Rewrite the Rules

I miss my boyfriend: Part 65

The California sun rising from the horizon, painting the Los Angeles sky in a riot of orange and pink hues. The dry heat, a familiar embrace after years of visiting, clung to my skin as the taxi pulled to a stop.

A pack of people stood clustered near the main entrance, their excited chatter a dead giveaway – ARMY, for sure. The driver, catching my eye in the rearview mirror, tilted his head towards a discreet side door. "Fans?" he asked kindly.

A wave of nervous excitement washed over me. "Yeah," I confirmed, a smile tugging at my lips. "The opposite side, please."

He chuckled knowingly, pulling the car up to a more secluded entrance. Stepping out, I took a deep breath, the air thick with anticipation. It wouldn't be long now. Every muscle in my body ached with the delicious tension of finally seeing Namjoon again.

He might be surrounded by screaming fans, but tonight, all I cared about was the moment when our eyes would meet, and the world would fade away, leaving only us.

A deep breath sucked in the air, a desperate attempt to calm the frantic fluttering in my chest. "Namjoon," I whispered under my breath, a silent plea for control. Today, my usual rock-solid ability to avoid fangirling was on life support.

I missed my boyfriend.

The Danforth Recording Studio emerged before me, a brick monolith that held the key to my current state of hyperventilation. For weeks, it had been Namjoon's creative sanctuary, the hallowed ground where new solo magic was born. The anticipation, the very thought of seeing him in his element, was a potent elixir that threatened to send me spiraling.

I pushed open the heavy door. A thick wave of soundproofing foam hit me first, its sterile scent blending with the faint, tantalizing hum of distant melodies.

Stepping inside, the reception area unfolded like a scene from a bygone era. Was it a deliberate throwback to the 50s or 60s, or simply the weight of genuine history? Orange and brown hues dominated the space, walls sheathed in aged wood paneling that groaned under the weight of countless gold records and framed album covers.

The dim glow of vintage lamps and the warm pulse of the interior in a muted light. It was a cave of creativity, the air thick with a tangible energy that vibrated on my skin. This wasn't just a room; it was a living, breathing organism fueled by the boundless passion that flowed through its walls. And somewhere within it, I knew I'd find Namjoon, the heart of that creative storm.

A warm smile, as comforting as sunshine after a storm, lit up an older woman's face as I walked through the studio doors. "There you are! I'm Carol" she boomed, her voice a melodic echo of my favorite aunt. Before I could even stammer a greeting, a steaming mug of black tea and a plate holding a perfectly- oatmeal raisin cookie, my all-time favorites, materialized in my hands.

"Thanks, Carol," I mumbled, touched by her thoughtful gesture as this was the first time met her. The weight of my nerves, however, only lessened a fraction.

Following her down the hallway, the anticipation coiled tighter in my stomach. Finally, we reached the studio door. Taking a deep breath, I peeked through the soundproofed glass door. There, bathed in the soft glow beyond the control room, was Namjoon's silhouette, a beacon drawing me closer.

He wasn't alone. In the control room, a young woman with long braids and the over sized shirt and pants of a hip hop dancer sat behind the control panel. Her profile was illuminated by the soft glow of computer screens, her fingers moving deftly over the mixing board.

As I approached, the faint melody morphed into something more. Snippets of music, punctuated by the unmistakable sound of Namjoon's voice, drifted through the air, wrapping around me like a warm embrace. The room buzzed with a tangible electricity, a symphony of creativity in its purest form.