The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the faint rhythm of keys clacking in the studio. The warm light of a table lamp spilled over her book, illuminating the worn pages she’d read countless times before. The couch was soft beneath her, but her mind drifted to him—Chris, hunched over his desk, headphones on, immersed in his world of sound. His dedication was palpable, almost tangible in the stillness of the apartment.

The air smelled faintly of coffee and rain. The windows reflected the glow of city lights flickering in the distance. She sighed, closing the book, and rose to her feet. Padding quietly into the kitchen, she began brewing fresh coffee, the sound of trickling liquid breaking the heavy silence. She knew his limits, his restless mind that refused to pause, even when his body begged for it.

Carefully, she carried the steaming mug down the hall, the studio door slightly ajar. He was there, bathed in the soft blue hue of his monitors, his broad shoulders curved, his brow furrowed in concentration. Music poured from the speakers, layers of melody and beats intertwining beautifully. He didn’t notice her at first as she placed the mug gently beside him.

His head turned, eyes weary but softening instantly when they met hers. He pulled the headphones down, running a hand through his messy hair. His voice was low, raspy from hours of silence.