The hotel suite smelled of salt, spilled tequila, and sex. A sharp, white sun cut through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets and glinting off the ice in a forgotten glass.

Robin woke to the familiar weight of a hangover and the unfamiliar weight of a girl’s head on his chest. Her hair fanned out, dark against his skin. He didn’t move. The ceiling was white. The silence was loud. He remembered the club, the blur of neon, the desperate need to feel something other than the hollowed-out ache Paula’s final court appearance had left in him. He remembered grabbing a handful of denim-covered ass, a surprised gasp, lips that tasted like cherry gloss and rebellion. He didn’t remember her name.

She stirred. A soft sigh. Her hand, resting on his stomach, flexed. Her nails were short, painted a chipped black.

He should get up. Shower. Call his manager. Figure out how to spin this before some paparazzi got a shot of his balcony. But his body felt leaden, pinned by the sun and the girl and the crushing clarity of morning.

“Hey.”

Her voice was sleep-rough, younger than he’d expected. She lifted her head. Big eyes, brown and still soft with sleep, blinked at him. No recognition of his fame in them. Just the quiet, wondering look of a girl waking up in a stranger’s bed.

“Hey,” he managed. His own voice was gravelly.

“I’m April.”

“Robin.”

“I know.” A small smile touched her lips. “Your music was playing when you… approached me.”

He closed his eyes. Of course it was. The universe had a vicious sense of humor. He’d been trying to outrun his own soundtrack. “Right.”

The sheet had slipped to her waist. She made no move to pull it up. Her skin was golden, a model’s lean lines. A tiny silver hoop gleamed in her navel. He’d kissed her last night. He remembered the salt of her skin, the way she’d arched into his mouth. The memory was sharp, visceral, and it twisted something low in his gut—a flicker of heat amidst the wreckage.

“You were pretty drunk,” she said, not accusing. Stating a fact.

“Yeah.”

“Are you… okay?”

The question was so earnest it hurt. He opened his eyes. She was studying him, her head tilted. Not looking at Robin Thicke, the scandal-plagued musician. Looking at the man whose hands had trembled when he’d fumbled with the condom wrapper. The man who’d buried his face in her neck and gone utterly still for a full minute, just breathing.

“Peachy,” he said, the old charm clicking on automatically, a rusty gear. “Just another perfect Miami morning.”

She didn’t laugh. Her gaze drifted past him, to the expensive, impersonal art on the wall, the room service cart littered with empty bottles. “It doesn’t feel like a hotel in here now,” she said softly. “It just feels… sad.”

The words landed like a punch. He had no deflection for that. The performance drained out of him, leaving the hollow man beneath. He looked away, toward the blinding stripe of sun on the floor. “I’m getting divorced.”

“I know.”

“Right.” Of course she knew. Everyone knew. The tabloids had dubbed it “The Blurred Lines Breakup.” He was a public punchline. “Sorry you got caught in the splash zone.”

She was quiet for a long moment. He felt her shift, the sheet whispering. Then her fingers brushed his wrist, just below his watch. A light, tentative touch. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m not.”

He turned his head back to her. Her expression was open, unbearably young. There was no game in it. No calculation. Just a nineteen-year-old girl who’d had a wild night with a broken man and was, inexplicably, offering him a kindness.

His throat tightened. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without wanting something. A photo. A favor. A piece of his fame. Her touch was just contact. Human and warm.

He covered her hand with his. His fingers were longer, his palm broader. Her hand disappeared under his. He felt the delicate bones, the steady beat of her pulse against his thumb.

“April,” he said, her name feeling strange and new in his mouth.

“Yeah?”

He had nothing to follow it with. No smooth line. No promise. Just the stark, silent acknowledgment of the mess he was, lying tangled with a girl who deserved a better story than this. He just held her hand, the morning sun climbing higher, sealing them in the quiet.