Day's POV
It's almost 1 AM.
The city outside the penthouse window is humming — golden and restless. But inside, it's quiet. Too quiet for a band called MARS.
Rain's in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, pouring protein powder into almond milk like the world depends on it.
"Do you ever sleep?" I ask, tossing a stress ball into the air from the couch.
He doesn't look at me. "Do you ever stop talking?"
Fair.
He slams the shaker lid on and leans against the counter. For a second, we just exist in silence, the kind that's familiar — the kind you only get after years of sharing hotel rooms, tour buses, and green rooms that smell like burnt hair and success.
"You good?" I ask.
He takes a sip, avoids my eyes. "Why?"
"Because you almost broke the remote earlier just because Sky was talking about Luca."
The bottle pauses halfway to his mouth.
"I'm not jealous," he mutters.
"Didn't say you were."
He sighs, running a hand through his stupidly perfect hair. "She talks about him like he invented sound."
"She talks about everyone like that. That's just Sky. She'd find the good in a trash can if it gave her flowers."
He doesn't smile. He just stares out the window like he's trying to fight his own reflection.
"She's been texting him," he finally says.
I raise an eyebrow. "And?"
"And I don't know what I'm doing."
He never says that. Rain Ashford never doesn't know.
So I sit up a little. "You like her."
He doesn't deny it.
"I mean… she's Sky," he mutters. "She's too much. Too bright. Too loud. Too—"
"Real?" I offer.
He exhales. "Yeah. That."
For a second, we sit in the echo of that word.
"She likes you, you know," I say casually. "Half the crew's taking bets on when you'll finally kiss her."
His head whips around. "They what?"
I smirk. "I'm not supposed to tell you that. But yeah. Everyone sees it. You stare at her like she's the only song you've ever written."
He's quiet again.
Then, softly: "I don't want to ruin her."
My smirk fades.
"She's... good. Like, annoyingly good. She forgives too fast. Loves too hard. Believes too easily. And I'm not like that."
"No, you're not," I agree. "You're the guy who overthinks, who stays up rehearsing a single riff for five hours, who checks every cable twice, who keeps us all sharp."
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's a fact. You're intense. And yeah, maybe you'd hurt her. But maybe you'd also never let her fall."
He looks away.
"You think I'm too cold," he says.
"I think you're scared," I reply. "Of wanting something that feels too good to be true."
He doesn't say anything for a while.
Then: "You and Night?"
I laugh under my breath. "She's… Night. She's fire in slow motion. We've been dancing around each other since forever. Feels like if we ever touch, the whole world might combust."
Rain nods. "You ever going to tell her?"
I toss the stress ball again. "One day. When I'm brave enough."
We sit there, two idiots in love with the two loudest girls on the planet, pretending we're rockstars and not just emotionally constipated men with microphones.
Rain finishes his drink, throws the bottle in the sink.
"I should tell her."
I raise a brow. "Now?"
He shrugs. "Eventually."
"Cool," I say. "Let me know when, so I can place my bet."
He flips me off without looking back.
And in the stillness of that late hour, something shifts. Quietly. Just like love often does.