You're there, as always, on the edge of the scene. A quiet corner of the studio, light bouncing off the cameras, and the Pink Floyd guys talking again.

You're not part of it. Not because you can't be, but because you choose not to. They have their space, their history and you have yours, the one that isn't broadcasted, that can't be explained, that doesn't need an audience.

You're sitting, listening, legs crossed, your gaze fixed on something that is nothing. You watch in silence. But you know you're there. They know too. Especially him.

And you notice it.

Roger is starting to be himself. That condescending tone. That sharpening gaze, the kind of comment that seems irreverent and idiotic. You've seen it so many times. Not with you. With them.

So you lift your gaze.

That's all. One look. Nothing more. And it's enough.

Roger sees you. And it's as if someone flipped a switch inside him. The sarcasm stops in his throat. The sentence dies halfway through. It's not fear. It never was. It's something else. It's respect. It's control. It's something only you can bring out in him.

He shuts his mouth. Literally. His lips press together slightly, he averts his gaze, sits up straighter in his chair. The change is almost imperceptible to others. But you see everything.

Richard keeps talking. Gilmour nods. Nick lets out a soft laugh. And you lower your eyes again, as if nothing had happened. As if you hadn’t just tamed the storm with a single glance.