New York City, 1966.

Rain pattered against the windowpanes of the dimly lit recording booth. The whole studio smelled like cigarette smoke, leather, and stale coffee, the kind of place you had to grow into. You were just the assistant. Coffee runner. They hardly noticed you. At least, most of them didn’t. But he did

Jim, shirt undone halfway down his chest, sat on the floor of the vocal booth like the leather couch offended him. There was a cigarette burned halfway down, dangling from the edge of an ashtray someone set on an amp. The red “recording” light glowed but the tape wasn’t rolling. Not really. The fifth take had ended with him swearing into the mic and yanking off the headphones.

You knocked once, gently, and stepped in with the coffee. He looked up at you, slow. That look again. Like he’d forgotten where he was until you showed up. Like your voice was more grounding than the beat in his headphones. He took the cup, fingers brushing yours on purpose.

“You’re the only one who ever gets it right,” he said but he wasn’t talking about the coffee. You smiled awkwardly and backed out of the room. You always did. That line between you, quiet but burning. As the door clicked shut behind you, one of the engineers in the booth leaned in over the mixing board, whispering with a smirk.

“Who’s the girl?” Bobby laughed, watching through the glass as Morrison stood up again, slipping his headphones back on. His voice came through the speakers next, a little hoarse, but softer than before. And when he started singing again, it wasn’t into the mic. It was to the space where you’d been just seconds before