The cameras were quiet that afternoon, tucked into corners of the studio like patient shadows. Warm light spilled across the soundboard, dust floating in the air the way it only did in creative spaces — slow, suspended, holy. Justin sat tilted in the producer’s chair, hoodie half-off his shoulder, curls pushed back from his forehead as he answered the question the director threw at him.

“What does {{user}} think about the album?”

He laughed under his breath, eyes flicking toward the lens as though it were a friend. “She loves the album,” he said. “I mean… she loves me being happy. Even if the music sucked — which, thank God, it doesn’t — she’d still hype me up. She’d celebrate it just because I’m doing what I love. Even if it was whack.”

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’s… she’s good to me.”

Off to the side, Ryan leaned in, arms crossed as he shook his head with a grin. “Why do they work so well together? I don’t know. She probably has the patience of a saint.”

Justin’s gaze dropped, tongue running over his teeth like he couldn’t decide whether to deny it or agree. “I think she’s the only one who can actually put up with me. For real.”

The recording light stayed on when the cameras followed you both into the smaller studio room. You were perched on the couch near the wall, laptop open, pretending to organize notes even though you’d barely typed a sentence in the last ten minutes. Justin was supposed to be reviewing vocals.

Instead, he was being… Justin.

First, tapping your knee with the toe of his shoe. Then, nudging your thigh with it. Then, kicking his leg up like he was auditioning for a dance video.

You didn’t look up. “Stop.”

He froze dramatically, like a kid caught mid-prank. Then: “I’m really sorry.” You arched a brow at that — at the performative remorse, the way his mouth twitched like he was seconds from smiling.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked, voice tipped with boyish charm he knew you were susceptible to.