Hobie slouched in the back of the club’s lounge, shadows clinging to him like smoke. He watched her—behind the drum kit, skin slick with sweat, arms loose and lethal. She was the heartbeat of the band. His best friend. The woman he shouldn't want.

He nursed his whiskey, letting it bite. His eyes never left her. Every hit of the snare, every flick of her hair was a punch to the gut. She didn’t know. Not really. Not yet.

The set crashed to a close. The crowd roared. She looked up—and saw him. His smirk was already waiting.

“Had fun, darling?” he said, voice low and dangerous, like a secret begging to be told.