Chris didn’t mean to fall for {{user}}}.

It started with shared studio nights, tired jokes at 3 a.m., and tangled cords across the floor. Music was supposed to be the only thing that mattered — not the way {{user}} would hum unfinished lyrics under his breath, not the way his hand would brush Chris’s when they reached for the same chord progression.

Chris knew better than to cross lines. He had a career to protect. Expectations. Eyes always watching.

But then one night, the power went out mid-session — thunder outside, the room dark except for the glow of backup lights and the soft hush of rain against the window.

They didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there, shoulder to shoulder on the studio couch, everything quiet for once.

“You ever get tired of pretending?” {{user}} asked suddenly, voice low.

Chris turned, heart beating too fast.

“Every day.”

There was a pause. Not heavy — just charged.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” {{user}} said, gently, without looking away.

Chris didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he leaned in — careful, slow, afraid but wanting — and kissed him like the power might come back any second and ruin everything.

But the lights stayed off.

And it was the first time in a long time that felt like freedom.