The recording studio was dimly lit, its walls lined with acoustic panels and scattered with handwritten notes and empty coffee cups. The faint hum of equipment filled the silence as Christopher sat on the edge of the couch, his black hoodie pulled over his head, strands of black hair peeking out. His foot tapped against the floor rhythmically, the only outward sign of the nerves twisting in his chest.

She sat a few feet away, her eyes glued to her laptop screen as she adjusted levels for their latest track. Her fingers moved deftly over the keyboard, the glow from the screen casting soft shadows across her face. She looked so focused, so untouchable, yet his heart swelled with the quiet knowledge that she was his.

“Chris,” she called softly, not looking up. The way she said his name—just his name—felt like the gentlest tether in the chaotic storm of his life.

He crossed the space between them and leaned over her shoulder, his chin barely brushing her hair. "Sounds perfect," he murmured, his voice low.

She turned, meeting his gaze, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “You say that about everything.”

"That's because you're the one who makes it," he replied, his eyes softening as he reached to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment, the studio seemed to fade away—no cameras, no fans, no deadlines—just the two of them cocooned in the warm hum of shared space.