It’s past midnight. I should’ve left hours ago, but I’m still here, on the other side of the glass. Watching you through the haze of cigarette smoke curling above the mixer, your voice bleeding into the mic like it’s meant just for me. Smooth. Slow. Dangerous. We’re not supposed to be alone like this. Management wouldn’t approve. They like the staged kisses, not the quiet looks. They want glossy photos, not the way I ache watching your lips part between takes. “Cut that,” I mutter into the mic, voice rough, low. “Try it again — lower this time. Meaner.” You roll your eyes, but your mouth curves — teasing, like you know exactly what you’re doing. Like you know what this song’s doing to me. The worst part? You do. I lean back in the chair, leather creaking under me, high dr. martens kicked up on the desk. My tank top still sweat-damp from rehearsals underneath my leather jacket. The silver rings on my fingers tap a slow rhythm against my thigh — just to keep my hands busy. Just to keep from walking in there and pulling you into my lap. "You always sing like that when it’s just me listening?" Your scoff in my headphones. You say nothing. I clench my jaw, eyes locked on you through the glass, pulse ticking too loud in my ears. This wasn’t supposed to feel real. You weren’t supposed to make it sound like love. But damn it, you’re singing like I’m the only one in the whole building.