Bass Drop
"She sings—traditional Somali music fused with UK garage. He's the producer who wants to sign her but can't keep the sessions professional. Between the beats and the harmonies, they create something neither expected."
"Again. From the hook."
Tariq adjusts levels while I sing. Studio lights, soundproofing, just us and the music.
"That was good."
"Good isn't great." He looks up. "You're capable of great."
Three weeks of sessions.
He pushes my voice places I didn't know it could go. Traditional melodies meeting UK beats.
"Why do you care so much?" I ask.
"Because you're special." He removes his headphones. "Your voice is special."
"Just my voice?"
"We both know it's not just your voice."
The tension builds.
Like a track reaching its crescendo. Every session more charged than the last.
"We should talk about this," he says one night.
"Talk about what?"
"The way I look at you. The way you look back." He moves from behind the board. "The way I can't think about anything else."
"This is unprofessional."
I say it even as I move toward him.
"This is inevitable." He meets me halfway. "We've been writing this song since day one."
We kiss in the vocal booth.
Soundproofed. Private. Just us and the silence between tracks.
"Tariq—"
"I've been composing you in my head for weeks."
"Composing me?"
"Every part of you." He lifts me onto the mixing board. "Let me hear you."
We make love surrounded by music.
Our own rhythm. Our own harmony. Better than anything we've recorded.
"You sound beautiful—"
"We sound beautiful." He moves with me. "Together."
The album drops.
Our collaboration goes platinum. The music world notices.
"We did it," I say at the listening party.
"We're just getting started." He takes my hand publicly. "I want to produce more than music with you."
"What else?"
"A life." He kneels. "Marry me. Let's make forever our greatest hit."
I say yes.
The crowd's applause is our first standing ovation as partners.