I wake up in a frenzy with sweat dripping down my forehead and tremors ricocheting throughout my entire body.

It's a dream. The terrible, awful, nauseating image seared into my brain of Brendon's car flying around a corner, tyres losing their grip, and the car plummeting into a barrier is just a nightmare.

As labored breaths pour out of me, I try my best to forget the flash of red—the flags on their steering wheels and the blood gushing out of him—but it keeps coming back to me in alternating bursts of blinding light and endless darkness. Even when I rub my eyes and squeeze my temples and rip the covers off of me.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I jump out of bed and grab the nearest hoodie I can find, slipping it over my head as I run toward the door. I grab my hotel key and phone before rushing out of the room and down the hall toward Brendon's hotel room. Somehow, the two of us have managed to end up on the same floor again, except this time across opposite ends of the building.

While he had invited me to stay in his room for the night after how upset I was earlier, I'd opted to utilize the room I'd booked for myself. Truth be told, Lauren's comments weeks ago about my and Brendon's relationship still linger like salt in the wound, and part of me wants to preserve some distance between us. If only to play along with the illusion that she wasn't right in some ways.

Once I reach his door, I knock frantically, not caring if I'm being too loud or waking up his neighbors. Understandably, it takes a minute for him to come to the door, but once he does, I fly into his chest and wrap my arms around his body in an iron-clad grip. He can barely get a word out, trying to process what's happening. Why the sudden embrace at three in the morning? I feel bad. I do. He has to wake up early for practice. But I can't help it.

Brendon pulls us out of the hallway and into his room, closing the door behind us. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

When I pull my face back, wet splotches on his light grey shirt reflect back at me. I hadn't realized I was crying in the first place.

"I had a bad dream," I manage to croak out. "You were racing and you crash into the wall and...god....there was so much blood and I just—"

I can't get the rest of the words out. My body forbids me from doing so. But it doesn't matter because Brendon crushes me to his chest, cradling me between him and the wall. The proximity allows me to feel him, touch him, feel the beat of his heart against my chest. It affirms everything I saw was fake and he's real, very much here and alive.

"I'm here," he reassures me. "It was just a dream."

"I'm sorry," I groan, burying my face into his shirt. The soft material dampens under droplets of frustrated tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Brendon smooths his hand over my hair. "Nothing is wrong with you. You're stressed out. These things happen."

"No, it's not normal." Pushing away from him, I pace into the hotel room. His eyes follow behind me lazily, careful to keep watch but laser-focused enough to make me squirm beneath his gaze. "How does one argument with my friends lead to me dreaming about my—you crashing in a race? Fucking hell. I haven't been sleeping at all."

Brendon, despite being flushed with worry, coughs up a laugh. "I think you just answered your own question," he says as he walks into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. "You guys have been ridiculously busy these past few months and you have a ton of shows coming up, not to mention a tour you're planning for next year. It's all adding to an already stressful situation and your mind is doing its best to keep up, but sometimes you just need a break."

Chalking up a panic attack to stress is frustratingly silly, and that's why I know he's right and not at all silly. Quite the opposite. He's the only one of us that makes sense more often than not. I'm not about to break down in the middle of the F1 paddock because of one argument; it's layers upon layers of frustration, exhaustion, and debilitating worry that I'm never doing enough to justify where I am. Because while I act okay most days, I still feel the weight of every aspect of our lives, and ignoring it to move on to the next task on our agenda just further cements the flaws in the system.

Still. As stressed as I am, it doesn't excuse having such a terrible dream. My subconscious is full of shit.

"Give yourself a break," he instructs; firm but forgiving. "Once you do your show in Hawaii, you'll have almost two months of non-stop work until December. And then it all picks up again after the new year. Pace yourself."

I heave a dry laugh. "Is that even possible?"

"You can force it to be possible." There's a threat there somewhere—make it possible or I'll call Marty and Jenny myself.

Even when he's in the middle of a heated Formula One season, one he's shown potential to win himself, and trying to find a way to get his sister to one of his races without facing the ire of his judgmental and unsupportive parents, he still finds a way to comfort me. Granted, he doesn't like talking about them much, so gently forcing him to open up to me is like pulling teeth, but I'm patient and take whatever he gives me.

"God, I forgot about that TV special too." The mattress sinks beneath my weight when I sit down, drawing me closer to Brendon's side. I place my head in my hands and push back the sweaty strands of hair that have fallen out of my ponytail. "If we're not all talking again by next week, it's going to be awkward as all hell."

"What special?"

My hands flair outward in a rainbow shape. "A Night with MARS.," I exaggerate. "Basically a really long interview where we have to talk about the album and our upbringings. Random shit like that. We had to give them a bunch of old videos and pictures, too."

"Random shit, she says after releasing a record-breaking, Grammy-nominated album."

I shove my elbow into his side with a laugh. "You know what I mean."

Silence settles over us like a weighted blanket, and between the synchronized rise and fall of our chests, Brendon swipes a lock of hair back behind my ear. Without thinking about it or second-guessing anything between us, I lean into his touch and feel the last remaining wisps of dread from my nightmare float away, replaced by the warmth of his touch.

"Can I ask something potentially awkward?"

His soft laugh settles over me in sweet waves. "Of course."

"We never talked about what Lauren said. About us." I swallow hard enough that I can hear it. Brendon waits for the proposed question. "I know you you were very understanding in Monaco about everything, and you've been nothing but since then too, but is this...am I doing too much here? Should I be better about overstepping boundaries?"

It's not like I want him to say yes. Hell, we've been growing closer with each new day, and I can't imagine coming back from where we are now, but seeing how Jun and Lauren are causes me to worry I might be too lenient with how comfortable I am around him. The last thing I want to do is take advantage of his unwavering support while I'm still figuring out what I want. If I'm going through this inner turmoil of being this close to him but treading water with not sinking too deeply into his touch, I know he must feel it too.

"Do you want the truth?"

I nod through the heightened racing of my heart.

Brendon pulls his hand back and places it beside us on the bed instead. If I reach out an inch, I'll feel him again, but that inch feels like a mile between us.

"I'm not going to lie....some days are harder than others. I look at you and just—" he shakes his head. "When I wake up every morning and yours is the first face I see, I wish I could kiss you and forget about everything else going on in my life. And sometimes you have the goofiest smile on your face when you don't realize anyone else is watching and I wish I could do it again. And when you fall asleep in my arms—I'm not an invincible wall made of steel. Especially after that song you wrote. It sucks sometimes. But I'd rather take whatever you give me than not have anything at all. Lauren feels a certain way and I understand why; she's struggling with her relationship. But it's all just noise to me. What matters is between us, and I've never and will never fault you for taking your time."

"God, Brendon. You can't say things like that and expect me to act rationally."

What Brendon wants, Brendon gets.

Somewhat.

Despite everything, most of it a direct result of me and my whirlwind thoughts, he eagerly accepts the way I practically throw myself at him.

There's something to be said about panicked exclamations in movies and how they lead to dramatic kisses, usually in the middle of a busy airport or under a downpour; settling for a blanket of moonlight and whispers isn't a step down. I certainly had no plans of kissing him when I trudged across the hotel with only my tears and pajamas, but the latter is compromised of a pair of biker shorts and one of Brendon's shirts I stole from his house so I suppose I can't be surprised.

The first kiss felt an awful lot like a dream. Sweet, light, comforting.

If this kiss is a dream, it belongs in Inception seconds before the kick is timed to go off. Frantic, frenzied, unraveling.

I slide my leg over to rest one on either side of his hips, trapping my all too willing captive beneath me. Weeks of pent-up tension since Monaco releases in quick bursts, encapsulated by our wandering hands and sensual kisses. Utilizing distractions might be a form of escapism, but I don't mind getting lost for a night. I close my eyes and clutch at the man guiding me onto the path less traveled. Or maybe I'm the one luring Brendon to his demise. His confession about me having him wrapped around my finger wanders around my thoughts.

His touch leaves a trail of fire behind, lazily dragging a finger across my décolletage, but he douses the flame a millisecond later with a brush of his tongue—against my neck, along my jaw, inches away from my beating heart.

Separating from his lips for a moment, and whimpering at my actions in the process, I lean back to rip my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor. The cool hotel room air hits my bare chest before Brendon pulls me back to him, and I'm once again drowning in all thoughts of him.

As frenzied as our kisses are, and Brendon is putting in work on my neck that will surely leave a mark behind, he barely reacts to me sitting topless on him. When I connect our fingers and drag them along with my guidance, he manages to derail himself before arriving where I want him to, and I release a frustrated groan in response.

I know he wants this too; I can feel the evidence of it.

Before I can make another attempt, Brendon swings us around so I'm lying beneath him. Every inch of his body is pressed against mine, soft fabric nestled against smooth skin. I raise my body and feel him push back in response, eliciting another strained groan in return.

"Brendon."

As soon as my hands drag across his chest in an attempt to lift his shirt off as well, he wrestles my arms above my head, turning the captor into the captive. My eyes shift upward and stare through the darkness, searching for him between endless pools of bronze. Each hurried rise and fall of my chest brings us closer together, but he keeps the distance at a standstill.

"What are you—"

He silences me with a kiss. "Not right now."

"But I want you."

"I know," he says with his own layer of pent-up frustration. Brendon rests his forehead against mine and his breath hits my face like I'm standing at the summit of Mauna Kea. And, man, is this the best view I've ever seen. The Monaco lookout doesn't even have a thing on Brendon. "But not when we both have to be up in three hours."

My hips lift of their own accord, desperate to feel his touch again, but he uses one hand to hold me firm to the bed. Even though we're not on the same page here, he shakes with an amused laugh and it somehow makes his rejection okay.

Brendon nudges my head to the side with his face before pressing a wet kiss in the crook of my neck, sending a shot of adrenaline straight through my entire body. "When we have all the time in the world. I want us to take so much time you go to sleep dreaming of it."

I shiver at his words—not a hopeful possibility but a promise.

All I can do is nod and do my best to slow down my heart rate. Brendon spares me one last kiss, chaste compared to the rest of them, before pulling away and leaving me sprawled across his bed. My discarded t-shirt lands gently next to me before he heads toward the bathroom, his eyes not once taking advantage of my vulnerable state.

"I should probably go," I mutter.

Brendon laughs. "And I'll be taking a cold shower."

"That's a good idea. Think I'll do that too."

...

It isn't until I arrive back in LA that I realize how dependent I've become on Brendon.

Maybe dependent isn't the correct word; I'm distinctly aware of what it feels like to be with him versus being away from him, and anytime I'm stuck with the latter, I count down the days until I'm back to the former.

On second thought, dependent isn't the right word. I know how to exist without him. It's not like I'm a zombie moving at a snail's pace from one room to the next; I'm still a successful artist and songwriter with a band up for album of the year, dammit. Fiercely independent woman doesn't even begin to describe where I've worked myself up to in life. I've more or less survived on my own for the better part of twenty-four years, and I can continue to do so if I so choose. I have friends I look forward to seeing, including a lunch with Monroe and Zoe who I beg to adopt me (please). There's so much to do to keep me busy. If I had to, I could find another person to lend my heart to. People don't talk about that enough. How love isn't this singular understanding but a growing theory that changes day by day. It's not a construct that expires once we've found the one. I've spent most of my life believing the idea of the one is for hopeless romantics, and hopeless romantics are simply an archetype found in movies and books, and therefore, a fallacy I could never find or aspire to be myself.

Love is about choices. Knowing there are things to do together, things to do apart, and compromises to meet somewhere in the middle. Because it's what we want. A conscious choice is made daily to coexist because, although there are other choices we can make, they're the ones we choose.

I don't know if this thing is love. I'm sure people will look at us and scream about their opinions one way or another, but I force those thoughts out of my mind. What other people think doesn't matter. In the words of Brendon: we have time, and I'm taking advantage of it.

This blissful euphoria mixed with the uneasiness of being back in LA is what puts me on edge once my plane lands, only to be exasperated when I power up my phone to see a message from Jenny letting me know she'll be in a meeting so she's sending someone else to pick me up.

It's not like I expect either of those two to be waiting outside for me, but I do breathe a sigh of relief when I see Rami pull up to the curb. And regardless of who it is, seeing a friendly face is better than a stranger's.

"You didn't call me back," he states as he walks around the car and wraps me up in a quick hug. He's not the most physically affectionate of the group, so his embraces feel that much more comforting when awarded. I sink my face into his chest and return the hug. "We did it, ukhti."

"I'm still a little in disbelief but slowly coming around to accepting it's real." I sink into his touch, letting the pent-up excitement that's been building up for the past few days over the nominations transfer into him. "I had a mini-meltdown. But I'm feeling better now."

"You sure?" he asks when he pulls away. His eyes search mine for the truth I'm unable to hide from him even if I try. Rami waits until I nod a confirmation. "Okay, 'cause if you need us to take the long route home then just say the word—"

I politely reject the offer with a brisk shake of my head, pushing him and my bag toward the car. The longer we stand out here, the more likely it'll be that someone spots us. Most people at airports are too busy to care about other travelers, but giving them an excuse to catch on doesn't help maintain the elusive status quo.

"I promise. I could use a good ten-hour sleep in my bed."

"You're not gonna sneak over to Bash's house and hide?"

"Rami."

"I'm kidding. Kind of." He ducks away from me, taking my suitcase with him. With ease, lifts the case into the trunk, saving me the embarrassment of doing it myself. Stress packing means packing way too much. "Look, you spent the entire day traveling. I don't blame you at all if you do. But we missed you. And Bash had a good race weekend."

"Who's we?" I ask as I settle into my seat. "And he did. I think he's going to surpass Idris in the points by the next one."

He doesn't justify my question with a response, choosing to click his tongue at me instead as he pulls away from the curb. After merging into Los Angeles traffic, which is the chief reason why I will never call this place a permanent home—Oahu traffic can get pretty bad for such a small island, but at least locals are willing to throw up a shaka when they cut you off. It somewhat softens the blow—we spend the better part of an hour making our way home.

If there's one thing I can count on, it's Rami knowing when to push and when to back off, something I could learn a thing or two from sometimes. Instead of attempting to get me to talk about the tension in the house and the additional stress it might add to our TV special coming up, he lets me ramble on about the race, smiling at all the right places and being able to carry on the conversation since he knows a fair bit about Formula One as well.

When the conversation dulls and Rami maintains his optimal companion status, I allow myself to disassociate for the rest of the ride home. It isn't until the car door slams and I catch the blur of Rami walking back toward the trunk to get my bag that I realize we're home.

"How was South Korea?" Seira asks, bounding down the stairs as the two of us walk through the front door.

"Think I might've eaten my entire weight in food but I survived."

Without warning, she throws her arms around my shoulders and buries her face into my neck. "Wasn't a real celebration without you here."

My arms encircle her waist as I accept her embrace. Traveling and experiencing new cultures can be a lot of fun, but nothing beats coming home to a familiar face.

"I'm dumb. I should've remembered they were announcing it and stayed here."

Seira brushes off my suggestion. "We didn't know we were getting nominated either way. No point in putting our lives on hold for an announcement."

"Still—" As we walk further into the house, I take in the emptiness of the living room. "Where's Lauren and Jun?"

She holds a finger to her lips and points up at the ceiling with the other. "They're holed up in Rami's room working on that song. Asked if we could give them the afternoon to try and finish it. They made some progress in the last week."

"Ah." Rami sends me a concerned glance before stepping around us so he can walk to the fridge. "Rix said to tell you hi and also screw you for not making it."

Tickets were booked for the two of us to fly over for the race together and Seira was looking forward to heading back to South Korea again for the first time in years, but she's more disciplined than I am, so she stayed behind to take care of a few work obligations.

"There'll be more in the future."

"Assuming we're still in their good graces."

Seira scoffs, looking me up and down with a smirk. "Are you expecting to fall out of it anytime soon?"

I shrug. "You never know."

She places her hands on my shoulders and swings me around toward the kitchen where Rami is preparing a few mugs of tea for all of us. "We are fully aware that's not happening. Ever. You're the only one not aware of it."

"I hate you all."

"Think I have a bottle of soju upstairs—"

"Have I mentioned how much I love you?"

Laughing, Seira pushes back from the counter and rushes back to where she came from. "Yeah, yeah."

Since we're alone again, Rami takes back the reins of the conversation. Leaving me alone during my trip was him taking it easy on me. Now that I'm back, I can't avoid him. Not that Rami is the type of person anyone runs away from. He has one of those faces that makes it hard to disappoint.

After reaching into a wicker basket on the counter and taking out a shiny green apple, I roll it between my hands on the counter like I'm playing catch with myself. "I don't know how you eat these. Apples have the worst texture of any fruit."

"Says the person who is more apple juice than a human being."

"Last time I checked, there's no....pulp, or whatever, in apple juice."

Rami slides the mug across to me, and I inhale the wisps of steam that rise above the rim. "Jun asked about you while you were gone."

"I don't know what to do with that information."

He sighs. "Stevie—"

"He didn't reply to my text, Rami." The apple stops rolling. I toss the abomination back into the basket; it's useless to me if it's not in juice form. "I'm trying not to be insensitive here but I don't know how what I did warrants this reaction."

"Because it's not just about what you've said," Rami points out. "This is just...them working out what's going on between them."

I point above our heads. "That's working out well."

"You of all people know how cathartic it is to release all of your feelings into a song. They've still been tiptoeing around each other when they haven't been working on it."

The cup of tea sits in front of me untouched; the paint of the Tokyo Disneyland logo is starting to chip off. "So Jun asked about me. That suggests Lauren didn't."

Rami's lips press into a tight line before he takes a sip.

"I did have a panic attack at the track. Had to have Mav talk me down. Brendon found me sitting on the ground outside and practically carried me back to my hotel room. And then because I suck—"

"You don't suck, don't say that."

"—I had a nightmare that he got into a big accident during a race and—" I close my eyes, not wanting to regurgitate any of those images in my head, "—I threw myself at him when I ran to his room to make sure it was all just a dream."

Wordlessly, Rami trades our mugs, replacing my now lukewarm tea with the hot one he just made for himself; he nudges it into my hand and waits for me to take a sip.

      "Maybe I am a hypocrite."

"I think this is less about how you think you're both wrong and more about how you two can relate over this."

I force myself to take another sip. "What did Jun say when he asked about me?"

"Wanted to know if you were liking South Korea." Rami pauses. "You two always said that was one of the top places you wanted to visit."

"He's going to love it there." I would've loved to have experienced it for the first time together. Now all I'll remember until I find my way back is crying in the middle of the Grand Prix. "Does she need more time?"

Rami glances up as if he's able to see through the ceiling at our friends. "I think so. Not long, though. Her eyes...there's more clarity to them before. And I think when she's more sure of herself, she'll be ready for you again."

While the discomfort of not being on speaking terms hurts, my main concern at this point is making sure they have the support they need to get to where they want to be, and that means keeping that discomfort until they're ready.

"I guess if there's anything we can be certain of, it's that we'll get a Grammy-worthy song out of Lauren from all of this."

Rami laughs with ease. "And maybe we'll convince her to sing it at a show one day."

"Yeah, maybe."