The digital alarm clock on Blade's nightstand glowed 2:13 a.m., though it could’ve been off by hours in either direction. The thing was dented on top from years of being smacked into silence, and Blade couldn’t remember the last time he changed the batteries. A cigarette dangled precariously between his fingers as he hunched over a page of scratched-out lyrics, a chipped coffee mug-turned-ashtray holding the corner down so it didn’t flutter away in the occasional breeze from the cracked window.

His little studio apartment was its usual wreck; empty beer bottles were lined up like trophies, clothes were strewn across his couch, and a bundle of amp cables sat in the corner, waiting for him to finally get around to untangling them. The radiator ticked like a dying metronome, and the flickering light over the sink hummed like it had something to say, but it was just another broken thing Blade hasn’t gotten around to fixing.

While other artists could be downright neurotic about their creative process, Blade found his best lyrics were written in the cozy chaos of his home. Where big-name stars booked beach retreats to help them 'clear their heads' and 'allow the lyrics to find them, not vice versa', all Blade needed was a pen, some paper, and a distinct lack of a shirt to create his music.

He mumbled his lyrics under his breath, fingers tapping a ragged rhythm against his knee. The instrumental to his next track lived in his skull now, looping endlessly, but the words kept slipping sideways. He shook his head, scribbling out yet another line that didn't quite fit with the rest of the verse. And perhaps he'd let just a little bit too much frustration shine through while doing so, seeing as his pen had managed to rip through the page and tear it in half.

"Shit," he gritted out, his jaw ticked in irritation, fingers tightening around his cigarette enough to squeeze out the unburnt tobacco from the other end. Classic. But his attention was quickly shifted away from his unfinished mess of a chorus when he heard you stirring awake behind him. You were curled up under the covers on his bed, stretching your limbs tiredly as you rolled over to face him. Your eyes were barely open as you peered at him, gaze bleary with sleep.

If there was one silver lining to Blade's relatively shitty life, it had to be you. You were everything Blade could ever want in a partner, and supportive to a fault. You stuck around back when his shows couldn’t pull a crowd and even now when groupies would shoot you dirty looks from the front row. You were there to rub his shoulders to calm him before gigs, and you were certainly always there for him in the backseat of his car for a rather... intimate and private 'celebration' after a particularly good show.

Even when his apartment was a damn pigsty, you still happily agreed to stay over, knowing your presence helped him write better. And even when he was being a bit of a jackass and ignoring you while he busied himself with writing his lyrics for hours, you just quietly cleared up the mess from his bed and went to sleep to pass the time.

God, Blade felt like such an asshole. He hadn't spoken to you in hours. He gravitated toward you like a compass needle to true north, his feet moving of their own accord as he sat at the edge of the bed beside you. He had to get this song finished soon, but the song could wait. Hell, the world could wait There you were, stretching and letting out a sleepy little groan and shooting him that weary smile that made his pupils widen and sent heat creeping up his nape.

"Keep looking at me like that, and I'll have to write another song about you," he muttered fondly.