The elevator dinged at the top floor of the sleek downtown LA high-rise, and Aurora stepped out, her stiletto boots clicking with purpose against the polished marble. She didn’t bother knocking on Joel’s penthouse door—never had. With a flick of her wrist, she pushed it open, the scent of aged whiskey and lingering cigarette smoke hitting her like a memory she couldn’t shake. The place was a wreck, as expected. Guitars leaned haphazardly against walls, empty bottles littered the glass coffee table, and a tangle of tour posters and setlists were pinned to a corkboard like a shrine to chaos.
“Jesus, Joel, did a tornado audition for your next tour, or is this just your natural habitat?” Aurora’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and dripping with amusement. She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder like she owned the damn place. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, framing a face that could stop traffic—or a rockstar’s heart.
From the couch, buried under a pile of notebooks and a half-empty pizza box, Joel stirred. His hair was a tousled mess of black curls, and his faded band tee clung to his lean frame as he sat up, blinking at her like she was a mirage. “Aurora? Hell, woman, you don’t call, you don’t text, you just storm in like a goddamn hurricane. What’s next, you gonna demand my autograph?”
She smirked, stepping over a stray guitar case to loom over him. “Oh, please, I’ve got enough of your scribbles from when you were still doodling lyrics on napkins at dive bars. I’m here to see if you’ve got anything worth listening to after six months of playing rock god to screaming groupies.”
Joel grinned, the kind of lopsided smirk that had melted hearts on stages worldwide. He stood, stretching with a lazy confidence, his jeans slung low on his hips. “Careful, babe. Keep talking like that, and I might think you missed me.”
“Missed you?” Aurora laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. She circled him, her eyes glinting with mischief as she picked up an empty whiskey bottle from the table, twirling it in her fingers. “I missed the version of you that knew how to clean up after himself. This rockstar cliché bullshit? It’s tired, Joel. You’re one leather jacket away from being a walking stereotype.”
He snatched the bottle from her hand, their fingers brushing just long enough to spark something electric. “Says the woman who shows up unannounced looking like she just stepped out of a punk rock fantasy. What’s your deal, Aurora? You here to critique my interior design, or you just couldn’t stay away?”
She tilted her head, her gaze pinning him in place. “Maybe I wanted to see if the great Joel Maverick still has a soul under all that stage glitter. Or if you’ve sold it for another platinum record.” Her words were a challenge, but her tone was laced with something softer, something that hinted at the months of silence between them.
Joel stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until she could feel the heat radiating off him. “You wanna talk soul? How ‘bout you tell me why you’re really here, storming into my mess like you’ve got a right to it?”
Aurora didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his jaw as she tilted his face to meet her eyes. “Because I know you, Joel. Better than the screaming fans, better than the tabloids. And I know you’ve been hiding behind that guitar since the day I met you. So, let’s cut the bullshit. Play me something new. Show me you’ve still got it.”
His breath hitched, but he covered it with a chuckle, stepping back to grab an acoustic guitar propped against the couch. “Damn, woman, you don’t ask for much, do you? Fine. But if I play, you gotta sit your pretty ass down and stop pacing like you’re about to stage a coup.”
She raised an eyebrow, but obliged, perching on the edge of the coffee table, her posture all confidence and control. “I’m waiting, rockstar. Don’t make me regret this.”
Joel settled onto the couch, the guitar resting on his knee as his fingers danced over the strings, tuning it with practiced ease. “Regret? Babe, the only thing you’re gonna regret is not kissing me the second you walked through that door.”
Aurora’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Keep dreaming, Maverick. I don’t kiss boys who can’t keep their shit together. Play me something worth my time, and maybe I’ll consider it.”
He shot her a look, all heat and challenge, before his fingers strummed the first chords. The melody was raw, haunting, a slow build that filled the room with something heavier than sound. Aurora watched him, her sharp edges softening just enough to let the memories flood in—late nights in smoky bars, stolen glances during soundchecks, the way his voice had always felt like it was singing just for her. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the banter fell away, replaced by a pull neither of them could ignore.
As the last note lingered in the air, Aurora leaned forward, her voice low and commanding. “Not bad, Joel. But you’re still hiding. All that pretty music, and you’re still afraid to take a real risk.”
He set the guitar aside, his gaze never leaving hers. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Aurora? You think I’m not risking enough just by letting you in here, tearing me apart with that mouth of yours?”
She stood, closing the distance between them until she was inches from his face, her breath warm against his skin. “I mean, stop playing it safe. Stop hiding behind your songs and your mess and your charm. Take a real risk, Joel. Or are you too scared to find out what happens when you do?”
The air between them crackled, charged with unspoken promises and the weight of everything they hadn’t said. Aurora’s challenge hung there, daring him to cross a line they’d danced around for years. And as she held his gaze, unflinching, it was clear she wasn’t just in control of the room—she was in control of him. For now.
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