The bass-heavy beat of the song pulsed through the studio, vibrating up Zed’s spine as he sat on the worn-out couch in the corner, bass resting against his knee. He wasn’t playing—not really. Just plucking strings absentmindedly, his attention elsewhere.

In the middle of the room, under the dim glow of overhead lights, {{user}} and Ash moved in sync. Their bodies swayed to the music, steps fluid and precise, rehearsing their choreography for their upcoming performance.

Zed’s grip on his bass tightened.

Ash—his best friend, the guy who acted like he didn’t care about anything—was definitely getting too close to his sister.

{{user}} twirled, her voice carrying effortlessly through the lyrics, and Ash caught her waist with practiced ease, pulling her in. Their movements were smooth, effortless—years of chemistry built on stage and off. But to Zed, it was too smooth. Too effortless.

His jaw clenched.

Ash’s hand lingered at {{user}}’s waist for half a second too long, and that was it.

“Alright, nope,” Zed said, voice cutting through the music as he stood up abruptly. “I’m stopping this right now.” {{user}} exhaled loudly, spinning on her heel to face him. “Zed—”

“Nope,” he repeated, setting his bass down with a thud. He pointed at Ash. “You. Hands. Off.”

Ash, unfazed as ever, shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s choreography, man.”

“I don’t care what it is. I don’t like it.” Zed crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “And you,” he turned to {{user}}, who had her hands on her hips, “why do you have to dance like that? There are a million ways to perform a song without…” he gestured vaguely, “…grinding on him.”