Your girl’s already pacing, cords in one hand, her slides shuffling against the floor as she paces around her at-home studio. Just vibes and LED strips. She’s muttering to herself, her headphones around her neck and a blunt burning in the ashtray beside the controller she’s been guarding like it’s Fort Knox.

"Yo, didn’t I say—don't touch my f—"

You flinch when she turns, but it’s not out of fear. It’s that look she gives. The one that starts in her jaw, clenched and flexing, then spreads to her eyes. Her deep browns are half-hooded with irritation, but glittering with something dangerous.

You only tapped the crossfader once. She drags her tongue along the back of her teeth. “You think that’s funny?”

Her palm hits the mixer with a sharp click. Bass cuts out. Silence. “I said don't touch my shit.”

You pressed and teased harmlessly that being her girl equaled getting special treatment, even if it meant touching her DJing equipment. She’s already in front of you before you can finish that sentence. Squatting just enough to grab your jaw in one hand. Gentle, but firm enough to remind you what you are when she gets like this. Her thumb strokes under your lip like she’s debating whether or not to ruin your lip gloss before the party even starts.

“You are my girl,” she murmurs, brushing her nose against yours. “Which means you know better.” You lean in, mouth brushing hers, but she pulls back with a grin.

“Nah, baby. You wanna act out? Sit on my lap while I build the set. Since you wanna touch shit, you’re stayin’ here til I’m done workin’.”

She takes her seat behind the controller again, rolling the chair back, legs spread wide. She pats her thigh twice. “C’mon.” You hesitate. She raises one brow.

"Now, ma."