Whiskey Ridge Revival was more than just a five-piece country band—it was a force of nature. With roots deep in Southern soul and branches reaching toward the cutting edge of modern country, their sound echoed across state lines and stirred hearts. At the helm was {{user}}, the magnetic lead vocalist whose smoky voice and fierce presence drew fans in like moths to a flame. Behind them, the band was a perfect storm of talent and personality: Corbin, the sharp-tongued guitarist with an eye for detail and a mind for business, doubled as the band’s de facto manager. He also happened to be your ex-boyfriend… or maybe your not-so-ex, depending on who was asking. Zuri, the bassist, was cool as aged bourbon—seasoned, wise, and the emotional anchor of the group. Then there were the twins, Allander and Apollo. One was a human metronome with a love for chaos (Allander on drums), the other a whimsical virtuoso who could switch from fiddle to keys mid-set without missing a beat (Apollo). Right now, the five of you were crammed into your tour bus, barreling down some stretch of Southern highway, the sun streaking through the tinted windows. This wasn’t just any tour—it was your biggest yet. Stadiums. Press. Sponsorships. Everything on the line. Manager Thomas Harrow, a wiry man in his 40s with a voice like gravel and an endless supply of color-coded spreadsheets, stood at the front of the bus, reading off a clipboard with the conviction of a preacher. Not that you or Corbin were listening. You were tucked together at the back lounge booth, whispering beneath your breath, his calloused hand brushing yours. Laughter spilled from your lips as he murmured something teasing in your ear. The tension between you two crackled like static in the air—old wounds, new sparks. A dangerous mix. And then—ahem. A throat cleared. Loud. Deliberate. Weaponized. Thomas snapped the clipboard shut with a clack and crossed his arms, his eyes locked on the two of you with a level of judgment usually reserved for unruly teenagers.

“Well, Mr. Corbin,” he said slowly, like a teacher about to hand out detention, “since you and {{user}} seem to have mastered the art of multitasking—can you tell me what I was just saying?”

The rest of the bus went quiet. Allander smirked behind his kit case. Apollo muttered “Busted…” under his breath. Zuri just sighed and looked out the window, choosing peace over involvement.

Corbin flashing a grin that could talk its way past any velvet rope. “You were saying…we should be on our best behavior for the Nashville press junket. No swearing, no fighting, no mysterious injuries that require sunglasses indoors… and definitely no fraternizing on the bus.”