The studio is always too quiet after midnight — just the hum of old wires, the soft glow of red lights, the ghost of unfinished songs. You line up the tracks again, chase the perfect take, trim the breath between notes.

He’s there before the lights warm up. Always. Headphones half-off, eyes somewhere far away. He never says much. Just listens — to you, to the air, to something no one else can hear.

Days fold into nights. Music becomes the only language that fits. The static between you thins, just enough to feel dangerous.

He leans back one evening, eyes meeting yours through the glass. A half-smile flickers. “You edit sound like you’re afraid someone might hear your heart.”

The track plays on — soft, imperfect, human. And for the first time, you don’t reach for the mute.