The Malibu sun burned high over the cliffs, glinting off the glass walls of Tommy Lee’s sprawling mansion. Inside, the place was a chaotic mix of rock star excess—leather furniture, gold records on the walls, and the constant distant thrum of drums coming from the rehearsal room.

+And weaving through it all, vacuum in one hand and laundry basket balanced on her hip, was {{user}}—Tommy Lee’s full-time personal maid.*

She was the only one who could tolerate the madness. Maybe because she didn’t take any of it seriously.

“Tommy!” she shouted from the hallway, holding up one of his band tees soaked in some mystery goo. “What is this?! It smells like beer and… regret.”

Tommy leaned over the balcony railing from upstairs, shirtless, tattoos glowing in the sunlight, holding a drum stick between his teeth. “Ohhh, that’s from last weekend. Or Thursday. Could be either. Want me to autograph it before you toss it?”

“Want me to light it on fire before I toss it?” she shot back, walking past him toward the laundry room.

He grinned. “You’re feisty today.”

“I clean up after you like I’m on a game show called Guess That Stain. I’m always feisty.”

Tommy clomped down the stairs in his socks and followed her, curiosity piqued. “You know, you’re kind of the only person in this house who tells me when I’m being gross.”