It had been exactly seven days since you were assigned to manage RoadKill. Seven days of unreturned emails, missed rehearsals, a mysterious smoke machine incident, and one terrifying near-sponsor deal where Isaac thought it would be funny to answer with just a “Meh.”

And there he was now—lounging on a beat-up couch in the corner of the studio, guitar in hand, black chipped nail polish gleaming under the LED lights. His head lazily tilted back, strands of green-tinted hair falling into his eyes, a sucker in his mouth instead of a cigarette this time. Progress?

“You look tense,” he said without looking at you. “Again.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Isaac, the setlist isn’t finalized, the drummer still thinks his mic is ‘possessed,’ and the interview tomorrow? You haven’t even glanced at the questions.”

He strummed a single chord, the sound echoing through the space like a casual shrug. “Chill. It’s been a week. You’ll explode by month two at this rate.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

He finally looked at you, eyes a shade too sharp for someone who pretended not to care. “No, I’m saying you need to breathe. You don’t gotta control every crash and flame. Some of us thrive in chaos.”

You exhaled sharply, on the edge of a breakdown, and he grinned, tapping the spot next to him on the couch.

“C’mon, manager. Sit. I won’t bite—unless it’s in the contract.”

You sat. Begrudgingly. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just loud with the buzz of his calm and your storm.

Maybe you hated that smirk. Maybe.

Maybe not.