The third day began with tension as thick as smoke.
Maya arrived at Studio B fifteen minutes early, hoping for solitude. Instead, she found Julian already there, seated at the piano with a cup of coffee in one hand and a legal pad in the other. He looked surprisingly unkempt—dark circles under his eyes, stubble along his jaw, and hair tousled like he'd spent the night wrestling demons. For a fleeting moment, Maya wondered if she was one of them.
"Couldn't sleep," he said without looking at her.
She dropped her bag and pulled her hair into a ponytail. "You want sympathy, write a ballad."
He smirked but didn't push. Instead, he slid the notepad toward her. "Chorus idea. Rough, but it's got something."
Maya scanned the lyrics. It wasn't terrible. It was vulnerable. Honest, even. The kind of admission Julian rarely made unless he was drunk or desperate.
"I'll work with it," she said after a pause. "But we're changing the second line."
He looked up, intrigued. "What's wrong with it?"
"You're romanticizing the damage. I'm not here to write your redemption arc."
"Maybe I want one."
She met his gaze. "Then earn it."
They got to work. The hours passed in a blur of notes and lyrics, reworks and vocal harmonies. Maya's voice wasn't meant for the spotlight, but she still sang the drafts softly, testing cadences, refining tone. Julian followed her lead. She noticed he didn't fight her direction the way he used to. Not as much.
At least not until she tried to change the bridge.
"I think it's stronger if we don't end it on a note of regret," Maya argued.
Julian leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. "But regret is honest. That's the whole point."
"No, guilt is lazy," she shot back. "It absolves you without forcing change."
He stood suddenly, pacing. "So what? You want anger? A bloodletting?"
"I want accountability, Julian. I want you to stop hiding behind pain and actually confront what you did to me—to us."
Julian turned to face her, his eyes dark. "I never stopped confronting it."
"Bullshit," she snapped. "You kept playing the victim in interviews. Blaming the industry. Blaming the pressure. You never once said my name. Not even when they asked about the girl behind the music."
Silence stretched between them like a taut string.
"I was protecting you," he said at last.
"No. You were protecting your image."
She grabbed her lyric book and walked to the far side of the studio, putting distance between them. Her hands trembled slightly as she flipped pages. She hated how easily he could still get under her skin. She hated that part of her still wanted to believe he could change.
Julian walked over slowly. "Let me make it up to you. Let me prove I can do this right."
She looked up, wary. "How?"
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Stay late tonight. Just us. No Zara. No producers. Let's finish this track without anyone breathing down our necks."
Maya hesitated. Her mind screamed no, but her body betrayed her—just like it always had when it came to him.
"Fine," she said, voice low. "But this is about the song. Nothing else."
Julian nodded, but the glint in his eye said he'd already blurred the lines.
The studio took on a different energy after dark. The lights were dimmed, casting golden shadows across the equipment. Outside, the city buzzed with its usual chaos, but inside, there was only them.
Maya sat at the keyboard while Julian played a slow, bluesy riff on his guitar. They worked in quiet harmony for nearly an hour. For the first time since she returned, it almost felt like the old days—when the music came first and everything else melted away.
But then came the moment.
Julian stopped playing. His eyes found hers across the piano. "Remember the night we wrote 'Runaway Fire'?"
She nodded slowly. "The storm knocked out the power. We lit candles and recorded it on your phone."
"You wore that ridiculous oversized hoodie," he said, smiling. "The one that said 'Introverts Unite' across the chest."
"I still have it."
"I loved you that night," he said, suddenly serious. "I think I always did."
Her heart stuttered. "Julian…"
He stood, came around the piano. "I know I broke us. I know I used you. But I never stopped needing you."
"You needed what I gave you. That's different."
His hand brushed hers. "Tell me you don't still feel it."
She wanted to say no. She wanted to push him away. But the gravity between them was magnetic. Dangerous.
Julian leaned in slowly, giving her time to retreat. She didn't. His lips met hers softly at first, testing. When she didn't pull back, he deepened the kiss, one hand cupping her jaw, the other pressing against the small of her back.
Her breath hitched as the kiss turned heated, urgent. His touch awakened memories buried too deep. Skin against skin, breath against breath. She pressed herself against him, her hands running over his chest, reacquainting herself with the contours she had once memorized.
He slid his hand beneath her shirt, fingers splaying across her stomach before rising higher, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips. The tension between them ignited like gasoline to flame. His lips traced a trail down her throat, making her knees weak.
They stumbled toward the couch, mouths still tangled, and he guided her down gently. His body covered hers with a familiar weight, and his hands worked with urgency and care, peeling her clothing away piece by piece like she was a secret he wanted to remember forever.
She arched into his touch as he explored her curves with reverence, his mouth leaving searing kisses across her collarbone, down her chest, along her hips. Every sigh, every moan was a note in a forgotten melody they had once composed together.
Their movements were fluid, desperate, and synchronized, as if their bodies had remembered what their hearts tried to forget. Maya clung to him, nails digging into his back, breath catching in her throat as he drove her higher. He whispered her name like a confession, like an apology.
When they finally shattered, it was quiet and consuming. Their breaths slowed, mingled in the dark. The world outside ceased to exist.
Afterward, they lay tangled in silence. Maya stared at the ceiling, her heart thundering with a cocktail of lust and regret. Julian's arm draped across her waist. He nuzzled her shoulder.
"I missed this," he murmured.
She rolled away from him. "Don't."
"Maya—"
"I said don't." She sat up, pulling her shirt over her head. "That shouldn't have happened."
"It felt real."
"It felt like history repeating itself."
Julian sat up too. "You think I planned this? That I seduced you to win something?"
She turned on him, eyes blazing. "Didn't you? Isn't that what you always do? Use what we had to pull me back in?"
He looked genuinely wounded. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it? Nostalgia? A weakness?" She grabbed her bag. "We can't work like this."
"Maya—"
She paused at the door, her voice steady but her hands shaking. "Finish the track on your own. Or don't. But I'm done mixing business with whatever this is."
Julian didn't follow her. He just sat there, half-dressed, watching her leave like he knew he'd just rewritten their ending again—and not for the better.
Outside, the night air was cold and sobering. Maya wrapped her arms around herself and walked quickly, head down, mind reeling.
She'd crossed a line. Again.
But this time, she wasn't the girl who would pretend it meant something.
This time, she would finish the song. And then, she'd walk away for good.