By Sunday morning, Everleigh is on her flight back to London so she can make it home in time for clinical. I try not to dwell on the fact that the weekend didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped it would, but she puts on a brave face when we met for a quick coffee before she leaves for the airport.

        Brendon and I don't leave until tomorrow. After seeing Everleigh off, I wobble back over to his hotel room where we spend most of the afternoon watching shitty movies. Between the two of us stationed on our own queen-sized bed with an arsenal of snacks from the hotel lobby, it becomes a whole event.

        (I choke on a chocolate-covered strawberry we order from room service when Werewolf in the Catacombs comes on.)

        It's the perfect way to wind down from the weekend, and by the time the sun begins to set, I've already lost track of time and nearly forget what day it is.

        Brendon stumbles over to the window and pulls the curtains back to allow a blanket of burnt orange light to seep onto our skin.

      "Do we dare venture out into civilization tonight?" he asks. "Last night in New York."

        I roll over onto my side, soft curls falling onto my cheek as I stare out of the window. My view from this spot, while nothing to complain about, isn't as good as the one from where Brendon is standing, so I watch him instead. Behind him, flakes of white snow dance toward the ground, giving him the illusion that he's sitting inside of a snow globe.

        "Maybe we can find some greasy pizza. And a hot chocolate."

        Brendon fixes a pointed glance at all of the garbage from our snacks strewn across the two beds. "I think my trainer will be upset if I indulge in another cheat meal."

"You're already past what's acceptable. I'm sure it'll be fine." When he doesn't respond, I sigh. "Fine. Maybe I can find some greasy pizza."

"I can definitely help you with that."

Instead of making the short trek down to my room, I borrow some of Brendon's clothes, opting for a baggy long sleeve shirt (on top of the borrowed shirt I'm already wearing) and puffy jacket over my sweatpants.

Before we exit his hotel room, Brendon gives me a quick once-over to make sure I'm bundled up warm enough for venturing outside, pulling out a dark green beanie at the last minute and sliding it onto my head. Once covered, he taps it gently once, rubbing his thumb along the edge before ushering me toward the door.

With no destination in mind, we wander for a long time. Every time we pass a group of people, we whisper into each other's ears stories we imagine they could fit into.

At some point, we come across a tiny pizza shop busy enough that we can assume their food isn't terrible, but not enough that we'll have to wait. Brendon jogs ahead to hold the door open. A blast of warmth rushes over me as I inhale the savory scent of melted cheese and buttery garlic bread.

I clutch my stomach. "I can't believe we didn't eat real food all day."

"May I remind you it was your idea to order the chocolate-covered strawberries and cheesecake from room services."

"Yeah, and those were so good."

He nudges me closer to the display case. It's not like there are any other options besides plain cheese and pepperoni when I'm trying a new place for the first time, but we go through the motions like we've done this a hundred times before together.

When the owner hands over two slices—one of each type—that are almost as big as my face and a large drink without a lid so we can share, I walk over to one of the empty tables while Brendon pays.

By the time Brendon makes it over to the table, he's watching me wrangle the slice away from my mouth with a string of melted cheese.

"This is really good," I mumble with the cheese still dangling out of my mouth. "You should try some."

He laughs, sliding onto the stool. "Please don't bite my fingers off if I go for it."

"No promises."

For a few minutes, I eat by myself while chatter from the other patrons fills the air, but after the first 'mhmm this is so good' Brendon can't help himself. He slides the plate with the pepperoni slice toward him and takes a bite before he can change his mind.

With a face full of pure bliss, Brendon moans after his first bite. "I haven't had pizza in so long."

"Me either," I admit. "But that might be because I pizza-d myself out at the end of last year."

"How does one get pizza-d out?" He tilts his head to the side, a twinkle in his eye.

I clean my greasy fingers off with a napkin before I take a sip of our drink. "Rami owed me a month of however much pizza I wanted after giving you my number without my permission."

  Brendon's laugh is the star of the show, and, despite the feigned treachery I'd accused Rami of back then, it seems like so long ago I can't even remember watching that film before.

"Remind me to thank him again."

I wave him off. "Yeah, yeah. He probably still regrets it. Can barely stand us mentioning pizza around him anymore."

He points at me with his pizza. "I think that has more to do with the cheese and meat thing but I doubt it either way."

"I think you're underestimating how much Rami regrets having to buy me all of those pizzas."

"And I think you're underestimating your friend." A smug smile dresses his features. "Trust me. Rami knows exactly what he's doing at all times."

...

Sneaking onto a roof is common practice when it comes to Brendon and me. Maneuvering through a building like a pair of spies while trying not to spill our hot chocolates is a new impressive feat that's been added to our repertoire. Who needs World Drivers Championships or Grammys when we have this breathtaking view in front of us?

Steam rises from the cup as I lift it to my lips. The sugary drink burns my tongue before it goes down, but I still need to cuddle closer to Brendon when a gust of wind hits like ice against my skin.

"I remember when we played at Madison Square Garden a couple of years ago." I shake my head. "Best feeling in the world. Whenever I come back, I always think about it like it's happening for the first time again."

Thinking back to that perfect night where MARS played better than we ever had before, I can't help but let the glow burst out of me in endless waves. Maybe it's why I seem to come alive whenever I'm back in the city. It's where I feel like we came together as a band for the first time in a way the world recognized us as people to watch out for. Booking Madison Square Garden seemed like a fluke at first, and I'm still not quite sure how we managed to pull it off, but the reckless nerves were the best kind of fuel, and we pulled no punches on that stage.

"Can I confess something?" Brendon asks. "I went to your first show in Los Angeles back when Nuclear Fusion first dropped."

"You what?" We had only barely moved to Los Angeles before that show. "You acted like you didn't know us at all when we first met."

Brendon nods, only now looking at me. Even though darkness permeates every inch of space around us, aside from a flickering light bulb near the door, his eyes glow like his parents plucked stars from the sky while they were making him.

"I didn't. Knowing Stevie the lead singer isn't the same as Stevie the woman who's more apple juice than human being."

Without realizing what I'm doing, I bury my face into his shoulders to muffle the laugh that bubbles out of me.

"Fine, I'll give you that. But I still can't believe you never told me this."

Brendon takes a sip of hot chocolate before lowering it next to him on the ground. "Would you spontaneously combust if I told you I went home that night and learned how to play 'Abstract Blue'?"

"You play an instrument?"

He shoots me a casual glimpse. "You didn't know?"

"Brendon Ellis. How would I know you play music if you've never told me?" This time, with what little space we have in that small alcove, I turn to face him. My breath comes out like whispers of smoke hitting the side of his face. "It's the guitar isn't it?"

"I feel like you just called me basic without actually calling me basic." He pauses to flick snow off his finger. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it at the house. I think I left it in the hallway by my room."

"I didn't hang around your bedroom." I shove his arm again, but he bounces right back to me in a split second. "And that would also be calling myself basic."

"Difference is you play guitar and sing, and I'm pretty sure you play piano."

"You're deflecting."

"I'm not. I'm just pointing out that you're way more musically talented than I am." Brendon pulls the front of his coat together and shifts closer to me.

"You should probably let me hear you play before you make those kinds of assumptions."

"It's not an assumption. It's a fact."

I grasp his chin in my hand and pull his face in my direction. "I'm the one that gets paid to play music for people. I think I'll be the judge on this one. Okay?"

He doesn't shy away from me, doesn't break eye contact even for a second, and maybe that's why I drop my hand like I've burnt myself on a lump of hot coal.

"All you had to do was ask," he breathes.

Looking out at the city because it seems like the only action my malfunctioning brain will allow me to make, I reach out my hand and watch as a lone flake falls on top of my finger, melting immediately on contact. "What's your favorite city you've ever been to? Nowhere in Australia."

The city fills the void his silence leaves behind as he considers his answer. It comes quicker than I expect it to. "Monaco. Which is wholly unoriginal for an F1 driver but it's just... so beautiful. The kind of beautiful that doesn't translate any other way. You have to see it up close to understand."

It's not the first city I think of, simply because I spent most of my life not believing I'd ever make it out of Hawaii, let alone make it to somewhere like Monaco, known for its opulence and reputation of being just out of the average person's reach. When I watched the episodes Netflix did for the Monaco Grand Prix, it emphasized the elegance and made it seem like the dream your dreams wish they could exist in.

"I think you should definitely show me around. Snag a ticket to the race for me."

"You say that as if it wouldn't take me about five minutes to get you and all of your friends on the list. Windsor wouldn't pass up on an opportunity to have you on their arm."

I shove my shoulder against his even though there isn't a breath of space between us in the first place. "Don't give the band any ideas."

The air shifts and the subconscious part of me is tuned into what's coming next. I'm not sure what exactly he's about to ask or how far he's willing to go to get answers, but I mentally prepare to give myself over to his questions. Mostly because he'll just spiral into his own conspiracies if I don't enlighten him. But maybe there's also a part of me that wants to test the waters and see what any of this means, if it does mean something.

"I'm sure you know I'm not letting you leave New York without telling me about what happened with Maverick."

Maverick is a small part of it. Maybe not even the actual thing at all. Even sitting here now, ready to unhash all of the complicated feelings, I realize I'm not mad at him anymore. Though I'm sure I'll still take my time speaking to him again, it'll happen, and we'll laugh and maybe cry and probably reveal a little too many secrets about the darkest shades of our hearts.

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. Running the risk of making those butterflies go a flutter even more in my stomach, I lean my head against his shoulder. This way, I don't have to worry about what it'll feel like to see him watch me while I explain everything. "I don't even know where to start."

"Wherever you want. I have all night."

I explain what happened at the club, not omitting any details but not elaborating on anything I don't quite have a grasp on myself, leaving him to fill in the blanks on his own. Even though I can't see his face, I feel his heart beating steadily beneath my fingers. They have a mind of their own and Brendon doesn't stop me, understanding every delicate and careful movement.

He listens. God, does he listen. I don't even know how to explain it. Is it really this possible to feel like someone listens to you better than others? Brendon doesn't interrupt me, but at every low point in the story, he shifts closer and closer to me. His fingers rub along mine; comforting, soothing, gentle reminders that he's there and listening.

The only time he shows any adverse reaction is when I admit I slept with Bruno, but he hides it quickly. Not fast enough it doesn't bring the slightest flush to my cheeks, but I thank myself for the foresight of hiding my face from his. The last thing we need is to get lost in our reactions to each other and forget the plot.

The story eventually spirals into last night. Brendon can pick up most of the pieces from that point on, but I share a more thorough recap of the argument with Maverick since he only managed to catch a few moments here and there himself.

Having to relive the moment makes me feel embarrassed all over again. I genuinely can't believe I slapped Maverick of all people. The man who makes me laugh at the silliest things. The person who reminds me that music connects us to people we would have never met otherwise, and somehow we navigate this mess of a world together with a smile on our faces.

Brendon's fingers brush against my wrist, smoothing the skin as if he's trying to slow my pulse with just a touch.

Hell, it works. It works so much I can't imagine not having his touch branded into my existence.

When I pause to let him speak, he chooses the easier of two routes, starting with the end and working our way back to the beginning. The beginning is where all of the questions start. Questions neither of us know the answers to.

"You can understand he was lashing out because he was scared but also not minimize the hurt he's caused," he tells me. "Debating the morality of slapping someone is silly when we don't take into account the hurt we cause with our words. They're no less destructive than physical actions. He hurt you. Yeah, you hurt him, too, but I think you were justified."

Even sitting here now, listening to him talk the sense into me that I've been trying to make of myself, I have to remind myself not to give in to my insecurities. Just because Brendon is closer to me doesn't mean he's wrong. He can hold a bias but still speak the truth.

"I guess I was mostly mad about the whole thing at the club. And letting it build up into something that was poised to explode because of his comments wasn't entirely his doing."

While talking about it with Seira that same night and touching bases with Bruno sometime later was helpful, it doesn't completely take away all of those feelings. I was foolish to think it would and recklessly hurt that Maverick was unintentionally the one to help me realize it in such a way as he did.

"Maybe not," Brendon admits. "But, again, it doesn't justify him throwing something like that at you, even without the context. He's more than aware of the insidious means paparazzi go through to create a big story. He was using something wrong to deflect his own wrongdoings."

I tighten my grip around his arm. "I'll talk to him about it. One day. Soon. Not...right now, though."

"He can wait for you," Brendon laughs. "What did Bruno say?"

"He apologized that it happened, even though it wasn't his fault. And then apologized more after he read some of the headlines. Said he thinks it'll blow over soon."

He scoffs, not quite believing any of it. I can't tell if it's just because they're rivals on track or not. There's always been that sense of animosity beneath the thin layer of respect they have for each other, simply for being counterparts in that same sport.

"Easy for him to say, he's not the one that'll face the brunt of the speculation. How many headlines does he have questioning how many partners he's slept with? Has he had anyone slutshame him to his face when he's in a vulnerable state?"

I latch onto the realization that Brendon must have already known about the incident. Enough to know what kind of waves those pictures are making. This entire time, knowing what he likely knew, he must have been doing his best to help distract me from all of it.

I nudge his shoulder. "I get it. I do. But he's the one stuck in this mess with me and he told me he'd say something if I wanted him to. I think he's just trying to help me not dwell on it too much."

"Do you want him to?"

"Maybe." I shrug. "Maybe not. I think that's something for a future me to decide."

Part of me wants to say something else. Bring up the fact that the guy in the club mentioned him by name again because there's no way Brendon doesn't have an opinion about it. This thing between us is no longer a secret hidden in the quiet parts of house parties. That one shitty comment tethers us together in a public way, and, suddenly, we're no longer just us. We're something for people to talk about. Maybe pretending like our relationship was ever going to just stay bewteen us was foolish. We exist in a world that doesn't allow for privacy. This is another harsh reminder.

I open my mouth to say something and then close it again.

Taking deep breaths, I bury my face into his shoulder once again. Counting slowly and then breathing until the reckless thoughts stop. A slow and steady rhythm to help bring me to the same easy pace of his beating heart.

Brendon leans his head to the side, resting it gently upon mine. Understanding passes between us in these next few moments. We listen as the snow continues to fall—a flurry, I think fondly—and our hearts continue to beat. A feeling creeps up on us slowly until we let it fade into the wind, saving ourselves for another day.

"We have time," he mutters, so quietly I almost don't hear him, and kisses the top of my head. "We have time."