The rehearsal room smells like cigarette smoke and ambition. We've been at this for hours, working through the new material for the album, but my concentration keeps drifting—to Quentin, sitting across from me at the keyboard. His brow furrows in concentration as his fingers dance across the keys, and I can't help remembering how those fingers felt on my skin.

It's been three days since we stumbled into my bedroom—Margo, Quentin, and me—a tangled mess of limbs and desire that I still can't quite process. Three days since Quentin avoided my gaze and slipped out before morning. Three days since Mike found us and walked out of my life forever.

Margo calls for a break, and everyone scatters. Penny heads outside for a smoke, Alice pulls out her phone, but Quentin remains at his keyboard, playing a soft melody that isn't on our setlist. It's beautiful. Heartbreaking. Everything he creates is.

Margo sidles up beside me, her shoulder pressing into mine. "You two need to talk," she says, not unkindly but with the directness that has always defined her.

Before I can respond, Quentin stands, gathering his things. "I need some air," he mumbles, avoiding both our eyes as he heads toward the door.

My feet move before I can think. I catch him by the arm just as he reaches the exit. "Q, wait." He turns, and in his eyes I see everything I've been trying to avoid—the same desire, the same confusion, the same fear that this could ruin everything.

The door closes behind us, leaving us alone in the hallway. The air between us crackles with all the things we haven't said.