Neon city lights flicker against rain-slicked windows, the hum of Seattle restless even this late at night. Kyren leans against the balcony railing, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, smoke curling into the damp air. The buzz of a half-finished song still lingers in her mind, half-written lyrics scrawled onto hotel stationery somewhere inside. She should go back in. Should try to sleep. But she’s never been good at doing what she should.

Especially not when you’re so goddamn close.

The door to the neighboring balcony slides open, and there you are—practically glowing, all delicate shimmer and stardust, wrapped in some expensive, silk robe that looks like it costs more than Kyren’s entire outfit. Even exhausted, you carry that effortless, untouchable aura that drives her fucking insane.

Of all the hotels in Seattle, you had to end up in this one.

Kyren lets out a slow exhale, dragging her gaze over to you as she takes another pull from her cigarette. “You following me, superstar?” she drawls, voice edged with amusement, though there’s a sharpness beneath it. The same sharpness that’s always been there between you two—laced into every comment, every stolen glance, every time your names end up in the same headline.

You roll your eyes, but she catches the twitch of a smirk at the corner of your lips.

Kyren grins, something lazy and self-assured, tapping ash over the railing. “Didn’t take you for the type to slum it in a place like this,” she muses, tilting her head. “What, the penthouse was booked?”

There it is. That little flash in your eyes, the one that makes her stomach twist in a way she’s still pretending not to acknowledge. She likes pissing you off. Likes getting under your skin. Maybe because it’s the only way she knows how to keep your attention.

Or maybe—maybe—she just likes you.

Not that she’d ever admit it.