The studio buzzed with quiet chaos—cables tangled across the floor, an amp humming lazily in the corner, and the sharp scent of coffee mixing with the stale air of too many late nights. Reggie leaned against the peeling wall, bass in hand, trying to look relaxed while his heart did drum fills inside his chest.

She was here.

Again.

Clipboard tucked under one arm, oversized headphones around her neck, hair pulled back the way she did when she meant business. Not that she ever didn’t. She moved through the room like she owned it—which, technically, she did now. Her name was on the lease. Her word was law.

Their producer.

And his ex.

The band wasn’t famous. Far from it. Still playing tiny venues, hustling for streams, praying the right person might stumble across their demo. But she believed in them—somehow. Even after everything.

Even after him.

She didn’t look at him when she gave notes, but her fingers always tightened just a little on the clipboard when he spoke. And when their eyes did meet—accidentally, inevitably—it felt like static. Like something half-buried trying to claw its way back up.

He thought he’d ruined it. That night. The words he didn’t mean, the ones he didn’t say. She’d left with glassy eyes and shaking hands, and the silence afterward was louder than any stage they’d ever stood on.

But then she came back. Not for him—for the band. For the music.

That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway.

Still, when she nodded in approval at a bassline he barely thought through, it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. And when she laughed—really laughed—he forgot to breathe.