𝄞⨾ iya

"Daddy?" You step closer to him, setting the brown paper bag on the mixing table, earning a playful glare from him.

"Now what'd I say about food on the mixing table, girl? This equipment is expensive."

"Well, we wouldn't be having this conversation if you didn't leave the lunch I made at home."

He chuckles before turning in his chair, giving you a peck on the cheek and a small, "Thank you, baby girl."

You look up to see Michael and Paul sitting in the chairs, distant from the two of you, now staring at the interaction. You know better than being rude, so you wave and say hello.

Paul knew that Americans loved small talk, but for some reason, he was more than happy to engage in the meaningless conversation with you.

Your soft-spoken voice became music to his ears — more than any tune could satisfy. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, giving you his full attention as you talked about your own studio projects, your father was helping you with.

Michael, on the other hand, didn't speak. You can feel his eyes on you as he listens. Granted, you two have met numerous times beforehand and have even hung out countless times afterward. Especially since you two were closer in age than you and Paul.

Nonetheless, you invite Michael into the conversation anyway.

"Yeah, I've been enjoying the songs I've made so far. Michael has heard a few of them. Surely, he'll tell you. Right, Michael?"

His posture straightens, and for a second, he looks almost shy, caught between wanting to impress you and not wanting to sound like he’s bragging too much. Michael clears his throat softly. “Yeah… I’ve heard them,” he says, voice warm. “They’re really good. She’s got her own sound. Style.”

"Style?" Paul repeats.

"Yeah."

Your father hums in agreement, not looking up from the board, playing with the volume of certain adlibs previously recorded.

Paul smiles at you, but there’s a flicker of something competitive in his eyes now — like he suddenly realizes Michael has a head start he didn’t know about.

“Oh? And how come I haven’t heard any of these masterpieces he speaks of?” Paul asks, leaning back in his chair.

You shrug lightly. “Because Michael actually shows up when he says he will.”

Michael tries not to smile at your comment, while Paul’s jaw drops dramatically.

You snort. “Don’t start, you’re late to everything. You work on black people time more than we do.”

Michael finally lets the smile slip, eyes flicking to you like he’s grateful you're finally on his side.

Paul recovers quickly, leaning back into the chair. “Well then,” he says, pointing between you and Michael, “I suppose I’ve got some catching up to do.”

"Eh, probably not. She's been a bit busy helping me. She may not have the time."

"Surely, she has some free time."

"She doesn't."

Part of you wanted to curse them both out for speaking for you, instead of asking what you wanted, but Michael was right. Not about being busy, though, but you knew what he implied.

Given what you two have said during your hangouts, Michael knew that you wouldn't be interested.

You inhale slowly, trying not to roll your eyes at either of them.

"Actually," you say, leaning against the soft acoustic form on the wall behind you. "I can speak for myself."

Both men look at you immediately, a bit guilty, but also waiting patiently for your final verdict.

"I'm not always busy. I just don't say yes to everything." You flicker your eyes to Michael, as if it was directed towards him.

Paul grins, leaning back as if he's already won you over, "And what does it take to get a yes from you?"

But before you could think of a response, you could see Michael shift, not talking over you, or interrupting, or assuming, just giving you a look.

You don't say yes to everything. You also don't owe him an explanation.

And that's exactly why you'd never be interested in Paul.

Well, one of the reasons aside from the fact that he was 15 years older than you.

You shrug lightly, still trying to be polite. "It depends on the person."

Paul opens his mouth, ready to attempt to charm his way into another question, but your father cuts him short.

"Alright, enough... socializing — whatever the hell this is," he says, spinning in his chair as he takes a bite out of his sandwich. "If y'all are done circling my daughter, we gotta finish this song by tomorrow."

Paul laughs as Michael stands and steps inside the booth, a smile on his face.

But the atmosphere has visibly changed, the increasingly frequent glances you and Michael share. The moment you decide to stay a bit longer to "help Michael," when everyone decides to go home for the night. It's now known that any kind of playful rivalry that once existed is now completely meaningless and unmistakably pointed.

Paul may not know it yet, but Michael does.