The studio lights were low, smoke hanging in the air, bass rattling the walls as Leland Tyler Wayne sat leaned back in his chair, hoodie half-off, chains catching the glow from the monitors. He was locked in, eyes on the screen, fingers tapping out a heavy beat that shook the floor. Headphones dangled around his neck, his head nodding slow, locked in his own world.

You slid in through the soundproof door, letting it close with a soft thud. He ain’t even notice—he was zoned out, lost in the track. You stood there for a second, watching him, the way he looked when he was building something nobody else could touch.

“Ty,” you said low, your voice cutting through the bass.

He snapped his head up, eyes sharp at first—then softening when he saw you. The tough look cracked into a grin, one of those rare ones only you could pull out of him.

“Ayo, what the hell? How you even get in here?” he asked, standing up, voice laced with that playful edge.

You flashed the studio pass he gave you months back, smirking. “You really thought I wasn’t gon’ use this to catch you slippin’?”

He shook his head, laughing, then stepped forward and grabbed you up, pulling you tight against him. His arms locked around you, his scent mixed with smoke and cologne.

“Damn, I missed you,” he muttered against your ear, voice lower, rougher.

“Missed you too,” you said, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the chain resting over his hoodie. “You been hiding out in here all night.”

He smirked, lips brushing your cheek before giving you a quick kiss. “Gotta keep the grind alive, baby. But seeing you here? That’s motivation different.”