“Oi!” I yell as I pull you back onto the sidewalk. The car whizzes by at a top speed. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

You and I have an interesting relationship. We’re both singers signed to rivaling record labels, which is already means for disaster. You’re completely gorgeous; if you weren’t a singer, I would say you would do pretty well in the modeling business. I flirt with you any chance I get.

Unfortunately for me, you never flirt back. When you signed with your label, a part of your contract stated that you aren’t to have any sort of public relationships with anybody signed to opposing labels, including the one my band is with, as it’s bad press. Meaning you could get into some serious legal trouble. So now, whenever I try to flirt with you, you get all pissy and tell me to fuck off.

Like right now.

You’re performing at the same festival as my band, so we’re checking into the same hotel. I’m following you as you get your bag from the car and begin heading over to the hotel. You’re too busy trying to ignore my attempt at flirting, and step off the sidewalk to cross the road without looking. I pull you back quickly and you practically fall onto me, your small hands gripping my forearms. You’re panting from the adrenaline of a near-death experience, and you look up at me.