Most would call Barty egocentric. He did things with only one thought in mind: himself. No one else. He never cared to correct anyone’s assumptions, because, to most people, they were right.

But not to his friends. Not to you.

Regulus, Dorcas, Evan, and Pandora had wandered off on lunch break with the rest of the crew, leaving you and Barty alone in the dim studio. You were lead singer, after all—the part you were working on mattered.

The two of you sat amid cigarette butts and coffee cups, scraps of music sheets strewn across the floor. For once, Barty wasn’t ogling you like he wanted to devour you on alive—a rare sight, considering the tabloids had been having a field day with it after every show. You both knew it. Pretended not to.

“You’re hitting the last part too high,” Barty said, squinting at the music sheet he’d nicked off Regulus—knowing full well it was the piano arrangement, not the bassline, but not giving a damn.

You didn’t lift your head from your pencil-stained notebook, the end of your pencil tapping steadily against your lip. He didn’t need to look to know. He knew you, quirks and all.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Or don’t,” he added after a beat, voice lazy, teasing. “Star of the stage and all that. You’d pull it off even if you sang it in a contralto voice.”