Quick bright synths put the clock on, and the beat is already walking before anyone talks.

She steps in clean: it's fine, it's cool, trying to make the words behave over that buoyant grid.

One flash and the room opens: arms out like an angel through the car sunroof.

Pre-chorus names the bind. She won't call it off; he won't call it love. The groove just keeps its shape.

Chorus widens without slowing. A hundred boys in bars, thrown like a dare into bright air.

Good luck, babe. Clipped, public, answer smiling too long.

Huge claim, polished surface. Stop the world just to stop the feeling, while the beat refuses to flinch.

Verse two flashes lighter, then cuts itself off. I'm cliché, who cares.

Still danceable, short on air. Little lovin', little air.

Bargain flips. She's calling it off even if he finally says love.

Same chorus comes back less like a hook debut and more like evidence on a loop.

Wordless lift. A small high clearing before the floor drops.

Bridge leaves the bar light. Middle of the night, head in hands, nothing more than his wife.

I told you so starts face to face, then the song cannot stop saying it.

Final chorus with the bridge still burning under it. Familiar lines, harder cheer.

The refrain peels off the chorus and just keeps circling.

Last laps slow down. The pulse that carried everything starts to lose the job.