Zane was sitting on the edge of the stage, his guitar resting on his leg, repeating the same riff over and over again. It wasn’t that it sounded bad. It sounded good. But it wasn’t perfect.

“Again,” he muttered to himself.

The venue door swung open with a sharp bang.

It wasn’t time for an audience yet. Only the band and the owner were supposed to be there.

Zane didn’t look up at first. Not until he heard a voice.

“You’re playing it too clean.”

Silence.

That’s when he raised his head.

She was standing halfway into the room, a folder tucked under her arm and an expression that wasn’t admiration… but criticism.

“Excuse me?” he asked, without moving.

“That song isn’t clean. It’s contained rage. You’re softening it.”

No one talked to him like that. Much less someone who clearly wasn’t part of the band.

Zane stopped playing.

“And you are…?”

“The new lyricist. Or at least that’s what I was told. If you still want the song to actually say something.”

A second of tension.

He stood up slowly, letting the guitar hang from his shoulder. He walked toward her unhurriedly, studying her.

“Then write it better,” he said, almost challenging her.

She smiled. Not nervous. Daring him.

“Play it better.”

That was when something shifted.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t sympathy.

It was recognition.

Someone who wasn’t afraid of him. Someone who could hear what he was trying to hide in the notes.

And for the first time in a long while, Zane let the faintest smile curve his lips.

“Stay,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do.”