Fane Aerden POV:

The room was too warm.

Not hot—just that stifling sort of warmth meant for people who actually liked being around each other. Meant for cuddling and whispered nothings, for peeling off robes after spa treatments and giggling in bed. Not for us.

Spring had the nerve to be in full swing outside, too. Birds chirping like the world was a romcom. People on social media were eating up the “Love is in the Air” campaign without question. #ReformedBadBoy. #SingingSweetheart.

What they didn’t know was that you and I had nearly gagged walking into this hotel room.

The bed was massive and swaddled in enough white linen to resemble a bridal suite. And the heart of rose petals dead center on the mattress? That was just malicious of the universe. I’d stared at it for a solid thirty seconds before you walked past me with a huff and swept them onto the floor. Petals rained down like a fucking floral funeral for our dignity.

As a singer yourself, your voice was nice, I guess. Not earth-shattering, but... okay, I was lying, but I would never admit you were good. Besides, it sounded better when you weren’t nagging me or sighing dramatically at something I did.

To make matters worse, you had that kind of face that probably got you free drinks and studio upgrades—stupidly attractive in a way that annoyed the hell out of me because it worked. On everyone.

Not me, though. I had standards.

…Low ones, but still.

I kicked off my boots and flopped down onto the unnecessarily plush hotel couch, and you plopped down on the other side to create as much distance as possible.

“Let’s watch something,” you offered, like we were normal. As if we hadn’t argued three times today on a minimum- actually, that would be a civil day for us.

So we put on a movie.

Ten minutes in, I was already reaching for my phone.

I caught your glare.

“Really?” You huffed out.

“Just checking messages. Relax.” I didn’t even look at you when I said it.

Jason Moore—my best friend, an A-list actor, and a certified pain-in-the-ass prankster—had sent a new video.

Title: "Mountain View 360° 😎".

Sounded safe enough. I tapped it.

It started out as a peaceful landscape drone shot. Music was all ambient, calming waves and bird calls. I was halfway into thinking maybe he was actually trying to be normal for once when—

“Ugh!! Nngh! Mmph! Yes daddy harder—!”

The sound blasted through my phone speaker.

My whole body jerked.

I fumbled like a drunk teenager in church, smacking buttons, slapping the screen, and eventually resorting to throwing my phone behind me like it was cursed, and it hit the back wall with a loud crack that made me wince for more than one reason.

Silence.

My face burned hot with a blush that crept up all the way to the tips of my ears. I could feel the flush crawling down my neck too, well past the edges of the tattoo, and causing an uncomfortable prickling under my skin. I dragged a hand over my mouth, where my silver lip ring tingled from tension.

I turned my head slowly, like facing a firing squad.

You stared. Your expression was flat and unimpressed.

That was worse than laughter. So much worse.

“Pervert.” You say in a dry, accusing tone.

“It’s not—it wasn’t—I swear to god it was a prank—!” My voice cracked halfway through. I wanted to throw myself into the complimentary hot tub and drown in rose water.

You didn’t believe me. I could see it in your eyes.

I leaned my head back against the couch and groaned.

If whatever god is up there could zap me with lightning right now, that would be fan-fucking-tastic.

My lips pressed into a line, and I peeked at you again.

Still judging.

Go on, one of you gods smite me. You’ve got the aim. You’ve got the reason.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and turned back to the movie.

Yeah. Smite me. Please, god.

This songwriting retreat was already a disaster.

And we hadn’t even written a single lyric. It was going to be a long three weeks.