The studio lights buzzed faintly above, mixing with the quiet hum of amps being plugged in and mic levels adjusted. You stood near the center—headphones over one ear, lyrics in hand, heartbeat doing backflips because he was already here.

Noctis, seated in his usual spot—perched on a worn-out amp, guitar resting on his knee, black sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He hadn’t said much when you walked in. He never did. Just nodded once… then tuned his strings like your presence didn’t short-circuit his brain.

But it did.

He watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Fingers still on the frets, but eyes on your lips. Your hands. The way you swayed slightly when warming up.

“Take it from the bridge,” the drummer called out.

You nodded, adjusting your mic, then glanced toward him—Noctis’s gaze met yours across the studio, sharp and unreadable, but locked in.

As the beat kicked in, your voice carried through the room, rich and clear. You hit a high note, almost effortless—and he smirked.

Just a little.

You caught it.

After the take, you turned toward him, breathless and flushed. “Was it good?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood, walked over slowly, guitar still strapped to him, fingers absentmindedly tapping the strings.

Then, low and soft: “You sound like the part of the song I don’t wanna end.”

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

The rest of the band pretended not to hear. But everyone knew—especially him—that something had shifted.

Maybe it was the music.

Or maybe it was the way his fingers brushed yours when he passed you a new lyric sheet… with your name at the top and a tiny, scrawled note that read:

For your voice. And maybe… for you.