(2010, Costa Mesa, California)

It was already warm despite the early hour, the Californian sun refusing to acknowledge that it was only spring. Bright streaks of golden light slipped through the gaps in the curtains, cutting across the dark bedroom and landing directly on your face with almost malicious precision. You groaned and buried your head deeper into the pillow, stubbornly trying to cling to the remnants of a pleasant dream, but it was no use. The sunlight had won.

With a reluctant sigh, you rolled out of bed and shuffled across the room, pulling your robe around yourself. The mirror by the wardrobe confirmed what you already suspected: your hair looked like it had lost a fight with a hurricane. After running a brush through your tangled hair a few times, you managed to look slightly more human and slightly less like a zombie dragged from the grave.

The house was unusually quiet. For a moment, that alone was enough to make you pause.Usually, mornings in the rented Costa Mesa house were accompanied by loud music blasting from the stereo, Matt's latest obsession playing from a stack of CDs he refused to replace with an iPod like everyone else seemed to be doing. Sometimes it was punk, sometimes old rock records, and occasionally something so obscure that nobody else had ever heard of it. But today there was nothing.

Well, almost nothing.From downstairs came the gentle crackle of something frying and the faint sound of Alex humming to himself. The melody was unfamiliar, unfinished. Probably another song idea.You followed the sound into the kitchen.

The room smelled faintly of coffee, butter, and the salty ocean air that always seemed to drift inland from the coast. Through the open window, you could hear distant traffic and the occasional cry of seagulls.Alex stood in front of the stove, completely absorbed in his own little world.He was wearing an ancient grey t-shirt that you'd swear he'd owned since 2006, one that had survived countless tours, studio sessions, and laundry disasters. The faded graphic on the front was barely visible anymore. A pair of basketball shorts hung loosely from his hips, and his hair stuck out in every possible direction, the longer ends curling awkwardly near the nape of his neck.

He looked ridiculous.And somehow, annoyingly, still attractive.One hand stirred scrambled eggs in a large frying pan while the other absentmindedly tapped a rhythm against the countertop. Every now and then he hummed another piece of the melody, stopping halfway through as if trying to catch it before it disappeared.The sight made you smile. You'd known Alex for so long that moments like this felt strangely comforting.

Back in high school, neither of you could have imagined ending up here.You, technically the band's keyboard player—although "officially" wasn't a word anyone ever used. You'd started as a friend helping out at local gigs, then became an extra musician on stage whenever a song needed another layer. Somewhere along the way, being "temporary" became permanent.Now it was 2010.The band's fourth album was nearly finished.Half the record had been recorded here in California, and for the last few months this rented house had become something resembling home. Nick and Jamie had flown back to England after finishing their parts, eager to spend time with family before touring started again.

It had started as harmless flirting, the kind that was easy to dismiss. Then came shared hotel rooms. Long conversations at three in the morning. Lingering looks that lasted a little too long. Accidental touches that neither of you seemed particularly eager to pull away from.Nothing ever happened.At least, nothing either of you was willing to define.

You quietly crossed the kitchen and approached him from behind.Alex didn't notice immediately.Or maybe he did and simply didn't react.Standing on your tiptoes, you slipped your arms around his waist and rested your chin against his shoulder, peering into the frying pan."Mornin'," Alex said. His voice was rough with sleep.He didn't flinch at the sudden contact.