The studio always looks worse at night.
Not in a tragic way.
Just in a "we live here now" kind of way.
Cables snake across the floor like they've decided to start families. Empty takeout containers are stacked beside the mixing desk. My laptop is balanced dangerously on the arm of the couch because I swore I'd only sit here for five minutes.
That was three hours ago.
Axel is in the armchair across the room, guitar resting against his leg, headphones half on. His laptop glows in the dark like a second moon. He's composing something soft and layered — slow build, steady pulse.
Laura stands by the piano.
She's not playing.
She's listening.
Which is somehow more intimidating.
"Sunny," she says calmly, without looking at me. "That transition is still half a second off."
"It's stylistic," I mumble, clicking furiously.
"It's messy."
"It's expressive."
Silence.
Axel snorts quietly.
I throw a pen at him.
It doesn't reach.
Laura finally sits at the piano bench and presses a single note. Clear. Exact. Perfectly timed.
"That," she says.
I sigh dramatically and fix it.
It's almost midnight.
We weren't planning to stay this late.
We never are.
But we always do.
The studio lights are dimmed now, only the warm lamps left on. It feels less like a workspace and more like a secret hideout. Like the world outside doesn't exist after a certain hour.
I love it here.
I love the way Axel hums when he thinks no one can hear him.
I love the way Laura never slouches, even at midnight.
I love that they never leave me alone.
Even when I insist I'm fine.
My eyes burn.
I blink hard and stretch my legs out on the couch.
"I'm not tired," I announce.
"Of course you're not," Axel says gently.
Laura doesn't comment.
She's sipping tea.
Of course she is.
Who drinks tea at midnight like that and still looks elegant?
I adjust a clip on the timeline.
It blurs.
I blink again.
The last thing I remember is Laura standing to rearrange sheet music.
—
Warmth.
That's the first thing I feel.
Soft weight over my shoulders.
Something tucked carefully under my arm.
I don't open my eyes yet.
I know that blanket.
Axel always folds it twice before laying it over me so it doesn't drag.
I pretend I'm asleep for a few more seconds.
Just because I like knowing.
Across the room, the piano keys press softly.
Not a full piece.
Just Laura testing a melody.
She didn't go to sleep.
Of course she didn't.
There's a stillness in the room that only happens when it's very late or very early.
I hear a faint thud.
Axel's laptop shifting.
Then quiet breathing.
He fell asleep too.
He was sitting in that armchair.
Still wearing headphones.
I smile into the blanket.
They always say they're not tired.
They always are.
—
Light shifts.
I don't know when.
But when I finally open my eyes fully, it's morning.
Soft pale gold pouring through the studio window.
And Laura is playing.
A melody that feels like sunrise stretching its arms.
It's gentle.
Intentional.
Beautiful.
I push myself upright, blanket slipping from my shoulders.
Axel jerks awake at the same time, blinking hard, hair messy, headphones crooked.
He looks confused for half a second.
Then he looks at Laura.
And he just… watches her.
She hasn't changed her posture.
Hasn't yawned.
Hasn't rubbed her eyes.
She looks exactly the same as she did at midnight.
Composed.
Focused.
Unshaken.
The melody crescendos slightly.
I feel it in my chest.
Axel runs a hand through his hair slowly.
"You didn't sleep," he says quietly.
Laura doesn't stop playing.
"I was busy."
Like that explains everything.
Like exhaustion is optional.
Like she simply chose not to be affected.
Axel looks at her like she's something rare.
Like he can't quite understand how someone can be that steady.
I wrap the blanket tighter around myself.
I didn't mean to fall asleep.
But waking up to this?
I can't complain.
The sun rises fully.
The melody lingers in the air.
And for a moment, it feels like this —
this late-night chaos and early-morning music —
is the only world that exists.
They build.
I record.
I help.
And I don't think that's small.
Not really.
—
But when Laura stands and closes the piano lid, she turns to me and says:
"Make sure you get that recorded properly."
Not:
Sing it with me.
Not:
That harmony you added last night was good.
Just:
Make sure you get it.
I nod quickly.
"Of course."
Because that's my job.
Right?