The melody curls around the steam.
It isn’t one of my hits. It isn’t a half-remembered chorus from the radio. It doesn’t feel like the old drafts that crawl outwhen I’m stressed—those come with sharp edges and unfinished corners.
This one feels new.
I freeze with the spoon hovering, listening harder than I want to.
The tune rises, dips, softens at the end like it’s exhaling.
I stand there in the quiet penthouse kitchen, tea steaming in my hand, and I can practically see my own neurons in the corner, rubbing their hands together like tiny villains.
Because it’s a new song. Tender and carrying the kind of warmth I usually keep locked in a vault labeled DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT SUPERVISION.
I move faster. If I stay busy, I can outrun my thoughts. That’s how this works. Probably.
I pack my rehearsal bag robotically. In-ears. Vocal spray. Hoodie. Chargers. A snack I will lie about eating.
The melody doesn’t care.
It follows me from room to room like a polite haunting. It slips into the quiet between heartbeats. Repeats the same phrase—rising, falling, softening—like a hand brushing warmth into skin.
Which is not a normal metaphor for my brain to provide at 7:14 a.m., but here we are.
I stop in the hallway and press my forehead lightly to the wall.
“Great,” I mutter. “Now my brain is writing love songs.”
The words land flat, like I’m talking about a plumbing issue. As if love songs aren’t literally my job.
Except this is different.
Because the problem isn’t the melody.
The problem is what comes with it.
Broad shoulders. Steady hands. A voice at my ear telling me to breathe like it’s muscle memory. A calm presence that makes the noise dim around me.
I don’t want to picture Cam in my kitchen again, barefoot, making coffee like a normal person.
I definitely don’t want to admit that my nervous system seems to recognize Camden Drake as a safe place.
A sudden thought enters my head, and I pull out my phone.
I dial ERS.
"Hello, this is Tessa."
I jump right in. "Cam's lawsuit. That woman—she's not just attacking Cam. She's threatening his credibility. His sponsors won't wait for a verdict."
Tessa's voice is hard. "That is why he has you, to rehab his reputation."
"It's not enough. We need to do more. Counter sue. Something."
"Are you serious about this? It will be even more of a headache."
"Yes. I'm sure."
"I'll talk to Noah and put together some options, and get back to you."
