You'd slipped away from the chaos—some dumb contest prize, a whirlwind trip to Miami, and you'd somehow ended up backstage, then here, past midnight, on the wrong floor entirely.

The door clicked behind you before you even registered that the keycard in your hand belonged to room 1204, not 1208.

The suite was dark except for a strip of city light bleeding through the curtains. A silhouette sat on the edge of the bed, broad-shouldered, head bowed, a phone glowing faintly in one hand.

Benito Martínez. Bad Bunny. In a loose white tank top, gold chains, and track pants slung low. His eyes—dark, tired, but sharp—fixed on you with a calm amusement that made the air in the room feel heavier.