An hour later, I was set up in Jin-ho's studio with a proper desk, a comfortable chair, and my laptop open to a blank document. Jin-ho was across the room at his own setup, headphones around his neck, working on what sounded like a complex arrangement. True to his word, he wasn't interrupting — just present, a quiet anchor in my peripheral vision.
The AURORA files had arrived in my email, and I'd listened to the current version of the bridge three times, making notes, letting the melody sink into my bones. The producers were right — something was off. The emotion wasn't landing. The words were technically fine but felt hollow, disconnected from the soaring chorus that preceded them.
I started writing.
It came easier than I expected, the words flowing out of me like water finally released from a dam. Maybe it was the quiet of the studio. Maybe it was the knowledge that I wasn't alone, that Jin-ho's steady presence was just across the room. Maybe it was the way the incomplete bonds in my chest seemed to settle when I was creating, like my omega understood that this was part of who I was, part of what made me me.
I lost track of time completely, which was how I knew the work was good. When the words came like this — effortless, inevitable — it meant I'd tapped into something real.
"Here." A voice broke through my concentration, and I blinked up to find Tae-min standing beside my desk, holding out a glass of water and a small plate of sliced fruit arranged in a careful pattern. "Jin-ho-hyung said you've been workingfor three hours without a break. Min-jun-hyung said to make sure you hydrate. Hwan-hyung said to tell you that you're doing amazing." He ticked each item off on his fingers with exaggerated seriousness. "And Jae-won-hyung said to remind you that you can stop whenever you need to."
"You're the messenger for all of them?" I asked, accepting the water and taking a long drink, only now realizing how thirsty I'd become, my throat dry and scratchy.
"I volunteered." Tae-min admitted, a sheepish grin spreading across his face, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. "I wanted to see you. They all did, but we're trying to give you space to work." He hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, then added, "Is it going okay? The writing?"
"Yeah." I glanced at my screen, at the lines of lyrics that had poured out of me, surprised by how much I'd accomplished. "It's actually going really well."
"Good." Tae-min's grin widened, bright and genuine, his whole face lighting up like sunshine breaking through clouds. "That's really good, Keira."
He left after extracting a promise that I'd take a real break soon, and I turned back to my work with a strange warmth in my chest. They were checking on me. All of them, in their own ways, making sure I had what I needed without smothering me.
It was such a small thing. Such a simple thing.
It meanteverything.
By late afternoon, I had a completed bridge and two verses for AURORA that I was actually proud of. I also managed to polish off the Somi revisions — they'd only needed minor tweaks, thankfully. I sent both files to Mina with a note apologizing again for the delay, then leaned back in my chair and let out a long breath, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness.
"Done?" Jin-ho's voice came from across the room, and I looked over to find him watching me, headphones now hanging around his neck, his dark eyes curious.
"For now." I stretched, my spine popping in several places, a groan of relief escaping me. "Got the AURORA bridge done and the Somi revisions finished. Mina will probably have notes, but the hard part is over."
"Can I hear the AURORA track?" Jin-ho asked it carefully, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed, like he was prepared for me to say no, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh.
"It's not for SIREN." I warned him, even as I pulled up the file, my hand hovering over the trackpad. "Completely different style."
"I know." Jin-ho crossed the room and settled into the chair beside my desk, close enough that his knee brushed mine, sending a spark of warmth up my leg. "I still want to hear it. I want to hear everything you write."
Something fluttered in my chest at that — at the simple sincerity in his voice, at the way he looked at my work like it mattered just because it came from me.
I hit play.
The demo track filled the studio, the melody I'd been working over for hours, and then my lyrics came in — the bridge that had given the producers trouble, now reworked into something that ached with longing and hope.
Jin-ho listened without speaking, his eyes closed, his expression unreadable, completely still except for his fingers tapping the rhythm against his knee. When the track ended, he was quiet for a long moment, and I found myself holding my breath.
"That's beautiful." Jin-ho said it simply, like a fact, like he was stating something obvious and undeniable, his eyes opening to meet mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter. "Theway you shifted the emotional register in the second line — it makes the resolution in the chorus hit harder. And the imagery in the third measure—" He shook his head slightly, something like wonder in his eyes. "How do you do that? Find exactly the right words?"
"Practice." I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise but also glowing under it, warmth spreading through my cheeks. "Trial and error. A lot of deleted drafts."
"It's more than that." Jin-ho was looking at me with that intense focus he got sometimes, like he was trying to see through to my core, like he was studying something precious and rare. "You understand emotion. How to make people feel things through words. That's a gift."
"Coming from you, that's—" I stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence. Coming from him, the composer behind some of SIREN's most emotionally devastating tracks, it meant more than I could say.
"Come on." Jin-ho stood, offering me his hand, his long fingers extended toward me. "You've been working for hours. The others are making dinner — well, Min-jun is making dinner and the others are pretending to help while mostly getting in his way. You should be there."
I took his hand, letting him pull me to my feet, and followed him out of the studio.
The kitchen was chaos — Hwan was attempting to chop vegetables while Tae-min critiqued his technique with exaggerated hand gestures, Min-jun was stirring something that smelled incredible while trying to shoo both of them away from his workspace with a wooden spoon, and Jae-won was sitting at the counter with his laptop, ostensibly working but clearly just watching the disaster unfold with barely concealed amusement, his lips twitching.
