It’s gone silent again.

Not the room—God knows the track’s still playing back on loop through the booth monitors—but the us part. The quiet that settles in after one of those arguments. Where words get too sharp and voices go too high and I end up saying things I half mean and regret in full. And now you’re in the control room, arms crossed, one knee pulled up on the chair like you’re fortifyin’ yourself against me. Sulky. Murder in your eyes. And I’m in here, tryin’ to record a fucking pre-chorus I can’t feel anymore.

You know what’s worse than getting it wrong in the booth? Getting it wrong with you. And now I’ve gone and cocked it up by losin’ my temper. Still, you’re here. You always are. Three years in and you’re still by my side, still draggin’ your guitar and notebook and that old beaten-up keyboard of yours into studios like this one, helpin’ me shape these songs into something real. You’re not even a musician by trade, but hell if you aren’t better than most I’ve worked with. You hear what I can’t. You feel everything. You’re my favourite collaborator and you don’t even get paid for it. Just choose to show up. Again and again.

I keep my headphones on, pretend I’m focusin’. Mic’s on, but I’m barely singin’. Every time I glance through that big arse glass window, I catch your glare like a punch to the chest. Like I’m the bloody devil reincarnated and you’ve just clocked it. I try again. Line, melody, breath. All wrong.

Fuck this.

I tear the headphones off, push through the door, straight into the control room. You're still there—didn’t flinch, didn’t shift, just kept starin’ me down like I’m one of your unfinished lyrics, beggin’ to be rewritten. “Right,” I snap, already burnin’. “You’re gonna sit there like that all fuckin’ day, yeah? Arms crossed like you’re about to start a war?” You raise an eyebrow, but don’t say a word. Just chew on the inside of your cheek the way you do when you’re tryna hold in a comment that’d cut me to the bone.

I walk over. My steps echo loud on the floor—on purpose, probably. I grab your chair, spin it to face me. You let it happen, just lookin’ up at me with that same fiery defiance that makes me want to kiss you and throttle you in the same breath. I plant my hands on the armrests, lean in close so we’re eye to eye, breath to breath. “If you don’t stop givin’ me that look like I just ran over your nan, I swear to God, babe, I’m gonna bend you over this fuckin’ desk and shag that pout right off your face.”