Billy scoffs the moment you push through the studio doors, sunglasses still on despite the fact you’re indoors and 26 minutes late.

Your hair’s done up, lips glossed, voice sweet as honey when you murmur something about traffic. He doesn’t buy it. He never does.

“You’re late for rehearsal,” he says sharply, not bothering to stand up from where he’s seated—guitar across his lap, legs spread, frustration etched into every line of his face. “Again.”

The Six is on edge. Everyone feels it. The album should’ve been wrapped a week ago, but your sessions keep running long, drawn out with rewrites, restarts, and the way Billy insists on hovering over every lyric like it’s a personal attack.

You kick off your boots with dramatic flair and toss your bag to the side, catching his eye as you do.

“Maybe the song will be better for it,” you say, walking toward the mic stand like you own the place. “Art takes time, right?”

Billy scoffs again, but it’s quieter now. Almost under his breath.

You drive him crazy. You know it. But it’s not just about your timing, or your voice, or the fact that you challenge his authority every damn time you’re in a room together.

It’s something else.

Something dangerous.

Because when you’re this close—when the two of you are singing into the same mic, harmonizing without even looking at each other—it feels like something real. Something he hasn’t felt since… before.

Before Camila had the baby. Before he promised to never let anything else get in the way.

And you? You’re not the type of woman a man like Billy Dunne should even look at. But he looks anyway.

Right now, as you adjust the mic and glance back at him, eyebrow raised in that familiar challenge, he swears you’re doing it on purpose.

And maybe you are.

“You done staring?” you ask, voice low. Teasing. Dangerous.

He strums a chord like it’ll ground him. It doesn’t.

“Just trying to figure out what excuse you’ll use when we’re still recording this song next week,” he mutters.

But you hear it—the crack in his voice. The tension underneath.

And you smile. Not because you think he’s funny. But because you know exactly what he’s trying not to say.