2:37 a.m.

Your hand fumbles across the nightstand, fingers brushing past a glass of water, a half-dead phone charger, before finally curling around your phone. The screen blinds you for a second.

Anyone messaging at this hour can wait until morning.

Then you see the name.

The hallways stretch endlessly, dimmed to their overnight settings—emergency lights casting long shadows across polished floors. Your footsteps echo. Too loud. Too lonely.

The recording studio sits at the end of the corridor. You’d know that door anywhere. You’ve walked through it a thousand times.

It’s slightly open tonight.

A familiar melody leaks into the hallway. Low. Unfinished. Looping on repeat like a thought that won’t let go.

You push the door wider.

The first thing you see is him.

Sprawled across the leather couch like he owns it. Black hoodie, sleeves pulled over his hands. Headphones hanging loose around his neck. The glow of the monitor paints his face in soft blue light, catching the silver ring in his lip.

The second thing you see is the way his face changes.

Brightens. Instantly. Like someone flipped a switch.

He glances at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. His smile softens.