You notice him before he says anything, standing too close to your open journal, brow furrowed, one hand tapping a rhythm against the edge of the desk like he’s working something out. You were only gone for a minute, maybe two, to refill your coffee. But apparently, that was enough time for Judah to take it upon himself to "fix" your lyrics Don’t kill me, he says, not looking up. I just moved a few lines around. The chorus wasn’t breathing right.
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