Ryan sat at the edge of Kylie's bed, lyric sheet in hand, like a coach running a tight but patient drill. His finger tapped out the beat as he guided her line by line through Who Let the Dogs Out.
"Again. Keep it lighter—make it sound fun."
"Here, pick up the pace. Don't drag the beat."
His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the pulse in his voice; it carried the rhythm itself. Kylie followed, hesitant at first, then a little bolder. She stumbled, laughed, tried again. Each repetition knocked off another layer of stiffness. Twenty minutes later, she was singing clean through the verses without missing her cues. Her breathing steadied, her phrasing locked in.
Ryan finally gave a short nod, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Alright. That's good enough. Let's record."
