You weren’t sure what you expected from your first real industry gig — maybe some moody producer with too much coffee or a diva with control issues. But definitely not Krish Kapoor.

Infamous. Notorious. Reckless. Every music blog had a name for him, and none of them were kind. But you? You didn’t care. You were here to write lyrics, get paid, and leave. Simple.

Or so you thought.

When you walked into the studio, the first thing that hit you wasn’t the thump of bass or the stale scent of beer cans.

It was smoke. Cigarette smoke. And him.

Krish was lounging in a cracked leather chair like he owned the world, a cigarette dangling from his lips, ink running up his forearms, curses falling out of his mouth between smirks and strums of his guitar.

You cleared your throat. He didn’t look up.

So you tried again.

“You’re the lyric girl?” he interrupted, exhaling a trail of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. “You look like you write poetry on windows during rain.”

You blinked. Was that supposed to be an insult?

He leaned back, propped his boots on the amp, and eyed you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

You instead crossed your arms and told him how you don’t like the smoke. That if he wants to work, he’ll need to put that out.

A long silence.

Krish looked you dead in the eyes, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and flicked it across the room without a care.

“Fuck it.”