I grab my guitar’s neck to pull it up on the loveseat. The other two cover different parts of the sectional across from me, both in their own worlds. Felix beats away on a practice pad, and Dev’s playing with a bass line.

None of us are committed right now. Maybe we did need the day off.

Slouching on the cushions, I will myself to create on demand. After a few seconds, my head rolls to the side. Christian’s off his call, collapsed in a chair and not disrupting my view anymore. Remi flips through a magazine, looking beyond bored with her crossed leg swinging. Other than shooting through the glass, she can’t do much until we leave. She filmed in here before we kicked everyone out. The dark flower scent of her still lingers. Every time it hits me, the world dissolves into thoughts of the other night when it surrounded me. Thoughts of silky skin beneath my palm, my thumb stroking wet lace.

My hands. Your body.

I breathed her in and felt my teeth dent her thigh.

Starving breaths on promise-covered skin.

Her whimper sent blood rushing to my cock, still trained to the sound.

My grip tightens on the fretboard while I watch her. I can’t fucking stop watching her. And soon enough, I’m humming notes I’ve fought off for days. They’ve been spiraling. On the bus the other night before the San Francisco show. I succumb to them, finally listen. Then I feel for them on my guitar, my eyes on Remi the entire time. Once I match the first one, the others fall into place. I hit the end of the melody for a third time, but my fingers keep going, extending it a little longer before muting the strings with my palm.

“Play that again.”

I swing my gaze to the sectional and realize I have Dev’s rapt attention. Felix is sitting up, his sticks not moving anymore. Then he parrots Dev’s, “Play that again.”

I scrunch my face. “Nah.”

“Play.” Felix flings a stick, and I reluctantly slide back to the first note.

Halfway through this time, I actually hear what they do. I don’t even bother looking up when finished, just shift straight back to the beginning. I hear more and feel my way through until the foundation settles. The riff develops naturally, like the entirety already existed and needed me to stop fucking around. Playing it over and over, I build and tweak.

The riff doubles. Dev’s down an octave on his bass, deep and tonal. He varies the bass line as we jam, and I start to add chords.

“Fucking hell,” Felix groans out. He hops off his ass and drops onto the cajón. “The muse is in the room.”

Not quite.