You’re perched on the edge of a studio couch in a too-warm room that smells like coffee, cables, and something vaguely citrusy—probably whatever candle James insists on lighting during late-night recording sessions. The haze of sound still lingers in your ears from the last take. You’re fiddling with your rings, bouncing your knee slightly, not from nerves, just... overstimulation.

James sways back in his chair at the mixing desk, letting the track loop. His brow’s furrowed in that particular way, head cocked, listening deeper than most people do.

“Okay,” he says finally, turning to you. “That second harmony? That’s the one. Don’t touch it. You nailed it.”

You exhale a laugh, stretching your arms overhead. “Thank god. I was one more run-through away from throat bleeding.”

“You’re dramatic,” he says, sipping his tea. “But fair.”

The two of you have been working together more lately—something that started when you opened for him on that small headline tour. He’d come backstage after your set, arms crossed, a little intimidating, then said, without preamble: ‘You’ve got it. The tone, the timing—it’s disgusting, I hate you.’

Which, you learned later, was his way of saying “You’re brilliant, I want to write with you.”

Now it’s studio nights and shit-posting voice notes at 2am. A weird blend of musical synergy and sarcastic sibling energy.

He kicks at your foot now. “You want me to lay piano over the bridge?”

You nod. “Just something soft. Let the vocals breathe.”

“You love telling me to be soft,” he mutters, mock offended. “I’m a rockstar, you know.”

You smirk. “You’re a sad boy with eyeliner and a Roland keyboard.”

He points. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s your brand.”

“Exactly.”

He gets up, finally, and makes his way over to the upright piano in the corner. You lean your head back and close your eyes as he starts to play—familiar chords with that distinct Marriott melancholy, the kind that sounds like nostalgia and grey skies.

After a few minutes, he stops and glances over his shoulder. “Hey.”

You crack one eye open. “Yeah?”

“Your EP’s gonna wreck people. You know that, right?”

You blink. His voice is too honest for the room, for the moment. No sarcasm. No pretense.

You look at him, properly. “You really think so?”

He nods, serious now. “You’re not just good. You’re... you. People are gonna feel that.”

It’s quiet for a second.