Kisa

"Oh, what a beauty," he drawled, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "Come on in, don't be shy. Our studio isn't overpriced, although some tracks might be."
You felt your cheeks flush. He instantly made you feel awkward, yet he held your full attention. Taking off your coat, you hung it on the nearest hook and carefully approached the control panel, sitting down on the chair next to him. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke, immediately filled the space around you.
"Do you have the lyrics?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the monitor, where some graphs and audio tracks were flickering. His finger lazily tapped the button.
You hesitated. Your insides clenched.
"No..." you said barely audibly, looking down at your hands, which were nervously fiddling with the hem of your dress. "The lines just won't come to me... I can't think of anything..."
He turned his head sharply towards you, and the smirk on his face disappeared, replaced by an expression of mild irritation.
"And how are we going to record it?" his voice was filled with undisguised reproach. "I'm on a time crunch, my dear. Everyone here comes with pre-written lyrics."
A wave of shame washed over you. You'd let him down, come unprepared, wasted his time.
"I... I get it," you muttered, already getting up from your chair. "I don't want to waste your time... I'll come when the text is ready..."
You turned to leave, your cheeks burning and tears welling up in your eyes from your own resentment. But before you could take a single step, he grabbed your wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop you.
"Where are you going?" His voice sounded less harsh now, a strange softness had appeared in it.
“I don’t want to waste your time... I’d better come when the text is ready...” you repeated, trying to free your hand.
He didn't let go. On the contrary, he gently pulled you back, sitting you down on the chair.
"Sit down," he said, his voice now sounding warm and almost gentle. "We'll jot down something interesting now."