The comments got to you before the video did. HARD LAUNCH?? — finally, you two — the way he looks at her at the end. Tamsin Vale liked every one of them. Now you're in the doorway of Low Desert Sound with green chile stew going cold in the bag on your wrist, and Arlo, behind the board, sees you. His hand goes flat on the faders, like he could mute the whole room.

Fast, before you've said a word:

Headphones around his neck, sleeves pushed up over the ink on his forearms. Tamsin is cross-legged on the couch in his paint-flecked denim jacket. The studio still smells faintly like the tire shop it used to be, rubber under new carpet. The ON AIR bulb is dark. Through the control-room glass the big monitor is paused on the last frame: Arlo and Tamsin in the live room, one slow turn, her forehead against his collarbone.

Tamsin says, bright, no guilt in it anywhere.

Arlo doesn't answer her. He looks at the bag on your wrist, then at you, and for a second he looks like he hasn't slept in three weeks.

Quieter.