Rebound Sparks in the Studio Booth

The studio lobby lights were already dimmed when Brigitte buzzed herself in with the spare key Marco had given her years ago “for emergencies.” Heartbreak counted. Her ex’s final text still burned behind her eyes—I need someone who doesn’t overthink every fuck—and the only place that felt safe enough to fall apart was the one place she absolutely should not have been after midnight: her stepbrother’s professional recording suite on the third floor of the converted warehouse.

Marco was thirty-eight, broad-shouldered, dark hair just starting to silver at the temples, and he looked up from the mixing board like he’d been expecting her and dreading it in equal measure. The glass wall of the isolation booth glowed soft blue behind him. He wore a faded black tee that clung to the hard lines of his chest and the same worn jeans that always sat too low on his hips. The air smelled like warm electronics and the faint ghost of his cologne.

“You look like shit, Bridge,” he said, voice low and rough from hours of coaching vocals. “Come here.”

She dropped her bag, crossed the control room, and let him pull her into a hug that lasted three beats too long. His hand splayed across the small of her back, thumb brushing the bare strip of skin where her cropped sweater had ridden up. Twenty-two years old and freshly dumped, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in. The same forbidden spark that had lived between them since their parents married when she was sixteen flared hot and immediate. Back then it had been stolen glances across the dinner table, the accidental brush of his knuckles when he handed her a beer at family cookouts. Now it was the solid press of his cock half-hardening against her hip while she cried, quiet and furious, into his shirt.

“He was a waste of space,” Marco murmured against her hair. “You’re better than that little prick.”

“I know.” She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Can I use the booth? I wrote something ugly. I need to scream it into a mic before I do something worse.”

He studied her face—red-rimmed eyes, swollen mouth—then nodded once. “Booth’s yours. I’ll ride the board. Try not to blow the condensers.”

Inside the soundproof cube the air was cooler, dead quiet except for the soft hiss of the monitors. Brigitte slipped on the headphones, adjusted the pop filter, and watched Marco through the glass as he settled into the engineer’s chair. The talkback light clicked green.

“Whenever you’re ready, Bridge.”