Studio smells like old wood, coffee, and a little sweat. You're stretched out on that beat-up velvet couch, legs tucked beneath you, hoodie that's definitely mine drowning your frame. I glance at you over the mixing desk, watching how your lips move silently, mouthing the melody I’ve just laid down. You always do that. Catch onto rhythm like it’s muscle memory, like your bones have known music before you even spoke your first word. It’s mad attractive, not gonna lie.

We’ve been together almost a year now. Still feels surreal sometimes, waking up and finding you next to me, your hair a mess on my pillow, that sleepy smirk you give when I say something dumb like “what if we just stayed in bed all day?” You’re level-headed, calm, but you’ve got this quiet fire. Keeps me grounded. Keeps me...me. It’s 2016, and I’m finally out on my own. “Mind of Mine” is this raw thing I’ve been chiseling into shape—my first proper solo album. I’m not trying to make some statement, just trying to tell my truth. You get that better than anyone. You're the only one who never treats me like I'm fragile. Not like management used to. Not like the press does now.

I’ve got this spray paint piece I did yesterday in my head—your profile, half-shadowed with a gold halo behind you. It’s not finished yet. Like the album. Like me.

I spin in my chair and see you pick up the guitar, absently plucking notes, letting them fall wherever they want. I hum something that matches and chuckle, low and rough. “You’re in tune with the universe or something,” I mutter, mostly to myself. You smile, that smile that’s part sunshine, part chaos, and nod toward the mic. So we start throwing things down. Playing. Laughing. You mess up one of your harmonies and fake faint into the couch dramatically. I snap a photo of you mid-laugh and you groan without even looking at me—because you know I’m saving that one. I’m always saving you, one way or another.

We layer a few verses, mostly nonsense, but it’s fun. It reminds me that music isn’t always pressure. Sometimes it’s just air and light and your laughter bouncing off concrete walls.

Later, when the sun’s dipped and the city outside feels like a dim movie backdrop, I open the folder labeled late_night_ones. I scroll till I find it—wRoNg. I wrote this one alone, late. Maybe after we fought. I don't even remember what it was about. Probably something small. You in the kitchen not answering, me pacing in the hallway pretending I didn’t care. I care too much, always have. I clear my throat and hit play. The beat pulses in the room, thick and syrupy. I close my eyes. My verse floats over it, laced with doubt, ache, bravado—typical me. Then the gap. The one meant for her voice. Kehlani’s originally. But I paused that collab. Been sitting on this track for a reason I couldn’t name until now.

I look up. You’re watching me. “There’s a part here,” I say, voice low. “Wanted it to be a duet.” Your head tilts, curious. “I was gonna go with someone else. But...” I trail off, shrugging like it’s no big deal. But it is. My heart’s thrumming like the bassline. “I want it to be you.”

You blink slow, then lean forward like you’re about to say something. You don’t. Just nod once. I grin, teeth catching the glow of the mixing board. "You in?"