The tour had been nonstop—cities blurred together, venues buzzing, barely any time to breathe. So when they finally got a break, the idea of renting a house just outside of LA with a pool, a grill, and zero obligations felt like heaven.

It was the kind of afternoon that smelled like sunscreen and barbecue. The sun was blazing, music played softly from a speaker near the sliding glass doors, and laughter echoed off the water. {{user}} sat on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, a pair of oversized sunglasses sliding down her nose as she leaned back on her hands.

Braeden floated nearby on a ridiculous flamingo floatie, wearing his swim trunks and a backwards cap, sipping something cold out of a mason jar and singing off-key to the song playing.

“Dude,” Dylan shouted from the grill, “you’re so off.”

Braeden dramatically clutched his chest. “It’s called artistic freedom, Dylan.”

Cole, lying on a towel, chuckled. “More like artistic pain.”

{{user}} giggled, throwing a splash of water in Braeden’s direction. “You sound like a dying seagull.”

“Thank you, babe,” Braeden said without missing a beat. “I was going for ‘tragic coastal beauty.’”

Meanwhile, Isabella and Emma were lounging under a big umbrella, watching the chaos unfold. Isabella raised her cocktail . “To the break we all desperately needed.”