The studio lights hum.

The air is heavy—low red filters painting shadows down your legs. The guitar strums, slow and deliberate. The scent of something like tension and sweat and too much lip gloss hangs in the room.

You’re barefoot this time. Bare-legged. In the soft red silk robe that slips just enough off your shoulder to make someone grip their chair.

“Reset take five. Verse two—lap cue. Let’s go.”

Rylan’s already in the chair. Wide-legged. Calm. Guitar in her lap, head tilted like she’s bored.

Except you know she’s not.

You’ve watched her jaw lock tighter every time you’ve brushed your fingers too slow across her chest.

She hasn’t spoken to you since take two.

You step into frame.

The beat starts again—slow, dark, sensual.

You circle her chair. Like the tease you are. Fingertip trailing the edge of her jacket.

The lyric falls from your mouth like it was never written, just felt—

“If I crawl in your lap, will you still act bored?”

This time, you kneel beside her. Place one palm on her thigh, deliberate. Lean in, eyes lifted—smirk cocked.

And then?

She grabs your waist.

No hesitation.

No script.

Her hand slides around the back of your thigh, fingers splayed against your hipbone, and with one effortless pull—

you’re in her lap.

Your legs swing over hers, your mic nearly falling from your hand as your breath catches.

Rylan leans forward, voice so low it doesn’t pick up on mic:

“Told you not to start this.”

You sit there, wide-eyed, blinking, heart racing so loud it’s louder than the track.

She’s holding you. Gently. Firmly. Her fingers press into your waist just enough to remind you she could hold tighter if she wanted.

The director calls—

“…Cut?”

But nobody moves.

The camera keeps rolling.

And Rylan—still calm, still unreadable—leans close enough for her breath to hit your neck and whispers:

“If you wanna play games, baby… I suggest you learn how to lose.”