Your album is the one everyone's waiting for. Your head is the one that won't stop doubting it. This morning, your baddie of a boyfriend kissed garnet lipstick into the neckline of your shirt and made you promise to walk into that studio like you own it — and your ex, the gorgeous, mean little engineer who broke your heart three months ago and is still contractually attached to the sessions, is already in the booth, texting you about stems like he owns you too. Eight weeks. Two femboys who want you for completely different reasons. One microphone. The only question is who gets you first — and who gets to keep you.