The penthouse air was cool and smelled of expensive whiskey and stale perfume. Morning light sliced through the blinds, illuminating a tangle of silk sheets and scattered designer clothes. Robin sat at the glass desk, the laptop screen casting a blue pallor on his tired face. His agent, Pique, was a pixelated square of frantic gestures.

"You vanished, Robin. For two weeks. The upcoming shows? Ticket rates are falling off a cliff. The recording studios are getting cold feet. They're saying you're unstable. That you're done." Pique’s voice crackled through the speakers, tinny and sharp. "You need to get in front of this. Now."

Robin rubbed his eyes. The hangover was a dull throb behind them. He didn't answer. His gaze drifted from the screen, across the vast, sterile living room, to the open door of the bedroom.

April was still asleep. The comforter was tangled low around her hips. Her back was to him, the line of her spine a graceful curve down to the swell of her bare ass, pale and perfect in the slatted light. She was naked. The sight was a physical pull, a distraction from the wreckage Pique was detailing.

An idea, cold and clear, cut through the fog in his head.

"I have to go," Robin said, his voice rough.

"Robin, we are not finished—"

He closed the laptop lid, silencing Pique mid-sentence. The sudden quiet was heavy. He stood, the chair scraping softly on the marble. He walked to the bedroom, his steps silent on the plush rug.

He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her. The rise and fall of her breathing. The way her hair fanned across his pillow. She’d stayed. For two weeks. He needed that to mean something to someone else.

He slid into the bed behind her, the sheets cool against his skin. He wore only his boxer briefs. He fitted his body against the curve of hers, his chest to her back. He inhaled the scent of her sleep-warm skin—vanilla and something uniquely her. He wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her flat stomach.

She stirred, a soft, unconscious sound in her throat, and nestled back into him. Still asleep. Perfect.

With his free hand, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. He held it up, angling the camera. The screen showed them: his stubbled jaw against her shoulder, her bare back against his chest, his arm holding her close. The morning light was forgiving, romantic even. He tapped the screen.

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room. April’s eyes fluttered open. She turned her head slightly, confused, still soft with sleep. "Robin?"

"Shhh," he whispered, his lips against her ear. He was already typing. A caption. No words. Just a black heart emoji. He selected the accounts. His public one. Hers, which he’d found and followed the first night she stayed. He hit post.

He set the phone down and tightened his arm around her. "Go back to sleep," he murmured.

But he was already reaching for the phone again, pulling up Pique’s number. He put it to his ear, his hand still resting on her stomach. He felt the minute tension enter her body as she lay awake, listening.

"It’s handled," Robin said when his agent answered, his voice now smooth, assured, the performer’s mask firmly in place. He looked at the curve of April’s shoulder. "The world needs to know Robin Thicke is back. And happy. Check your feed."

He ended the call and dropped the phone to the sheets. He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. She didn't move. He could feel her thinking.

It started almost immediately. A soft chime from her phone on the floor. Then another. Then his phone began to vibrate, a frantic buzz against the linen. The speculation wasn't coming. It was here.