the studio is breathing like something alive, lights low and buzzing, cables curled like veins across the floor. it’s past midnight — no, later than that— and the clock on the wall has stopped meaning anything. jeff’s hunched over the mixer, curls falling into his eyes, cigarette forgotten between his fingers until the ash drops onto the console. he doesn’t notice. he’s half asleep and fully elsewhere.

you’re on the couch behind him, knees pulled to your chest, watching the way his shoulders tense when he listens too hard. rewind. play. pause. scribble. sigh. there’s a softness to him like this, bare, undone, all that voice bottled up in a tired body.

he turns suddenly, spinny chair creaking, eyes finding you like he forgot you were real for a second. his mouth twists into something small and needy— not quite a pout, not quite a smile.

“c’mere,” he says, quiet, dragging the word out like it costs him energy.

he pats his thigh once, twice. an invitation. a habit.

you don’t hesitate. you never do.

the chair swivels as you settle into his lap, his arms automatically coming around you, loose but sure, like he’s been holding you there all night already. your side presses into his chest, and you can feel the vibration of his breath when he exhales— long, tired, relieved.

“can’t think when you’re over there,” he murmurs, chin resting on your shoulder.

he smells like smoke and coffee and that electric studio air. his notebook is balanced against your knee now, pen scratching between your breaths. chord shapes, half-lyrics, words crossed out so hard the page wrinkles. every so often he stops, presses the pen to his lips, and hums something unfinished directly into your ear.

you hum it back, just a little wrong on purpose.

he laughs under his breath, the sound soft and wrecked. “see? that. you hear it different.”

his fingers absently trace your wrist while he writes, grounding himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him from floating away into the song and never coming back. the room goes quiet except for the pen, the hum of the equipment, the way his heart thuds slow and heavy against your spine.

outside, the city keeps moving. in here, it’s just this — his weight, his warmth, the almost-song taking shape between you.

“don’t move,” he says gently, already drifting again. “i’m almost done.”

and you stay. because you always do.