Cursing under my breath, I rub a tube of lip balm across my lips for what feels like the hundredth time since touching down in the Vegas.

"It's freezing," I complain, tugging on the sleeves of my cardigan. "How cold is it?"

Jun glances at his watch. "Thirty-eight."

"End me now."

He tosses me his big puffy jacket and I pull it over the rest of my clothes, breathing in the scent of his cologne. "You act as if you've never been here in December. Where's your coat?"

"In my suitcase upstairs," I sulk.

The two of us wait in the valet area for our delivery driver to drop off our dinner. After landing at the Las Vegas airport late in the afternoon, we did our usual routine of booking it over to our hotel so we could get settled in, and, after realizing how tired we were, decided none of us could be bothered to eat at one of the hotel's restaurants for dinner. Nobody is in the mood for socializing after a five-hour plane ride. Nobody looks like they should be socializing after a five-hour plane ride.

"What time do we have to wake up?" Jun asks, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

"I don't know," I answer, trying to remember what Jenny texted us. "I think we need to be at the venue around eleven to do soundcheck."

Jun groans. "I hate soundcheck."

"We know. You tell us every time."

"And then we're coming back to the hotel, right?" I nod. "When is his highness sir Maverlot gracing us with his presence?"

A simple mention of his name makes me want to throw my phone across the parking lot. "Ideally, never. But I think he'll stop by before we head over for the show."

"Just how we want to ring in the new year," Jun replies gravely. "What about Brendon?"

Guilt orbits around my tired brain as I realize I've forgotten to check up on him. With all the flights he had available, he ended up flying in a day early and was keeping himself busy with friends who were also in Vegas for New Year's.

I send him a text asking how he's doing, but he doesn't reply during those few minutes we wait downstairs for our food. After the driver pulls up—thankfully an older woman who's blissfully unaware of who we are, but sweet nonetheless—we carry our food back into the warmth of the hotel lobby and follow the security guard escorting us.

"Food's here!" Jun announces when we cross the threshold of our hotel room. Like a bunch of wild animals that have been starving for days, everyone surges toward us and rummages through the bags for their food and drinks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the minibar has been ravaged in since Jun and I went downstairs.

"Really?" I shake my head. "We can order drinks that cost a quarter of the price and have five times as much."

Seira shrugs and walks away with her takeout, her green hair glistening under the iridescent decorative lights like coral. "Can you blame us? We're in Vegas."

"Vegas is overrated."

With a fork between his teeth and his drink and food in each hand, Rami nods toward me and muffles, "At least you know it wasn't me."

"I'm holding you accountable for letting them at it."

Marty bursts through the door seconds later with his own food he ordered downstairs, frugal enough to refuse to pay a delivery fee, even though he wouldn't have been the one footing the bill. Dinner was on Jun tonight, bless him.

It's clear from Marty's face that dinner in our room isn't all about relaxation, and it only takes a few minutes of him inhaling food before he wipes his hands off on a napkin and pulls out his tablet.

"Shit," Jun mumbles ominously. "He's about to talk money with us."

Marty throws the dirty napkin in his direction. "Among other things. Figured we could ring in the new year with some good news."

"Actual good news?" Seira asks.

"Good news." Marty takes a beat. "After everyone finally responded to my email about ideas for the show, I sent over a counter-proposal to Netflix and as of two days, we have reached a tentative agreement."

Rami sits up. "So it's on?"

"We still need to finalize some numbers," Marty declares before we all get a notification that he's sent us an email. "But we're going to have a Netflix show. They even whipped up a teaser poster. Check your emails."

My hands don't move fast enough. I skip past all of the legal jargon until my eyes land on an eye-catching red show poster titled 'Down to Earth'.

Lauren leans over my shoulder to get a good view. "Wow," she fawns. "That's so cute."

"Isn't it?" I glance back across the room. "This happened way quicker than I thought it was going to."

Marty laughs, "That's the entertainment industry for you. Things either spend five years in purgatory or happen in the blink of an eye."

"So, they're fine with focusing on the tour?" Rami asks.

Initially, they expressed interest in from before the tour starts, including our writing process, but none of us are enthusiastic in letting people into that part of our world yet. The process of creating an album is an intimate experience, so when our first chance at getting this level of exposure is open for the taking, we prefer to utilize our caution.

We discussed it briefly as a band, without Marty or Jenny's influence, and all came to the same conclusion.

"They want to film some of the tour planning, but I told them album writing and recording is off-limits," Marty answers. "And they want to film the homecoming show at Aloha Stadium next year."

"Even though we might not include material from the next album?" Rami asks, once again taking charge.

"They're still trying to work on narrative arcs and all that show stuff," Marty waves his hand, "but they're interested in emphasizing your Hawaii roots so including that would be beneficial. They're willing to renegotiate that further down the planning process if we want."

"That works," I add.

Renewed with a burst of excitement, Marty drops his tablet next to him on the couch and claps his hands. "Great! Glad we're all looking forward to this."

"My mom is going to flip," Lauren says. "She said she almost dropped her phone in the bathtub when I just told her they approached us about it."

Jun slaps her playfully on the shoulder. "You can use your Netflix money to buy her a new phone."

...

Less than twelve hours later and the hotel room has been transformed into the aftermath of a demolition.

I sit back in my seat, sipping on a cup of hot tea—decaffeinated—while I plunge a pick into a container of watermelon. The chaos continues around me, but I take advantage of having to rest my voice to not get involved.

Lauren is scrambling through a suitcase trying to find a pair of earrings she thinks she lost. Jun is busy staring at a pimple in the mirror. (Karma, Lauren says). Seira can't decide between three different lipstick shades that she claims clash with her hair. Rami is helping his sister back home with a recipe for some dish she's trying to make for a party she's going to tonight.

"I found them!" Lauren screams, holding up a pair of hoop earrings above her head.

I snap for her. "We knew you'd pull through."

"Now we can go," she huffs, smoothing her shirt back into place.

Jun emerges from the bathroom with a clear dot on his chin. "Oh, now you're going to rush us since you figured out your shit?"

"Those things need time to work." Lauren points at his face. "Maybe next time you won't stuff your face with five slices of garlic bread and wake up with a pimple the size of Mars on your face." She pauses. "Pun unintended."

Jun sticks his tongue out at her.

Someone knocks at the door and Jenny goes to answer it as the only other person managing to keep her head on straight.

A collective eye roll echoes through the band when the door opens to Maver staring at his phone. He barely spares her a glance which I chalk up to his inability to face women who match his stature. (Jenny is 6'2" with her heels, gaining an inch over him.)

Maver hasn't always been the most annoying person to be around. As late as a few months ago, I would have chosen him over some drunk rando at a party. But the more Maver and Lauren hang out and the more serious their relationship grows, the less I like him.

"Always such a help, Stevie."

I stare outside the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Vegas skyline. "Remind me again whose show you're getting into for free?"

Skipping across the room, Lauren meets him halfway, leaning up on her toes to press against his jawline.

        I suppress a gag.

"Where's your F1 boy?" Maver asks.

"Where's your absence?"

"You're a little snappy today," he says, though I know he doesn't take any of it to heart. Our usual routine consists of trading jabs. He's just unaware mine are beginning to manifest into real feelings. "Hopefully the people who paid for your meet and greet get a warmer welcome."

"Hard to believe but I'm surprisingly nice to people I like."

"You mean the people that pay for your company?"

        "At least people enjoy my company. How were those reviews for Work, Wife?"

Maver presses a hand over his chest. "Tell me you at least enjoyed your Christmas present."

He got me a flat iron after I complained a few weeks ago that my favorite one broke and I couldn't find it in stock online. Lauren thought it was the sweetest thing. Jun and I both agree he was just trying to suck up.

I suppose it was a nice gesture. I didn't get him anything, though.

...

I watch in awe at the celestial brilliance on the sign with our name. No matter how many times it happens, I'll never get used to seeing MARS up high in shining lights. The album cover flashing above the stadium erupts into a scattering of stars that mimic the album's deluxe edition cover right as we drive past into the drop-off area.

One of the event coordinators meets us outside so they can bring us to our dressing rooms before the meet and greet. It's a smaller allotment this time around since it's a special event for New Year's and they don't want to risk running over time for obvious reasons, and even though I enjoy meeting fans, I appreciate not spending too long on them. Meeting so many people can be emotionally draining.

Picture taking goes by in a flash and eventually, we're left alone again. We change into our show outfits, mine consisting of a sheer long-sleeve top with a sleek bra underneath and high-waisted black jeans that have a thin layer of sparkle which, under the lights, reminds me of the ocean at midnight.

While I'm sitting in front of the mirror throwing on more lip balm while hydrating before the show, there's a knock at my dressing room door. I look back in the reflection and see Jenny stick her head in, pushing the door open and walking inside with Brendon trailing behind her.

"Oh shoot." I check my phone and see unread text messages. "I forgot to check on you."

He waves me off. "You're busy getting ready. Thanks for getting me, Jen."

"No problem." She reminds me of how much time we have left until the show starts before departing to make her rounds.

Brendon steps into the room. It's bare for the most part. I don't have a long list of requests for my dressing room. A case of water, chamomile tea, freshly cut fruit, and a blanket. It's not like I spend much time back here, and even when we are backstage, the band spends a lot of time together in one room.

"This looks...."

I swivel around. "Sad? Lonely? Barren?"

"I wouldn't have said it like that but—" Brendon shrugs. "I guess I always imagined rockstars to have an extravagant set up."

"I like to think I'm a little more down to Earth than that."

He sits on the small loveseat and crosses one leg over the other. Brendon dons an all-black outfit complete with a leather jacket that looks worn and well-loved.

"Where's your friend?" I ask.

Brendon glances back and forth at the empty spaces on either side of him. "What friend?"

"I don't know, didn't you bring a friend with you? Jenny got you two seats if you wanted to watch from on the floor."

"Did I say I was going to bring a friend?"

I shake my head. "I don't get you sometimes."

Brendon holds up his hands with a laugh, "I didn't want to overstep. I'm fine hanging out on my own anyway."

"Are you sure that's it?"

He tilts his head. "Are we about to have a heart-to-heart?"

"Depends." I give him a once-over. "I find it interesting you spent your birthday and now New Year's with me when we're barely friends. And if you comment on me calling you a friend, I'm going to smack—"

"What if I just like hanging out with you?" he asks with a sharp tone I don't expect. "Stop trying to make it weird."

"I'm not!" I say. "I'm just...trying to figure you out. That's all."

I pause, waiting to see how he reacts, and while Brendon doesn't completely shut off, he also doesn't appear as charmingly light-spirited as he usually does. It's not like I came here tonight intending to call him out, but I just find myself confused by the things he does.

I sit on the opposite end of the loveseat, though it doesn't offer much space. I fold my legs under and rest my arm against the back.

"Mav will be here after the show. You'll like each other." Looking him in the eye, I search for a shred of truth. "Just give me one little crumb. I promise I'll retreat."

Brendon scoffs playfully, looking away for a moment and staring at some random spot on the wall. When he turns back to me, he hesitates for a beat before feeding my appetite. Even if it is just a crumb.

"I like how, even though you're far away from home, all of you still feel like a family. An actual, genuine family. I don't have that very often when I'm away from mine. It's nice to be around."