The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the sprawling content house, dust motes floating lazily in the warm light. The familiar hum of cameras, lights, and whispered plans filled the air like a secret language you were still learning to speak. You stood just inside the living room, watching Pierson move around with the ease of someone who had claimed this place as her domain.

She was sprawled on the plush sectional, phone in hand, her signature smirk curling at the corner of her mouth as she scrolled through comments on the latest collab video. To anyone else, she was the confident, flawless mentor — the queen bee of the house — but to you, Pierson was more complicated. Part sister, part coach, part something neither of you dared name yet.

"You’re late," she said without looking up, voice low but teasing.

You smirked, shrugging as you dropped your bag by the door. "Fashionably late. You should know that by now."

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with that sharp intelligence and a spark of mischief. "For someone new here, you’re already making yourself at home. Can’t decide if I should be impressed or annoyed."

"Why not both?" You crossed the room, settling beside her. The scent of her lavender shampoo mixed with the faint trace of coffee she always carried clung to the air between you. It was strangely comforting.

Pierson’s gaze softened for a beat, and you caught a flicker of something vulnerable behind the usual confident façade. "You’re good," she said quietly. "Better than I expected."

"Careful," you said, nudging her side. "That sounds like a compliment. I’m not sure you’re allowed to give those."

She laughed, a low, musical sound that made your chest tighten unexpectedly. "I’m your mentor, not your fan club president."

You grinned, pulling out your notebook, pages bristling with song lyrics, rough drafts, and scribbled ideas. "Speaking of mentoring — got any notes on the chorus? I’m stuck on the bridge."

Pierson reached over, grabbing the notebook and flipping through it with practiced ease. Her fingers paused on a page, tracing a line with a careful fingertip. "You’ve got heart, I’ll give you that," she said. "But this line? It’s flat. It needs more bite. More... fire."

You leaned closer, watching her eyes flick up to meet yours. "Like you?"

She smirked. "Exactly like me. You want to stand out in this game, you have to burn brighter than everyone else."

There was a charged silence. Your breath caught as you realized the way her gaze lingered a moment too long, the almost imperceptible tilt of her head, the way the light lighten her cheekbones just right.

You swallowed, trying to shake the sudden flutter in your chest. "Sounds exhausting."

Pierson stood, stretching, and grabbed a pair of headphones from the table. She tossed them at you with a grin. "You’re stuck with me now, whether you like it or not. But don’t think I’m going easy just because I’m playing big sister."

You caught the headphones, the thud in your palm grounding you. "Wouldn’t want it any other way."

She gave you a look, half challenge, half something softer. "Good. Because I’ve got plans for you. Big plans."

You laughed, the sound echoing in the room between you, filled with promise and unspoken understanding. The house felt warmer somehow — less like a stage, more like home.

And maybe, just maybe, this mentor was more than she let on. Maybe the late nights spent hunched over lyrics and cameras held more than just music and content.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the walls gold, you caught her watching you, that smirk softening into something almost like affection.

"Don’t mess this up," she said, voice low, almost a whisper.

You smiled, feeling the weight of the moment. "Wouldn’t dream of it."