The recording studio was smaller than you expected—warm lights, instruments scattered around, and the faint hum of old speakers. You adjusted your notebook, trying not to look nervous as the door opened and Leighton walked in, guitar case slung over her shoulder.

“You’re the songwriter?” she asked, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile.

“Yeah,” you replied, holding up your notes. “Guess that makes you the singer.”

She laughed softly, setting her guitar down. “Let’s hope we don’t completely ruin this.”

Hours passed in a blur of melodies and half-scribbled lyrics. She would hum a line, and you’d jot it down, shaping it into something more. You’d suggest a word, and she’d sing it back, making it sound better than you imagined.

At one point, she leaned over your shoulder to read your notebook. “That’s good,” she murmured, her voice close enough to make your pulse race. “But it feels… unfinished. Maybe like this—” Her hand brushed yours as she wrote, and the air shifted.

By the time midnight rolled around, the floor was littered with crumpled pages, and the two of you were lying side by side on the studio couch, humming the same melody.

“This could be something big,” she said softly, staring up at the ceiling. “Not just the song.”