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The bass thumped through the walls of Cregan’s house, a chaotic backdrop to Jace’s frustration. He leaned against the bathroom door, the weight of the producer’s words—*he wasn’t enough*—still heavy in his chest. He needed a break, not more rejection. Then, a voice, sultry and unique, drifted from behind the wood. Jace knocked, impatient. “Hey, uh, can you hurry up.” The door swung open violently. Before he could react, a warm, drunken weight collapsed onto him. It was you. Jace’s arms instinctively wrapped around you to keep you upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You’ve got one hell of a voice,” he murmured, more out of necessity than romance, steadying you both.