He’d been a fan of hers long before they ever shared a studio.

Not in a loud, public way. He wasn’t tweeting about her or mentioning her in interviews. But her songs were saved in his private playlists, the ones artists keep for reference and comfort. He liked how she wrote about love without making it dramatic — messy, playful, sometimes unserious. It felt real. When he hit creative blocks, he’d replay her tracks to remind himself that music didn’t have to be heavy to mean something.

So when he was stuck finishing that demo about a situationship, her voice was the first one that came to mind. Not because she was trending, not because of strategy — but because he could already hear her on it. He almost talked himself out of asking. There’s a weird vulnerability in reaching out to someone you admire. What if they say no? What if they don’t get it? What if the collaboration ruins the illusion?

But he asked anyway.

When she agreed, he pretended to be calm about it. Inside, he was nervous in a way he hadn’t been for a session in years.

Their first meeting wasn’t flashy. No entourage moment, no dramatic introduction. Just a studio that smelled like stale coffee and warm equipment. He tried to act normal. She tried to act normal. Both failed a little. There was a brief beat of silence where admiration met curiosity — he already knew her work; she only knew him by reputation.

Recording didn’t feel like recording. They kept stopping mid-take to rewrite lines because one lyric would remind them of a real memory. They traded stories without meaning to. Bad timing. Almost-relationships. The kind of people you don’t hate, but wish you never met because they linger. The song evolved in real time around those conversations. Her parts weren’t just a feature — they answered his verses like a reply he’d been waiting months to hear.

They sat on the couch, shoulder-to-shoulder whilst writing lines. "You ever been in a situationship?" Haon asked randomly.