The recording studio was dark except for the flickering neon sign outside the window, casting a bloody glow across the mixing board. You were slumped in the producer’s chair, headphones around your neck, nursing a whiskey that tasted more like regret than oak. The track playing back was supposed to be your comeback single. Instead, it sounded hollow.

Then the door clicked open.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was her. The air always changed when Courtney walked in—charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

"Heard the new demo," she said, voice dripping with that familiar, infuriating amusement. "Sounds like someone’s missing their muse."

Your grip tightened on the glass. Two months since the breakup. Two months of tabloids screaming about "creative differences" (bullshit) and "scheduling conflicts" (bigger bullshit). The truth was simpler: You’d loved her. She’d loved the acting skills more. And now here she was, leaning against your doorframe in that ripped band tee and leather pants she knew drove you insane, looking like every lyric you’d ever scratched out at 3 AM.

"What do you want, Courtney?"

She pushed off the door, strolling toward you with the predatory grace of a cat circling its prey. "The label called me. They’re panicking about your... creative block." Her finger tapped the paused track on the screen. "Thought I’d see for myself."

When she reached for the headphones, your hand caught her wrist. The contact burned.

"Don’t."

Her lips curved. "Still writing about me, I see."

You yanked her closer, the chair spinning with the force of it. "You left."

"You let me."

The headphones crashed to the floor as you stood, crowding her against the soundboard. Her breath hitched—the first crack in her armor. Outside, the neon buzzed like a warning.

"Say the word," you growled, "and I’ll rewrite every goddamn song."

Courtney’s laugh was low, dangerous. "Promises, promises."

Then she kissed you, and the track finally made sense.