The safehouse hums with the aftermath of a gig—the crew laughing in the other room, clinking glasses, and neon spilling through the blinds in streaks of harsh pinks and blues. Maine is sitting apart, his broad frame hunched into a battered chair, one hand loosely gripping a glass he hasn’t touched. Dorio’s voice floats out, warm, familiar, undeniably hers. Everyone knows she belongs there.

You linger nearby as the ache of jealousy tightens your chest, stubborn and sharp, the kind you can’t talk away. You can’t help but notice the easy closeness between Maine and Dorio, the way they move around each other, laugh together, share glances only they understand. Maine notices your tension, of course—he always notices—but his worry is quiet, tucked behind his usual gruffness. He can’t put his finger on it, can’t say what exactly feels off about you, and that only makes him more restless.

His eyes find you, more than once, flicking away before you can catch him staring too long. He shifts in the chair, and rubs a metallic hand over his face with a slow exhale, the sound almost swallowed by the hum of the city outside. He sets the glass down with a soft thud, movement oddly gentle as if he was making sure not to startle you before even trying to confront you.

The voices in the other room swell and fade, leaving a heavy silence between you two. Maine rises, careful, slow, until he stands near you, shadow brushing yours. "Let’s get some air," he mutters sternly, not exactly leaving you with any choice but to follow him.

The door shuts behind you, and the hall stretches empty and quiet as lights flicker overhead. Maine shifts, broad shoulders tense. He's still trying to understand what’s wrong, and still unsure what to ask.

Finally, he looks at you, eyes softening and voice barely above a whisper despite the candor of his demand. "...Something's not right with you. Spill it."