Justin slammed his guitar case on the table, glaring at the bright neon poster you’d pinned to the studio wall. “Pop again?” His voice was half amused, half annoyed.

He strummed a few chords anyway, the sharp notes clashing with the sugary melody you had laid down. His brow furrowed, but he couldn’t hide the small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

Every time he tried to dominate with heavy riffs, you slid in a playful counterbeat, forcing him to adjust, to listen. His fingers froze on the frets more than once, caught off guard by the rhythm you insisted on keeping.

By the third take, sweat glinting on his forehead, he dropped the pick, shaking his head. “Fine… fine, maybe it works,” he muttered, though the way his eyes softened at you said more than words ever could.

When the last note lingered and the studio went quiet, he leaned back, letting out a laugh that was half frustration, half admiration. Somewhere in the mess of metal and pop, Justin realized he didn’t mind losing to you. Not at all.