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My thumb hits the strike zone a half-beat too late, and the combo streak dissolves into a red ripple across the screen.

Shit. That’s the third one in the last two minutes.

I lean back and close my eyes. Save Point leaks through the house speakers, the guitar line deep and steady, nothing like the frantic pulse of the game in my lap.

Kain recorded this one himself. He wrote it during his first year of university, when I was a senior in high school and spent more time at his apartment than I did at home. He practiced the pickup pattern a thousand times, fingers moving across the frets while I sat cross-legged with my tablet, not talking for hours.

The Pulse Riot tablet rests warm across my thighs, its six strike zones glowing blue. The hex pattern cycles with a familiarity etched into my muscle memory.

With the competition three days away, I should be nailing these beat-maps, not wondering why the developers gave the Sentinel romance-coded dialogue with the man at the bar in the Ember District when I’ve spent fifteen years proving there’s no romance path to unlock.

My glasses slip down my nose, and I push them up before trying again.

The next sequence starts strong. Thumb, index, middle, ring. Each strike zone lights green with the perfect timing that’s earned me cash prizes and sponsors.

Then the limited-edition Dusk Protocol figurine Kain bought me last Christmas catches my attention. The roguish bartender holds a glass that lights up when you tap the button on the base.

My fingers slow.

Miss.

Miss.

Kain shifts beside me on the couch, and the leather creaks. “Bunny.”

“Still practicing,” I lie, my thumbs still as the beat-map scrolls past untouched strike zones, and my score ticks down.

I’m thinking about dating again. The idea showed up a week ago and won’t leave, poking at my focus the way a dismissed notification reappears the next time the app opens.

Dusk Protocol romance paths keep turning over in my head, cross-referencing themselves with the spreadsheet I keep on my desktop. Every romance-coded interaction correctly predicts an unlockable path. One hundred percent accuracy.

Except the Sentinel and the Bartender.

But I’ve never tested any of it on an actual person, so what the fuck do I know?

I squirm, my thighs rubbing together as I stare at the Bartender model. I want to know. To experience that same tingling sensation when I’m wooing characters in Dusk Protocol.

The leather exhales as Kain rises from the cushion, and he moves to stand between me and the coffee table.

I lift my head to stare up at him. Dark stubble shadows his familiar jaw, and his dark-brown hair falls over his brow. The solid width of his shoulders blocks out the rest of the room, including the Bartender.

I hug the tablet to my chest. “I really am practicing.”

“No, you’re not.” He takes it from me anyway and sets it on the coffee table.

Turning back, he leans over me, one hand braced by my head, the other planted on my chest, holding me into the cushions. My body locks, every muscle seizing in anticipation. It always does when Kain is touching me.

His hand slides down over my abs. “Do we need to move to the white room until the competition is over?”

“No,” I whimper. “I hate that room.”

He hitches up my shirt. “Then do I need to remove all the Dusk Protocol from our living room?”

What Dusk Protocol? His body fills my vision, dissolving everything else from my mind. “No.”

“You can’t keep letting yourself get distracted like this,” he rumbles.