Lex sat in the back of his car, the city lights bleeding past the tinted glass like distant stars. The low hum of tires against pavement filled the space, but Lex's mind was elsewhere—on the notebook Jason had dropped in front of him.
The pages were tattered, edges curling like they'd been through hell and back. Scrawled lyrics stretched across every line, messy but raw—unfinished, like thoughts cut off mid-sentence.
Quinn's handwriting was sharp, slanting, like she'd pressed too hard into the paper. The words weren't perfect, but they didn't need to be.
Lex could see it immediately—she wasn't writing songs. She was cutting pieces of herself onto every page.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the number Jason had finally texted him.
It was late, and Quinn wasn't going to appreciate the call. But Lex didn't care.
Because when something this good is buried, you dig it up.
He pressed dial.
The phone rang four times before a voice crackled through, groggy but sharp.
"Who the hell is this?"
Lex smirked faintly. "Quinn?"
There was a pause, long enough for Lex to hear faint background noise—music, maybe, but the distorted kind that leaked from old bar speakers.
"Depends. Who's asking?"
Lex's tone stayed smooth. "Lex Latham. I'm a producer—"
Quinn snorted. "Great. Another one. Listen, if this is about recording demos, I'm not interested. I don't write for hire anymore."
Lex's grip on the phone tightened, but he kept his voice calm. "I'm not looking for a hire. I'm looking for someone who can pull the best out of artists that don't know what the hell they're doing yet."
Quinn's voice was flat. "That's every artist."
Lex chuckled under his breath. "You're not wrong. But I've got three sitting in Jason Wilde's studio with more potential than direction. They need someone who understands how to turn losing into lyrics."
The line was quiet, but Lex knew she hadn't hung up yet.
"Jason gave me your number," Lex added, letting that sit for a second. "He said you might want something new."
Quinn's voice was slower this time, a little less defensive. "Jason's an idiot."
Lex smiled faintly. "But he's not wrong."
There was a faint sound on the other end—glass hitting wood.
Quinn exhaled through the receiver. "I don't write happy songs, Latham. If you're looking for pop hits, find someone else."
Lex's voice dropped, more serious now. "I'm not looking for happy. I'm looking for the kind of album people play at midnight when they think no one's listening."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like Quinn was weighing the words, testing them for cracks.
Finally, she spoke. "Jason said you're working with new artists."
"Yeah. Aiden Frost's leading it, but there are two others. They've got stories—"
Quinn cut him off. "Everyone has stories. Doesn't mean they know how to bleed them onto paper."
Lex's eyes flicked toward the city passing outside the window. She was still hesitating.
"Quinn." His voice softened, just enough to shift the tone. "You don't need to fix them. Just write for them. Give them something to hold onto."
Another pause.
Then—"I'll think about it."
Lex's smirk returned. "You won't regret it."
Before Quinn could respond, Lex ended the call, slipping the phone back into his coat.
She would think about it.
And by the time she walked into the studio, she'd already have the first song in her head.