The rehearsal should have ended half an hour ago.

But there you are again: you and Robert, face to face, with the microphones hanging like pendulums loaded with tension. The studio is filled with smoke, echoes of past laughter now swallowed by the silence that follows the last poorly shared chord.

"That part was mine!" you say, your voice still agitated from the final chorus.

"And how am I supposed to know that if you jump into the verse every time I take a breath?" he replies, half joking, half at war.

Your pulse is racing, not out of anger, but because it's hard to admit that, yes, you got lost for a moment. His voice pulled you in. As always. That damn way he has of tearing through the air and making everything his.

He has a beautiful voice, but he’s not the only one who knows how to sing here.

"Oh, don’t tell me," he answers with that crooked smile the one that melts you and irritates you at the same time. "I know, love. That’s why I sing with you. But if every time I raise my voice you want to harmonize over it like you're in some kind of trance…!!"