My whole life, I’d imagined my first day at my first real job. Music wasn’t just my passion; it was my identity, the driving force behind every choice I ever made. For as long as I could remember, it had consumed me. It was why every attempt at dating during school ended in disaster. Not because I didn’t care, but because I could never focus on anything—or anyone—for long.

More than once, I’d forgotten a date or failed to call or text. It wasn’t intentional. It’s just that music always occupied so much of my mind there wasn’t room for much else. So when I landed a position at the largest music production company in the country, Aurelia Entertainment, it felt like the culmination of everything I’d worked toward.

The excitement carried me through the front doors that first morning, a buzzing energy that fizzled almost immediately.

The reason? They stuck me in a shared space with ten other people.

In my excitement, it hadn’t occurred to me that a brand-new producer wouldn’t get a bigger space to work in. Instead, I was crammed into a room where people constantly moved, talked, and breathed far too close. To some, ten people might not sound like a crowd. Those people would be wrong. The noise, the proximity—it was overwhelming.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, artists from the company wandered into the space, asking questions I couldn’t process, let alone answer. My mind was too busy screaming for escape.

I snapped.

Grabbing my laptop and notebook, I bolted. I had no idea where I was going, just that I needed somewhere quiet. My panic led me to the first unlocked door I could find—a storage room filled with music equipment. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was silent, and that was all I needed.

I sank against the far wall, opened my laptop, and put in my earphones. With the familiar comfort of music surrounding me, the tension began to ebb. Time blurred as I lost myself in the rhythms and melodies.

I didn’t notice the shadow until it fell over me.

I startled so hard I nearly knocked over my laptop. My heart leapt into my throat as I scrambled to my feet, pressing my back against the wall. Standing in front of me was a stranger—taller than me by a head, his sharp features framed by tousled silver blonde hair that looked effortlessly perfect.

He wore gray sweatpants that clung to his hips, paired with a loose, sheer white t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination. He smelled faintly of cologne—or maybe just him—and it was enough to make my cheeks heat against my will.

“Who are you?” His voice was low, melodic, smooth, and laced with a kind of casual authority that made me feel small. The sort of voice that sent vibrations down your soul when he spoke. A reluctant shiver passed through me.

I opened my mouth but couldn’t seem to form words.

“Are you a fan?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

That did it.

My fists clenched at my sides as frustration surged. A fan? Did he think I was some kind of stalker sneaking into the building for a glimpse of my favorite celebrity? Did I look that pathetic? That desperate? I took a steadying breath before forcing out a tight, “I work here.”

The stranger didn’t react. His dark eyes swept over me, his expression unreadable. The scrutiny made me bristle, my initial anger giving way to something I couldn’t quite name.

He stepped closer, and my breath hitched. His hand moved toward me, slow and deliberate. I froze, my heart pounding against my ribs as I watched his fingers brush past my shoulder.

A microphone. He was reaching for the microphone on the shelf beside me.

Relief flooded me, quickly followed by a wave of embarrassment so strong it made my cheeks burn. My pulse still hammered in my ears, and I didn’t know if it was from the fear, the proximity, or something else that I was afraid to put words to.

He pulled back slightly, the microphone now in his grasp, but his gaze didn’t leave mine. His dark eyes held an intensity that rooted me in place, making it impossible to look away.

“Relax,” he said, his voice low and velvety, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he found my discomfort amusing.

Relax? Was he kidding? My fists clenched at my sides as a sharp retort formed on my lips—but it never made it out. He took another step closer, his presence overwhelming me.

The air between us seemed to crackle, heavy with unspoken words and something I didn’t dare name. His hand came up again, not for the microphone this time, but to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. The feather-light touch sent a shiver down my spine.

I should have stepped back. I should have said something—anything—but I didn’t. I could have, there was plenty of room to escape, but I was mesmerized.

When he leaned in, I stopped breathing. The moment stretched, every nerve in my body on high alert as his lips hovered just a whisper away from mine. My hands found their way to his chest, intending to push him away. Instead, I held on, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring myself.

And then he kissed me.

It was slow at first, tentative, testing the waters. But when I didn’t pull away, his lips grew more insistent, his hand cupping my jaw with a surprising gentleness. Heat surged through me, and the world faded until there was nothing but him—his scent, his warmth, the feel of his lips moving against mine.

I don’t know how long it lasted. A minute? An hour? Time had no meaning. When I finally broke away, gasping for air, I realized my hands were still on his chest. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made my stomach flip.

Reality hit me like a freight train as oxygen filled my lungs and brain again. My laptop lay abandoned on the floor, and I was standing way too close to a man I didn’t even know. My cheeks flushed as I took a shaky step back, breaking the spell.

“What the hell was that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

I cursed under my breath, grabbing my laptop and fleeing the room. My legs carried me down the hallway as fast as I dared, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Song!”

I froze at the familiar voice and turned to see Turbo, one of the producers who’d been at the company longer than me and an old friend. His arm slung casually over my shoulders as he grinned. “What’s up? You look distracted.”

Before I could respond, the sound of a door opening behind us made me stiffen.

The stranger stepped out, looking completely unaffected. His eyes briefly met mine, and I thought I saw a flicker of something—jealousy?—when he noticed Turbo’s arm around me.

I pushed the thought away.

“I think I’ve seen that guy before,” Turbo mused, frowning as the stranger disappeared down the hallway.

Desperate to redirect the conversation, I turned to Turbo with a smirk. “Are you skipping work?”

The accusation worked like a charm. Turbo flushed, sputtering about needing my opinion on a song. I chuckled, dragging him toward the cafeteria.

As we walked, I tried to focus on anything but the stranger, but my thoughts kept circling back to him.

And to the fact that, for the first time in my life, I was questioning everything I thought I knew about myself.

_______________________

Two weeks later, I found myself sitting at our favorite local restaurant with my best friend, Pink. Pink, a lipstick lesbian and a whirlwind of energy, was all things loud, cheerful, and unapologetically feminine. We’d been inseparable since kindergarten, but our demanding jobs had made catching up a rarity these days.

I hadn’t told anyone about the incident in the storage room—not even Pink. I’d been doing my best to shove the memory into a mental box, sealed and forgotten. But the guilt and confusion lingered, and I figured if anyone could help me make sense of it, it was her.

As I recounted the events, carefully glossing over explicit details, Pink’s reaction was predictably dramatic. She laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair, earning a sharp kick from me under the table.

“Do you mind not alerting the entire restaurant?” I hissed, my cheeks heating with embarrassment.

“Oh, wait until I tell Mom!” she cackled, wiping tears from her eyes.

“You are not telling Mom,” I snapped, narrowing my eyes. “This isn’t funny, Pink. What am I supposed to do?”

She finally reined in her laughter, though her lips still twitched with amusement. “Song, you made out with a stranger in a closet. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“What if my boss finds out?” I muttered, sinking lower into my chair.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Pink dismissed with a wave. Her grin, however, was far too pleased for my liking. “So… does this mean you’re into men now?”

I could hear the distaste in her tone as she said “men.” Pink had never been subtle about her lack of patience for the male species, save for me and the three other guys in our close-knit circle.

“No,” I replied instinctively, then hesitated. “Or… I don’t know. It happened so fast. I wasn’t exactly thinking about him being a man.”

Her brows arched in interest. “And you have no clue who he is?”

“None. He didn’t tell me his name,” I admitted. “But judging by his physique, he might be a personal trainer or something.”

Pink dissolved into another fit of laughter. “This is SCANDALOUS!” she squealed.

I groaned, letting my forehead hit the table.

“What’s scandalous?”

The familiar voice made me jerk upright. Benz, one of our closest friends, was standing by the table, his trademark grin firmly in place. Before Pink could launch into her dramatic retelling, I cut her off.

“Nothing. Pink’s just being her usual self,” I said, giving her a pointed glare. She shrugged innocently, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“Big!” Pink greeted warmly as our third friend arrived. Both Benz and Big took seats, the question of Big’s girlfriend’s absence hanging in the air as usual. No one asked anymore. We all knew she avoided our gatherings because of Pink. Raised in a conservative, religious family, she’d never been able to reconcile her upbringing with Pink’s identity. For the sake of avoiding unnecessary tension, we’d collectively agreed to leave the subject alone.

“How’s the new job going?” Benz asked me.

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could get a word out, Turbo made his usual boisterous entrance.

“They gave him his own studio already!” Turbo exclaimed, dropping into the last chair with a dramatic flair. “A big one!”

“It’s not that big,” I grumbled, but he wasn’t listening.

“I had to wait six months for mine, and I can barely stretch my legs, but Song gets a couch!” Turbo’s tone was accusatory, though his pout made it more amusing than anything.

Benz ignored him entirely. “Are you coming to Pink’s birthday next week, Song?”

I nodded. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Big got us a club for the night,” Pink interjected with a proud grin. Her birthday was always a spectacle, and this year seemed no different.

“One of the guys at work knows the owner,” Big said casually. “Pulled a few strings.”

While the group dove into party details, Pink leaned toward me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Can I come see your new studio tomorrow?”

I frowned. “Don’t you have a show to prep for?” Pink, officially an assistant TV producer but unofficially the one running the entire set, was always drowning in work.

“We’ve got a couple of days before filming starts,” she explained. “I’m all yours.”

“Fine,” I relented. “But you’re staying over at my place tonight. I’m not wasting my morning trying to drag you out of bed.”

Pink grinned, victorious, and clinked her glass against mine. “Deal.”