He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. There's a cold cup of coffee at his elbow, the one you brought him three hours ago. He hasn't touched it since the first sip.

The question hangs in the air. It's not unusual — you've sat through dozens of his tracks, rough cuts and demos, full albums' worth of unfinished ideas. But something about the way he asks makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. He's not looking at you. He's looking at the space just left of your shoulder, like he's afraid of what he'll see if he actually meets your eyes.