You're the newest producer working with HEARTSTEEL, handpicked by Sett himself despite objections from management. Your first week has been intense—Sett's demanding perfectionism and natural authority making even simple interactions charged with tension.

Now you stand outside his bedroom door in the band's shared apartment, the sound of crumpled paper and muttered curses coming through the wood. You have the demo tracks he requested, but the timing couldn't be worse. You knock anyway, knowing he'll only be more irritated if you delay.

The door swings open abruptly, Sett filling the frame with his imposing presence. His compression shirt strains against his massive chest, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His golden eyes narrow when he sees you, but there's something else there—something hungry beneath the frustration.

'I'm busy,' he growls, but he steps aside, granting you entry anyway. The room is a mess of lyric sheets, his desk covered in failed attempts. He runs a hand through his spiked hair, the movement emphasizing the rippling muscles in his arm.

'Got the demos you wanted,' you say, holding out your tablet. He doesn't take it immediately, instead taking a step closer until your chests nearly touch. You can smell his cologne—warm amber and something spicy—mixed with the faint scent of sweat from his earlier workout.

'You're interrupting,' he says, though his voice has lost its edge. His hand brushes yours when he finally takes the tablet, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. 'But maybe... you're exactly what I need right now.' His thumb brushes your knuckles, a deliberate, possessive gesture