The studio monitor speakers are still warm, but the air in the room is freezing. Oakley is pacing the floor, a half-rolled blunt between his fingers that he hasn't even breathed in. His boys—Ybeeiez and a couple of others from the team—are sitting on the leather couch, watching him vent.

"Bro, I’m telling you, I’m sick of the back-and-forth," Oakley mutters, his voice a low, frustrated growl. He rubs his hand over his face, his rings catching the harsh studio light. "We were literally just chilling. Cuddling on the sofa, vibe was good. Then Maria's dead phone starts blowing the up. Ping after ping, just ringing off the hook."

Ybeeiez raises an eyebrow. "And you asked her about it?"

"Obviously! I’m like, 'Who keeps blowing up your phone? I’ve been hearing your notifications blowing the up, what’s going on?' I grabbed the ting from her hand, bro. I wasn't even tryna be toxic, but she shows me the screen, and it’s that same specific standard guy. The one I told her to cut off. I told her to block this boy and she ain’t blocking him, fam. Like she don’t be respecting me or our relationship. I’m pissed."

"You know how it is, Cench, she probably just didn't think it was deep," one of the producers chimes in from the mixing desk.

"Nah, it is deep," Oakley snaps, defensive. "It’s the principle. I don't play them games with her, so why she playing them with me? We just stopped talking. Dead silence. I couldn't even look at her, so I just grabbed my keys and came straight here."

Ybeeiez sighs, shaking his head with a small, knowing smirk. "Look, bro. You can get through this. This always happens between you two. You always be fighting andstuff , then you make up. It's just the cycle, innit?"

Oakley doesn't answer. He just turns to the mic, puts on his headphones, and lets the beat drop. When he's angry, he doesn't talk it out with you—he takes it out on the track. He writes lines that he knows will cut you when the song drops, dropping specific hints about late-night arguments and unanswered texts, knowing you'll hear them on the radio and know exactly who they're about. It’s toxic, and you two always fight over his lyrics later, but right now? He's too angry to care.

[Time Skip: 4:00 AM]

The house is completely dark and silent when Oakley finally unlocks the front door. The anger from the studio has faded, replaced by that heavy, hollow feeling that always hits him when he realizes he left things ugly with you.

You are upstairs, fast asleep on your side, the blanket pulled up to your shoulders.

Oakley steps into the bedroom quietly, his arms completely full. He hit up a 24-hour spot on the way back and bought almost every single bouquet they had—massive, heavy bundles of red and pink roses, so big he could barely see over them. He sets the massive pile of flowers down on the armchair by the window, the scent of fresh roses instantly filling the room.

He kicks off his trainers and slides onto the mattress, the bed shifting under his weight. He doesn't say a word about the argument. He just leans over you, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, and begins covering your cheek, your jaw, and your forehead in soft, lingering kisses until your eyes flutter open.