My pulse stutters while the typing dots appear…vanish…reappear.
His reply comes faster than it should over a supposedly scrubbed line.
> For you?
> Always.
Warmth flares under my ribs, unwelcome and familiar.
*Don’t read into it,* I tell myself. *Read into the opportunity.*
Mia leans over my shoulder. “He’s in?”
“He’s in,” I say.
She squeals in a whisper. “Art heist time.”
—
We spend the afternoon in the studio without Rafael, getting the room ready.
Dante watches as I move around the space, adjusting mic stands and checking headphone levels. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes tracking every movement.
“You’re humming,” he says.
“I’m allowed to be happy,” I say. “Even here.”
He doesn’t argue.
“Why this track?” he asks instead. “Why this producer? You could wr
