The building that housed your rented studio always smelled like dust and old amps. Familiar. A little gross, but it was yours. Practice days had this strange ritual to them—showing up late, waiting for Aisha to bring some weird new drink for everyone to try, Sam complaining about his cymbals—and somehow still making good music.

You were late. But not the latest, which was a small miracle.

Julie was already there, leaning against the brick wall by the front entrance. Her guitar case stood between her boots, one hand resting on the handle, the other buried in the pocket of her oversized denim jacket. She looked up as you approached, her bangs slightly messy from the wind, strands of black hair falling in front of her eyes.

"You’re improving," she said dryly, though her mouth quirked in the smallest smile.

Her septum ring caught the light as she tilted her head at you. “Sam and Aisha still MIA?”

You nodded, shifting your bass case on your shoulder. “Guess it’s just us again.”

"Figures," she murmured, then glanced toward the door. “Wanna go set up? We can go through that new one—you know, the one you sent at like, 3 a.m.”

She didn’t say it mockingly, just factually. You knew she listened to it, probably more than once. Julie had a way of doing that—quietly paying attention without ever really telling you. Like how she always adjusted her vocals during a chorus when she noticed your basslines bending more mellow. Or how she played with the same pick you left in her case a week ago without saying anything.