The apartment was quiet, golden light from the setting sun filtering in through the windows, casting soft shadows across the living room. Records were stacked beside the player, a mellow tune humming gently in the background—one of those slow, dreamy songs Braeden liked when he wasn’t on stage.

{{user}} was curled up on the couch, an oversized hoodie that suspiciously belonged to Braeden swallowing her whole. Her laptop rested on her thighs, though she'd stopped typing a while ago. Her eyes had drifted to him instead—Braeden, hunched over his notebook on the floor, scribbling out lyrics with a concentration so deep his tongue poked slightly from the corner of his mouth.

He looked up, catching her stare. “What?” he asked with a grin.

“Nothing,” she shrugged, biting back a smile. “You just look cute when you’re pretending not to stress about rhyme schemes.”

Braeden dropped his pen dramatically and fell backward onto the rug. “It’s not the rhyme schemes. It’s the existential weight of emotion,” he said, feigning tragedy.

{{user}} laughed. “Oh, my bad. Deep artistic suffering.”

He opened one eye. “It’s very serious.”

She tossed a pillow at him, which he caught with exaggerated skill. “Hey!” he said, sitting up and wagging a finger. “Assaulting a tortured artist? Bold move, babe.”