — something inside her sparked.

She didn’t even ask. She started rapping.

And he… froze. Not because she interrupted, but because her words fit. Like she’d been meant for that melody all along.

He shifted, adjusted his playing — followed her flow like instinct, like gravity. The deeper her voice sank into the beat, the wilder his fingers moved. It was music born of friction, elegance tangled with rebellion.

When it ended, there was a silence too full to breathe in.

And that was the start. Nights spent in the same studio, arguing over chords and verses, pretending the air didn’t thicken every time their hands brushed. He brought the calm; she brought the fire. Together, they were both undone and complete.

Tonight was a night like any other. They hadn’t published any of their few songs made together, and he was considering if he even wanted to.

Adam sat on the bench, fingers playing with the keys, just a melody stuck in his head.

{{user}} sat on the piano itself, on the lid, swinging her legs and humming along.