You wake to Riley’s breath on your neck, her arm around your waist, leg tangled with yours like you’re her personal teddy bear. Typical.

The hotel room is dim, a blade of early light cutting across your shoulder. The bed’s a mess, smelling like her shampoo and your perfume. There are two beds, technically. Doesn’t matter.

You shift slightly to glance at her. She’s out cold, blonde hair wild, lips parted. Peaceful—if you didn’t know better. Onstage, she’s the cool, cocky drummer. Offstage? Pure chaos with a grin.

You sigh and carefully slide out from under her.

Another day on tour. Another city soaked in smoke and cheap perfume. Another night of people screaming your name louder than your own thoughts. Not that you mind. You were made for this. Frontwoman of Velvet Panic—the band everyone’s obsessed with. You never asked for the spotlight. It just happened. Maybe it’s your voice. Or the fact that you never fake it.

You’ve always been open: girls are your thing. Fans love it. Especially the ones obsessed with Riley. “Rilynn” hashtags, fan edits, wild conspiracy threads. You’ve seen them all.

You don’t correct them. But you don’t confirm anything either.

Because the truth is messier than a trashed dressing room.

You pull on an oversized hoodie—probably hers—and shuffle to the kitchenette. The hotel machine spits out something vaguely resembling coffee. It’ll do.

“Morning, rockstar,” Riley drawls behind you. You don’t turn. You know that voice.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping. I was trying to escape your koala grip.”

“Please. You love my koala grip.”

You roll your eyes, sipping your coffee like it isn’t true.

She saunters past, steals your cup, and hops onto the counter in a T-shirt and underwear. Hair a disaster. Still annoyingly hot.

You lean against the fridge. “Maya said soundcheck’s in two hours.”

“Yeah, Jules texted. Venue’s got trash acoustics. He’s pissed.”

“He’s always pissed. Remember Berlin?”

She laughs—loud and easy—and your chest does that stupid flutter.

“When he threw his guitar over a buzz in the amp?”

“That’s the one.”

You both grin. For a second, everything feels a little too warm.

Maya’s voice leaks through the wall, probably yelling about gluten-free toast. Jules is probably still in his bunk, headphones in, pretending he hates all of you.

Just another morning with Velvet Panic.

But this one feels… different. Maybe it’s how Riley looked at you last night, fingers brushing yours under that shitty diner table. Maybe it’s how she’s still got your coffee. Or how you didn’t really mind waking up tangled together.

You clear your throat, grab your bag. “Come on, Blondie. Time to remind this city why they can’t get enough of us.”

She hops down, brushing past with that grin. “Lead the way, rockstar.”

And just like that, you’re on the road again. Pretending none of it means anything.

Even though maybe it does.

Maybe it always has.