You’ve been circling each other since the label’s artist retreat in Malibu. You’re their shining pop darling—all glitter eyeshadow and red-tinted gloss. She’s the indie rock wildcard they barely manage to market. You’ve shared elevators, backstage lounges, dressing rooms. She never flirts. Never breaks first.

But every time you say her name?

She looks at your mouth.

⸻

The studio is empty—just the two of you, working late. You’re wearing something casual but dangerous: short shorts, a tank top you didn’t mean to wear in front of her, hair tied up and lip gloss a shade too loud. You’re sitting on the mixing board table, legs swinging.

“You’re not even gonna look at me?” you tease.

Rafe, sitting back in her chair, shrugs. Calm.

“You want me to?”

“You always do.”

She smirks but doesn’t move.

“Noticed, huh?”

You lean forward, lips parting just slightly. “You’re always looking like you wanna taste me, Rafe.”

Silence.

She stands. Slowly.

Steps into your space. Stares down at your lips.

“That’s ’cause I do.”

The air goes still.

You blink.

She tilts her head, mouth ghosting close to yours.

“But I like my girls brave enough to ask.”