That night, long after the lights in the studio went out, Rian stayed behind.
Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but he sat at the console, the glow of the monitor soft against his face.
The song played on repeat.
Lian's voice filled the room — gentle, trembling, real.
It shouldn't have gotten under his skin.
He'd worked with hundreds of singers before. Brilliant ones. Beautiful ones.
But there was something about *that* voice.
The way it cracked, healed, and cracked again — like it wasn't trying to be perfect. It just *was.*
Rian leaned back, closing his eyes.
He could almost see him again — Lian in the booth, eyes closed, shoulders trembling, giving everything he had.
"You really are dangerous," he muttered under his breath.
He didn't mean it in a bad way.
Just that Lian's presence made him feel things he'd buried a long time ago — the warmth, the ache, the quiet yearning he didn't have time for.
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