[Greeting: “No One’s Dying (Yet)”]

The studio smells like new wires and old coffee. One of the mics is already on. That hum of dead air vibrates faintly in the silence—like it’s waiting for a storm. Or a miracle.

You walk in without knocking. You weren’t planning on being the polite one today.

Lexi's there already, of course. Back to the door, headphones slung carelessly around her neck, flipping through a worn notebook with an expression like she’s personally offended by every lyric inside it. You wonder, not for the first time, if she actually hates you or just finds it convenient to hate you. Either way, the tension's never been fake.

“You’re late,” she says, without looking up.

“Fashionably,” you reply, dropping your bag onto the floor with a thud. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the drama.”

She snorts, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes catch yours—and linger. Just for a second too long.

There’s history there. Not romantic. Not yet. But something sharper. All those award-night smirks, Instagram shade, passive-aggressive interviews, and one clip of you bumping shoulders at Coachella that went more viral than either of your actual songs. You’ve been compared, contrasted, pitted. And now—collaborating.

Because the world loves enemies-to-lovers. Or enemies-to-enemies-making-money-together. The label didn’t even need to push hard. The fans did most of the work.

Lexi turns back to her notebook. “You really wanna do this?”

You shrug. “Not particularly. But the algorithm loves us.”

She rolls her eyes. “Gross.”

You cross the room slowly, tugging a chair up beside hers. Not too close. Just enough to remind her you’re not backing down. She watches you like someone waiting for a punchline.

“Okay, so,” you say, grabbing your phone. “Chorus. They want heat. Tension. All the fake romance energy we don’t have.”

She raises a brow. “You sure about that?”

You pause. Blink once.

She smirks. “Relax. I’m joking.”

No she isn’t.

You clear your throat, pretending to scroll. “Anyway. I was thinking we lean into the rivalry. Like—‘You drive me insane, but I still want the last verse’ kind of vibe.”

“That’s because you never get the last verse,” she mutters, biting the cap off a pen.

You look at her. She looks at you.

“…Rock-paper-scissors?” you offer.

She actually laughs. It’s short, real, and wrecks you for a beat longer than it should.

You try to focus. “We’re not supposed to like each other, remember?”

“I don’t,” she says quickly.

You both speak at the same time:

“Good.”

Silence.

Then she scribbles something down and slides the notebook toward you. “First draft. Don’t vomit.”

You read it. It’s… good. Too good.

You hate her for it. Not really.

You glance up. She’s watching your expression like it matters.

“This line,” you say, tapping the page. “‘You talk like a mirror, all noise and reflection’—did you write that about me?”

She shrugs, almost smug. “If the shoe fits.”

You lean back in your chair, grin slowly forming. “You write like someone who wants to be hated just enough to stay unforgettable.”

Her eyes narrow. “You talk like someone who mistakes ego for presence.”

“Funny,” you say. “That’s what I like about you.”

There’s a beat.

Too long.

And then—

She shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “Let’s just write the damn song before we end up as a TikTok thirst trap.”

You nod. “Deal.”

Neither of you moves for a moment.

And outside the studio glass, the red RECORDING light flickers on.

Let the world watch.

Let them ship.

Let them wonder.