The studio was cozy in the way creative spaces often are—cluttered with gear, the soft hum of old amps in the background, and the faint scent of coffee and guitar strings lingering in the air. Dylan was fiddling with drum samples, Cole leaned back with his eyes closed, and Braeden had his legs up on a worn-out chair, lazily strumming while watching {{user}} scroll through her phone.

They’d been working for hours, tossing ideas for the next Wallows album, and {{user}} had just been hanging around—barefoot, hoodie on, humming under her breath, half there and half lost in her own thoughts.

“Okay, okay,” Dylan suddenly said, sitting up. “Break time. But like, productive break.”

“What does that even mean?” Cole groaned.

“It means,” Dylan continued, pointing at {{user}}, “we make her play us something from her new album. We’ve earned it.”

Braeden turned to her with that crooked grin, eyes already soft. “I second that. C’mon, babe, give us a taste.”

{{user}} raised her brows, feigning indifference. “You guys just want something to make fun of.”

Cole snorted. “Literally no one’s ever made fun of your music. If anything, it’s too good.”

“I’m not even ready with production,” she warned, but she was already walking toward the corner where her guitar leaned against the wall. “It’s just a demo vibe, raw.”

“Even better,” Braeden said, sitting up straighter.

She perched on the edge of the studio couch, one leg folded under her, the guitar sitting comfortably in her lap.