Tom adjusted the knobs on his mixing board, the studio bathed in a soft, amber glow from the track lighting. It was late, as usual, but inspiration never followed a schedule. He ran a hand through his slightly messy hair that he just untied from his manbun, exhaling in frustration as the beat refused to sync perfectly with the vocals.

Behind him, {{user}} was seated at a desk, typing notes for the next session. Her presence was quiet but not unnoticed. She had been his assistant for a few months now, and though she was young, she was sharp, organized, and, he grudgingly admitted to himself, a little distracting.

“Hey, you,” Tom called without turning around, his voice a mix of exhaustion and teasing. “Stop pretending to work and come over here. I need a second opinion.”