"Tension"

A dull, rhythmic bassline thumped faintly through the thick, soundproofed walls of the studio annex. The air in the small recording booth felt dense and slightly stale, smelling faintly of ozone and old carpet.

Airi sat on a stool in the control room, one of Ren's backup studios, which was tucked away in the sprawling basement complex of the Eclipse Entertainment tower. It was their latest secret meeting spot—less risky than a public cafe, though far more intimidating. The massive mixing console, bristling with knobs and lights, loomed between them like a technical mountain range.

They had been working intensely for three hours, moving from lyric edits to demo recordings. Today, they were finalizing "Dual Resonance." Ren was focused on the mixing board, his dark hair falling forward as he scrutinized the EQ levels.

"Try the final chorus one more time, Airi," Ren requested, his voice amplified slightly by the console's internal mic. "Just the harmony track. It still lacks the necessary lift. You’re singing too far back in your mouth."

Airi sighed, her shoulders slumping. Her attempt at singing was becoming the day’s central frustration. She felt a burning, familiar shame. She could construct entire emotional worlds on paper, but she couldn’t physically inhabit them.

"I can't," she admitted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I know how it should sound—I hear it perfectly in my head—but when I open my mouth, it just dies. It's flat and airy. It’s better if I just sketch the melody on the keyboard and you sing it."

Ren looked up from the console, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He bypassed the mic and spoke directly across the control panel. "No. That’s not how collaboration works, Komatsu-san. The feeling is connected to the voice. If you can’t express the feeling, the song will be missing its heart, no matter how perfect my pitch is."

He stood up, circling the console to stand right next to her chair. The proximity, in the small, dim room, was immediate and impactful.

"Listen," he said, his voice dropping in register, low and instructional. "The difficulty isn't technical. It’s mental. You are trying to control the sound so much that you're strangling it. When you sing, you are Airi, the composer, the quiet girl who hides in the office. You’re singing out of politeness."

He reached a pale hand out, his gaze intently fixed on her. He didn't touch her, but his index finger hovered a few centimeters above the curve of her diaphragm. "The only way to sing 'Dual Resonance' is to sing it as the Airi who is secretly writing her truth in a messy bun. The Airi who is fearless, who doesn't care if the sound is perfect, only if it is real."

"It's easy for you to say," Airi countered, her voice tight with resentment. "You have the voice of a lullaby. You’ve never had to fight to be heard."

A shadow crossed Ren’s face, a quick, painful flash that revealed more than he intended. "You think my voice came packaged perfectly in a million-yen box? The agency spent two years polishing away every natural inflection until I sounded like an expensive synthesizer. I sing perfectly, yes. But I haven't sung truthfully until I started singing your music. That's why I need you to find your truth, too."

He lowered his hand and placed it lightly on her shoulder, a rare, deliberate gesture of physical contact. His touch was warm and steady. "Close your eyes. Don't think about the pitch. Don't think about the mic. Think about the feeling of that moment we wrote the bridge—that moment when the idea finally clicked, and the song took flight. Sing that feeling."

Airi listened, closing her eyes. She felt the firm, gentle pressure of his hand, the subtle warmth radiating from him. She focused not on the embarrassing sound she was about to make, but on the memory: late-night coffee, the shared rush of discovery, the moment she realized this intensely controlled idol was also a kind, searching, fellow artist.

She took a deep breath, pushing the air from her core, just as he had taught her.

I only learned to breathe when you stood by my side, / A silent promise in the overwhelming tide.

The notes weren't smooth; they wavered, but the sound was fuller, resonating with a fragility that held genuine emotion. The pitch was surprisingly close to where it should be. When she finished, the silence in the booth felt electric. She opened her eyes.

Ren removed his hand from her shoulder, but his focus didn't break. His eyes were wide, a mirror of the shock and quiet triumph she felt. "That's it, Airi," he whispered, the professional shell completely gone. "The genuine article. That note you hit—it was flawed, but it was honest. That is the texture the track needs."

He leaned in again, his presence enveloping her. The air was charged with a mixture of artistic validation and something much deeper. He wasn't looking at her as a composer, or even as a secret collaborator; he was looking at her as the singular person who understood him.

"You have such courage when you write," Ren murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "Why do you hide it when you sing?"

Airi’s heart was pounding. She felt a dizzying pull, the gravitational force of two people who had been circling each other finally collapsing inward. The harsh lights of the studio seemed to soften, and the distant thumping bass faded away. This was the same precarious, perfect moment they had shared in the cafe, only now it was magnified by the close, soundproofed isolation of the studio.

She knew, undeniably, that he was going to kiss her. And the terrifying realization was that she wanted him to. The tension became unbearable. She could feel the heat radiating from his face, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then, the familiar survival instinct kicked in—the sheer panic of stepping off the cliff of safety and into the unknown territory of romance with a celebrity. She couldn't allow it. A relationship would jeopardize the contract, the money, and the precious artistic bubble they had built.

Airi pushed her chair back, hard, scrambling to put distance between them. "I have to leave," she announced, grabbing her scribbled notes and stuffing them frantically into her messenger bag.

Ren froze, pulling back sharply, his face instantly guarded, the openness snapping shut like a vault door. "Airi, wait. What's wrong? We just found the key to the track."

"No, nothing's wrong with the music," Airi stammered, avoiding his intense gaze. She needed a reason, a quick, decisive lie that couldn't be argued with. She racked her brain for a plausible excuse that wasn't the cat.

"I promised Saki I would meet her at the internet cafe tonight," she lied clumsily, pulling the first believable excuse from her real life. "She has a major presentation tomorrow, and I told her I'd be her practice audience.”

It was a weak lie, but Ren didn't challenge it. He merely studied her, his eyes narrowed slightly, betraying a flicker of disappointment—or was it hurt?

"Major presentation?" he repeated flatly. "Of course. Very urgent corporate work."

He stepped away, returning to his spot behind the console, the massive piece of technology now acting as the clear, imposing boundary between them.

"I'll finalize the mix," he said, his voice now entirely professional, cool, and distant. "Please email me your notes on the second verse structure for 'Sunrise City' tonight. We'll continue tomorrow."

"Right. Notes," Airi mumbled, already halfway out the door. "Thanks for the lesson, Ren."

She fled the studio, leaving the hum of the technology and the confusing, intense heat of his proximity behind her. She knew she was a fool. She had just run from a moment that might have been the start of something incredible.

But as she rode the silent elevator up toward the bustling, ordinary world, Airi clutched the rough papers in her hand. She had gotten better at singing. She had money. She had her secret. And that, she convinced herself, was more important than the dangerous, terrifying possibility of letting Ren Ichijō truly into her life.