I glance through the glass. Remi’s at the edge of the chair, locked onto us in the rehearsal space. Even from here, I can see the rhythmic pulsing in my veins mirrored by the light in her green eyes. An unrelenting need claws at her to capture the rawness of us creating, the same way it tears music out of me.

With Felix drumming a beat on the box, the three of us sync in a way none of us try to explain. It’s been this way since the beginning when we got together four years ago. A goddamn three-way soul read into an unstoppable creative flow. We work it for a while, shaping and harmonizing the initial melody.

It morphs into a chorus in my head at some point. I feel how the line will evolve for the verses. But I don’t follow the chord progression yet. I’m chasing different notes, layered over what we’re already playing. My lips start moving before sound follows. Mostly la-di-da shit to hear how vocals could fit.

Songs piece together differently with us. We have no code or formula. Sometimes I’ll show up with every part breathing already. We’ll work around lyrics on others. But not many have developed chorus first like “Echo” and “Haunted.” Our wildfire and inferno. “Echo” set us ablaze, and “Haunted” engulfed the world in our flames.

The words aren’t there yet, so I shrug when Felix asks what we have. Maybe the song goes nowhere. We could throw the whole thing out before we reach the studio.

I’m still flirting with a lyric melody as I walk down the corridor toward the kitchen. Dev’s facedown on the floor in the viewing room, and Felix is getting high with Christian while we take a preventative “Colt break.”

A couple years ago, the three of us sank into a writing bender—or bender in general. Three days of cigarettes, tequila, coke, and Maui Wowie. We ended with an album’s worth of songs. Christian fell at our feet, money in the bank for him. Colton punched me in the face and took me to the emergency room for severe dehydration. Since then, we take breaks before Colt mandates them.

Bitch aims for the ribs now.

He has his back to the open archway when I enter the kitchen. I casually slap him in the head on my way by to the fridge. Colt curses as I swipe a glass bottle of water, and I smile, shutting the door. Only I sober once turned around. His massive frame blocked Remi on my way in. She has spy glasses pushed up into her hair. Her perky ass leans against a countertop, one bare foot on top of the other and arms crossed. The navy skirt hits her mid-thigh, and the R.E.M. shirt’s ripped neckline dips low.

My hands. Your body.

“Write me a song, baby?” Colt asks.