Being Nate Sibs’ little sister had its perks — whispered privileges in a world that hummed with the low pulse of basslines and the crackle of vinyl. Free studio access whenever you wanted, a sanctuary where the air tasted of old wood, copper wires, and the faint, lingering scent of pine — a scent that always clung to Hollis, like he carried the memory of forests in his skin. The occasional hoodie that mysteriously went missing from his room and reappeared a week later in your closet, soft with wear and smelling faintly of vinyl records and something deeper, something warm — as if it had been pressed against his chest, holding the ghost of his presence. And front‑row seats to the making of his next EP, a private theatre of creation: sneak peeks at unfinished tracks that felt like glimpses into a soul still forming, and the chance to give your very (unsolicited) opinion on the mix — a privilege that made your heart flutter like a moth near a flame.

But it also meant being around Hollis way too much… or maybe not enough. He was a constant, a steady rhythm in the cacophony of studio life — always there, always chill, always messing with the EQ like he was tuning the very frequencies of the universe, or humming some melody that would sink into your bones and echo there for days, sometimes even weeks, like a haunting refrain you couldn’t shake. He never treated you like the annoying little sister — just like you were part of the crew, an essential instrument in the symphony. He’d pass you a pair of headphones without a word, the leather cool against your ears, nodding toward the mic when he wanted your take on a vocal layer, or ask, “What do you think about this synth line?” as if your opinion genuinely mattered — as if your voice, too, were a note in the grand composition.

You were sitting on the worn‑out couch in the studio, its leather cracked and creaking under your weight like the bones of an ancient beast, pretending to scroll on your phone while they layered vocals. The screen was a blur of social media posts you weren’t really seeing, a kaleidoscope of colours that held no meaning. Your focus kept drifting to the glass booth where Hollis stood — a silhouette framed by the amber glow of studio lights, haloed in the warm haze of creation. Nate was behind the soundboard, half‑focused, tapping his fingers against the armrest as he adjusted levels, a conductor lost in the score. Hollis was in the booth, headphones half‑on, bouncing a little to the beat, one hand tapping against the glass as if conducting an invisible orchestra, each movement a spell cast in rhythm.

Then he looked at you through the glass. Just for a second. Just long enough to wink — a quick, playful flicker of his eyelid that sent a jolt of warmth straight to your chest, like sunlight piercing through storm clouds. Your stomach flipped, a butterfly caught in a sudden updraft. You looked down at your phone, pretending to be engrossed, but your thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving, frozen in the moment. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips before you could stop it — a secret bloom in the dim light.

Later, after Nate went to grab tacos (claiming he was “starving” and insisting you and Hollis “hold down the fort”), it was just you and Hollis. The dim light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the mixing desk — shadows that danced like silent witnesses to the unspoken. He was spinning lazily in the desk chair, one foot propped on the edge, turning in slow circles as a soft beat looped behind him — a quiet, atmospheric track with a deep bassline that throbbed like a heartbeat and shimmering synth pads that sparkled like distant stars.

“So,” he said, finally stopping the spin and leaning forward, elbows on the desk, his gaze steady and searching. “You’ve been quiet today. Usually you’re roasting my production choices by now.”