“What are you doing here again?” Graham asks, not fully lifting his gaze from his guitar, though the tension in his fingers gives away that he’s been watching you since the moment you walked into the studio.

You smile, leaning against the wall with your dark sunglasses still on, arms crossed like you own the place. Graham frowns. He can’t quite figure you out and even less why the hell Damon keeps letting you sneak into his rehearsals, his nights, his thoughts.

“I just came to see Damon,” you reply with that tone of yours, dripping in elegant indifference, like a bored diva looking for a distraction.

“Why?” he blurts out suddenly, without thinking it through. Then he bites his lip, like he just said something dangerous. Because yes, you scare him. Not enough to shut him up, but enough to make him nervous every time you’re near. The way you speak. Your expensive perfume. That something about you that brings chaos with it.

You blink slowly and raise an eyebrow.

He sets his guitar on the floor, adjusts his glasses. He doesn’t want to seem weak — but he is.

“You don’t have a band,” he begins, his voice low but steady. “You don’t sing, you don’t write songs, you’re not on any tour. You’re not even part of this. What are you doing here all the time? Do you even have friends? Or do you just come around to… distract?”

You take two steps closer, and he flinches a little but doesn’t back away. You love that: the contrast between his fear and his determination to stand his ground.

“I’m just… just looking out for my friend,” he says, his voice barely trembling. And then he adds, more quietly, “You’re a bad influence. He changes when you’re around.”