"I think it'd be good for PR."

That's what I told Andrea when I called her yesterday—like she didn't already know what was best for Maisie's image. It was the only excuse I could think of. Four days had passed since Maisie flew to LA, four days since she'd left my house after movie night with my sisters without so much as a kiss on the cheek, and I was grasping for any reason to see her.

I knew I sounded like an idiot when I said it. But I was fucked. From the moment I kissed her in my kitchen, I knew I was completely and utterly fucked.

Maisie and I had been texting like normal every day, but her messages seemed more flirty than usual. She'd sent me a string of pictures: Maisie from her jet window, cotton candy clouds of pink and blue outside, texting, I think I might have liked the view better at your place. Maisie, with her hair in a ponytail, pink lips wrapped around a smoothie straw, smiling against it. Maisie in my goddamn Red Sox hat—the one I gave her at the baseball game—eyes hidden behind the bill, lips puckered playfully at the camera, lounging in the back of an SUV.

How was I supposed to function at work when my brain was stuck on her?

I had squeezed my eyes shut, gripping my phone so tightly I was surprised it hadn't cracked in my hands. No matter how hard I tried, the images wouldn't stop—the way I'd picture her in every single one of those photos she sent me. On that couch in her jet. Her ponytail wrapped in my hand, tugging just enough to hear her gasp. Her lips around my cock instead of that straw. In the back of that SUV, I'd have stripped her down right there, until she was in nothing but that hat.

It wasn't what we agreed on, I know, but my mind kept drifting. It was like something inside me unraveled, unspooled, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pull it back together.

I would've gone with Maisie to LA if my schedule had allowed it, but these few days were non-negotiable because of work. With acquisitions meetings—where the editorial team and stakeholders sift through potential manuscripts and proposals—I couldn't afford to miss it, especially with my recent promotion. So, while Maisie flew off to Los Angeles, I stayed behind. But the second those meetings wrapped up yesterday, I was on my phone, scrolling straight to Andrea's number.

"You want to fly to LA for less than a day and a half?" Andrea asked.

"Yes, if that's—I mean, if you think it'd be good for PR, I'd be willing to go out there." She hummed, like she was mulling it over, and I knew she could see right through me. She had to know I was full of shit.

Scrambling, I added, "It might look weird if we aren't seen together for this long, right?"

"No—yes. You're right," she finally said, with a smile in her voice. "I think it's a fantastic idea. I can have her jet ready first thing in the morning—if you can leave that soon."

Which is how I find myself being led through a house in the hills of Los Feliz by Andrea's assistant, Rachel.

"Follow me," she says as we head deeper inside.

"Does she always record here?" I ask, glancing around. It's a nice place—an older Spanish-style home, remodeled and tucked into the hills, ivy crawling up the high walls outside, with a gate providing complete privacy.

"Yeah, most of the time," she says, motioning as we descend a narrow staircase into the basement. "They used to record in the Valley before Maisie became famous, but that was before my time."

I wasn't given much to go on, just that everything was taken care of—the jet, the car, the hotel, and that Rachel would be there if I needed anything. Maisie had always talked about recording sessions—how great they were going or how she was stuck on a lyric. I'd always pictured her in some high-end studio: marble floors, sleek equipment, maybe some platinum records on the walls. Not someone's house.

"They usually don't like anyone interrupting during a session," Rachel says over her shoulder as we reach the bottom of the stairs, "but I'm sure Maisie won't mind since it's you."

"Right, okay," I say, nodding as she pushes open the first door on the left.

Instantly, the noise hits—a deep bassline dropping heavy and rumbling through the room, then cutting out, only to replay seconds later. Bits of Maisies vocals and scattered beats are stitched together, fragments of a song still taking shape. The room must be completely soundproof because from outside, you'd never guess it was this loud in here.

The room is spacious and dimly lit, with a warm, cozy glow softening the edges of the soundproofed space. The dark gray walls are broken up by oversized acoustic panels, while keyboards, synthesizers, guitars, and basses are scattered around, with a maze of wires snaking across a thick, worn red rug like vines. In the center of it all is a massive monitor stretching across the far wall, with a soundboard just below it.

"What if you take that last line up a little higher?" a guy in the plush leather office chair in front of the soundboard suggests, eyes locked on the monitor as he clicks away at the tracks. "Just to give it a bit more lift."

"You want me to belt it?" I hear Maisie's laugh float through the speakers above, but I don't see her. "I've never belted something like that before."

"Yeah, just take it home. Send it. You can do it," he says, turning to glance over his shoulder at Rachel and me.

His brow furrows, a flick of irritation crossing his face as he glances from me to Rachel. She quickly clears her throat and introduces me in a whisper, "This is August. He's here for Maisie."

He nods absently, but Maisie's voice pulls his attention back to the screen. "Okay, can you start from the end of the second chorus?"

"I told you they don't like being interrupted," Rachel whispers to me, grimacing as she gestures toward a couch in the corner. "You can sit here until she's done."

I nod and quietly move toward the couch, sinking into it. My eyes finally find Maisie—tucked into a small isolation booth across the room, a window in front of her. She's wearing over-ear headphones, a mic hovering near her lips, and her buttery blonde hair is piled messily on top of her head.

"Try not to make any noise, and if you need anything, just text me," Rachel adds as she slips out the door, leaving me questioning if I made a mistake by coming.

Maybe I shouldn't have come, I think, as anxiety creeps in. She's clearly busy, and I'll just make her feel obligated to entertain me, pulling her away from work. What right did I have to show up like this, demanding her attention? She didn't even ask me to be here.

At least, she hasn't in a very long time.

The bass of the song starts again as it pulses through the room, and I push my worries aside the moment Maisie starts singing. "How strange it is to dream of you, Even when the sky is bright and blue. My heart's so full, can't let go of you. It's yours, but do you even know that much is true?" Her voice soars on the last line, rising in a way I've never heard before—like a honeyed ribbon, clear and bright, the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

"Holy shit," the soundboard guy breathes, pausing the track with wide eyes.

"Was that me?" Maisie mumbles, her sweatshirt-covered hands flying up to her mouth in disbelief. "Did I really just sing that?"

"That was fucking incredible," he says, swiveling his chair around to face her with a laugh. "This is easily your best work, Maisiecakes."

My attention snaps back to the guy in front of the soundboard. I don't really like the way he is beaming at her, and I sure as hell don't like that he called her Maisiecakes. Who gave this guy the right to call her whatever he wants? What even is that nickname? It's not cute—it's borderline... cringy. Maisiecakes? She's been named the princess of pop, for God's sake. Call her by her name.

I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, chin in my hand, trying to stop my knee from bouncing and keep myself from glaring at whoever the hell this guy thinks he is.

"I don't even think we need another take," he adds, clicking a few buttons on the soundboard.

"Wait, no!" Maisie shouts, bouncing up and down in the booth. "Let me do it again. I can do it better."

"Okay, alright," he says with a chuckle, setting it up for another take.

The music kicks in again, Maisie bobbing her head to the beat before she starts singing, belting out the lines. She looks so natural, so in her element like she was born for this. And she's absolutely mesmerizing—effortless, gorgeous. She somehow sings this take even better than the last, which I didn't think was possible.

She squeals, "Ah! Okay, play it back!"

The isolation booth door swings open, and Maisie practically floats out as the track begins to play. In loose gray sweatshorts and an oversized navy blue sweatshirt with Boston stretched across the front, she moves with it like the music's stitched into her bones—swaying left, then right, arms flowing with the rhythm as she dances her way over to the soundboard, lip-syncing every word.

And I'm suddenly irritated with myself.

Irritated for not coming sooner, for not making it a priority when she used to ask if I'd visit her in LA. There was always something—some excuse, some reason to say no. But now, seeing her here, in her element, it hits me hard—how much I've missed. How many moments like this I've let slip away.

My chest tightens with a pang of regret, sharp and unshakable. I won't let that happen again. I can't.

The song plays all the way through, and just as it ends, Maisie spins around to grab a glass tea mug resting on one of the keyboards. Her eyes snag into mine, finding me on the couch, elbows on my knees, watching her, and she freezes.

"Alright, so I think we'll do a few more vocal takes and then..." the soundboard guy rambles on.

Maisie's eyes flick away from mine, her brows knitting together with uncertainty as she takes the smallest sip of her tea, like she's not entirely convinced I'm really here. She turns her attention back to the guy at the control board, nodding along as he talks. But a half a second later, she glances at me again.

I give her a small wave and mouth a quiet hi.

She rolls her lips together, pressing two fingers to her mouth, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips, nodding along as if she's still listening. She sets down her mug and then takes a tentative step toward me, her eyes darting between us.

"...and you're not even listening to me," he sighs, exasperated, leaning back in his chair as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"No, I'm not," she says, scrunching her nose with a sheepish smile.

"Maisie, we've got four days of work to cram into a day and a half. Focus. I'll buy you a whole box of donuts for lunch if you do."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." She's already halfway across the room, gesturing toward me. "Do you think we can just take five? Or ten? Or, I don't know, the entire day?"

He glances back at the monitor, shaking his head. "I guess we can break for an early lunch, sure."

"Lunch—perfect," she says, hastily making a beeline for me and I stand up to greet her.

"Hi, I know I should've cal— umph," I start, barely getting the words out before she barrels into me, nearly knocking me back onto the couch, arms wrapping tight around my middle.

"You're here," she mumbles into my chest. "You've never been here before."

I wrap my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I hope that's okay."

"More than okay," she whispers, then suddenly pulls back, her hand pressed against my chest. "Oh god. Wait. Did Andrea make you come? She did, didn't she? You had that important—um, what was it..." She snaps her fingers, searching for the words. "That accusation meeting you couldn't miss."

"Acquisitions. We're not accusing people—" I shake my head. "Never mind. No, Andrea didn't send me. My meetings wrapped up yesterday, and I just..." I trail off, realizing I have no real explanation. It was an impulse. I've gone months without seeing Maisie before—I'm used to it, or at least I was. But now, the thought of going more than four days feels impossible.

"I just thought maybe we could try out this whole trial run thing," I whisper softly.

"Right. The trial run," she whispers back, a small smile pulling at the edges of her lips as she looks up at me.

A throat clears behind Maisie, pulling both of our attention to the guy still sitting at the soundboard.

"Oh, sorry," Maisie says, stepping back and tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. "August, this is Morgan. Morgan, this is August—my, uh, boyfriend."

Morgan. I've heard about Morgan before. This is the same Morgan Maisie's been talking about for the last five years. The one who's produced every one of her songs. The one she'd always mention, saying things like: Morgan said the funniest thing today about Daniel Radcliffe, or Morgan and I decided to skip work and go see a movie instead, or We worked late, so I just stayed the night at Morgan's house.

Morgan was supposed to be a girl, not a guy.

I eye him critically—dark blond hair, a fresh skin fade, stubble along his jaw, and sharp green eyes. From where he's sitting, he looks taller than me, which only adds to the gnawing ache in my chest when I glance back at her.

I have no reason to be upset. No reason to care who Maisie does or does not talk to. She's not mine—she never has been. I'm not even sure how much of her I really have now. But it makes me upset, and I'm jealous as fuck.

And I'm pissed at myself that I feel that way.

"Nice to meet you, man," Morgan says, standing to shake my hand.

My jaw tightens as I take it. "Hi."

Maisie tilts her head, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as she looks between us. I let go of his hand and scratch at my eyebrow, taking a step backward.

"I didn't realize you were seeing someone," Morgan says to Maisie, tucking his hands into a pair of washed-out tan Carhartt's that look worn but were probably bought that way. He's got that whole tortured artist in LA look going on—probably drinks straight espresso just because it's cool, surfs on some hidden Malibu beach, and has a vintage motorcycle sitting in his garage just so he can lane split through traffic.

Fuck. I'm not going to be able to stop picturing Maisie on the back of his motorcycle, wrapping her arms around him tight, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.

"I'm pretty sure I mentioned it," Maisie says quickly, glancing from me to him. "Didn't I? I did. I know I did."

He shrugs. "Well, I'm gonna grab some lunch, then. Meet you back here in an hour?"

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When I tell you the amount of time I spent changing this chapter and the next two 🫠 They originally played out so differently in my mind, and I really had a hard time figuring out how to approach them. So you guys will have to let me know your thoughts!

Also, a little heads up/spoiler: the next chapter will be a spicy/mature one.

tysm for reading, commenting, and voting ❤️