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You huff a sigh and whip off a reply to Noemi, reminding her that she shouldn’t kill your parents and that there are worse things Dad could be doing with his retirement.

When you look up, Zhavia is draped over a chair, her long, floaty skirt like a waterfall over her crossed ankles. She’s also poking at her phone.

“Hey, Zhay?” you say.

“Mmm?” She doesn’t look up.

“Instead of that sad song, let’s work on the one I wrote last week.”

She lifts her chin. “The guitar demo?”

“Uh-huh.”

That makes Zhavia smirk. “Oh, so we’re working on all the sexy songs today? You get a wild hair?”

You grin. “I’m inspired. What can I say?”

Laughing, she shakes her head. “Good for you, Mister Inspiration. Music to Fuck To is going to have to be a double album. I swear that you’ve already written 20 hits already, and Golden just came out. You trying to break a record?”

“Nah,” you say. “Like I said, just inspired. Really inspired.”

Zhavia rolls her eyes.

***

BLIND ITEM #391, 07/10/25: This mega A-Lister is nowhere to be seen.

No pap walks, no red carpets, no strolls with their pets, who are almost as photogenic and famous as the A-Lister themselves.

We know that this person is going through something of an image crisis at the moment, but hiding from problems doesn’t make them go away.

Their athletic and notoriously tight-lipped partner has been seen at team events, studiously ignoring the crowds of photographers on the other side of the gated facility.

Reporters have been fighting for space outside the bicoastal residences of the star, hoping for a peek, but so far have incurred only trespass warnings and zero proof of life.

Where are you hiding, A-Lister? The skies are Gray without you—just like dull Sterling silver.

***

Later that week, you buy a villa. Two villas, to be exact.

It sounds spontaneous, but really, it’s something that’s been in the works for a while. All jokes about room service aside, it’s stupid to keep shelling out money for hotels with all the time you spend in Miami these days. You have three homes already; what’s adding a fourth to the mix?

Kai accompanies you to the showings, despite the fact that you two agreed that you will not be moving in together. Even though neither of you are ready for that just yet, he’ll be spending a lot of time with you in your new place, and it’s important to you that he likes it as well.

The Realtor does a good job; you give him that.

Not only is he courteous and discreet, but all the properties he shows you fit your requirements to a “T.” Unfortunately, none of them speak to you.

All of your homes—Los Angeles, New York, and Nashville—have character.

There’s something in you that can’t abide a cookie-cutter mansion, and Miami is packed full of them.

Sure, they’re gorgeous: huge, airy, secluded, and with picture-perfect views of the ocean, but they are also soulless palaces in the name of new money, devoid of charm.

You’re about ready to call it quits after a long day of politely admiring private elevators and helipads (you don’t even own a helicopter) when the agent, Stanley, clears his throat.

“I have a listing that just hit my desk, Mister Grayson,” he tells you. “It’s not exactly what you had in mind, but there’s a unique situation that I think you could make work. Can I take you on one more stop?”

Beside you, Kai fidgets just a bit. You know that he loathes the traffic on Miami Beach, and that it’s been a tedious day of driving around and wandering through big, empty houses. You look up at him and raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Yeah, sure,” he concedes. “One more can’t hurt.”

The sun is starting to go down when you pull into the driveway. One of your security guys is driving, with Stanley in the passenger seat, and you and Kai in the back. You gaze up at the Mediterranean-inspired building, and feel yourself frown.

“This isn’t a house,” you say. “Is it a condo? I thought I said that I didn’t want a multi-unit building?”

“It’s a villa,” he corrects you. “There are six side-by-side units in this building. This neighborhood is one of the most private you can get in the city with beachfront access.”

You don’t necessarily care about beachfront access, but you are intrigued. You take in the terra-cotta tile roof, the warm red stucco, and the arched doorways, where stained-glass lanterns illuminate the stoops. The wrought iron grilles on the floor-level windows.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say with real regret, “but the side neighbors are a security concern. It won’t work.”

“You’re here anyway,” Kai says, rolling his neck. You know that he gets stiff early in the summer, when he’s still not used to the swing of getting hit again. “Why don’t we at least look around and be snoopy? It’s a little early for dinner, still.”

Glancing around, you can see that the building is quiet, along with the peek of shoreline extending behind it. If the paparazzi are keen to report that you are house-shopping in Miami, well, they’ve had plenty of chances to catch you today.

“Okay,” you relent. “Let’s take a lap.”

Stanley enters the passcode on the lock and opens the door to let you in first. Aww, well, that’s hardly fair.

The view straight ahead of you through the vast, open-plan entryway and living room is of the windows overlooking the back terrace, which faces Biscayne Bay.

The sunset is breaking over the horizon, golden hour shimmering on the water.

The owners of this property couldn’t ask for a better selling point if they fabricated one.

“Well, damn,” Kai says from over your shoulder.

Reluctantly—because you are not buying this place—you let Stanley show you around.

There are three floors. Four bedrooms, although one is set up as an office.

Seven bathrooms. The walls are stark white plaster; the stairs are glass and chrome.

There’s modern art on the walls, and it seems like each room has a statement chandelier that perfectly suits the space.

The fireplace in the primary suite is unlit, what with it being summertime in Florida, but the warmth of the space draws you in all the same.

The walk-in closet is massive, and the marble-clad bathroom is big enough to throw a party in, but what gets you is the balcony, accessible by sliding doors.

There are two chairs out there overlooking the beach, and you imagine slow Sunday mornings waking up beside Kai and drinking tea in the muggy tropical air.

There’s a pool down below, with a fence separating it from that of the unit next door. All you can think about is how easily someone could be paid off by the press to let photographers out on the pool deck to take snaps through the bars as you are trying to sun yourself.

“The building has a spa and a tennis court,” Stanley tells you, “along with a 24/7 concierge. This section of the beach is private. As you saw, there’s a gated entryway armed with ‘round-the-clock security.”

“It’s the end unit,” Kai points out. “You’d only have to worry about one neighbor.”

You noticed that, too, but even one neighbor is too much of a risk.

You’re standing in one of the other bedrooms, which has an arched window overlooking a side garden.

It’s easy to picture Maeve having set up camp in there for the weekend, bossing you around, or Noemi coming to get away for the week.

It’s so tempting. To dream of furnishing this place with Kai: feeling drapery samples for the curtains, pouring over catalogues of furniture, and working together with designers to merge his taste with yours.

“It’s a no,” you tell Stanley after a long pause. “Having a neighbor with that much access is a non-starter. Otherwise, I love it. It’s exactly what I wanted. I’m disappointed, honestly. I kind of wish I hadn’t seen it, to tell you the truth.”

Stanley clears his throat. “Well. Actually, I’m going to throw something out there. With anyone else, I’d be worried about coming across as far too audacious, but I think that someone like you might be interested to know it.”

“What?” Kai asks.

“The unit immediately next door is also for sale,” Stanley tells you.

“It sustained considerable water damage from faulty plumbing on the top floor. In my opinion, it’s a gut job.

The board is being a bit of a pain about it, and making all interested parties submit plans for remodeling as a condition of purchase.

It’s only been on the market for a couple of weeks, but units here normally don’t last that long.

This one, for instance, hit the MLS this morning.

For the right buyer, it would be a great deal. ”

That stops you dead in your tracks. Immediately, the gears in your head start whirring.

Instead of dinner out that night, you and Kai end up ordering takeout with Stanley as he makes about a dozen phone calls to lock down your deposits on both villas.

Not many people can get a (very) loose three-story remodeling plan pushed through a demanding HOA without a contractor ever having walked the property, but you aren’t most people.

Your guys have reputations that precede them, along with a mile-long list of references, and the board is ultimately willing to trust their expertise.

“Baby, what are you going to do with two villas on Miami Beach?” Kai asks, when it’s just you two alone.

There’s a gourmet pizza box on the table, which is the closest you come to eating junk food.

The occasion warrants it. It’s a pizza-and-bottled water night, food being low on the priority list. Kai wanted pepperoni, and you didn’t argue.

You shrug. “The second one will be a buffer. I can’t stay there, but I can use it as a guesthouse. Property is always a good investment. Besides, Apollo and Artemis need space to stretch out. They’re big dogs.”

Kai furrows his forehead skeptically before taking a giant bite. The slice is extra-large, and he’s got it folded in half, aiming for his mouth as molten-hot cheese threatens to ooze off the edge.

“Besides,” you continue casually. “My boyfriend’s also kind of large.”

He almost chokes on his mouthful, sputtering.

“I think it’s going to be great having a place in Florida,” you say, as if you didn’t just nail him with the innuendo stick.

He nods. “Gotta love the lack of state income tax,” he mumbles around his food.

You take a sip of your mineral water. “Totally. It’s absolutely that and has nothing to do with living in the same state as you.”

That makes him roll his eyes, playing along. “Who wants to do that ?”

“Not me,” you murmur, no longer able to wipe the silly smirk off your face.

Kai’s smiling too when he eats more pizza.

He’s keeping it chill— “chill” should be Kai’s second middle name—but his subdued, low-key excitement is absolutely adorable.

He’s never pressured you about the long-distance thing or complained about how often you two are apart, but you know him well at this point.

The thought of being your neighbor has him downright giddy.

“Which reminds me.” You are totally taking advantage of his mouth being occupied. This next topic has been on the tip of your tongue for a few weeks, and now feels like the moment to stop being a baby and spit it out. “I want us to exchange test results.”

“Test results?” he repeats blankly, once his airway is clear.

“STI panels,” you say, willing your face not to betray your nerves.

He looks over his shoulder to where Stanley is, in the other room. He’s far away enough that you can't hear him on the phone, but Kai lowers his voice anyway.

“Umm,” he hesitates. “We’ve been sleeping together for over a year now, and you’ve always wanted protection. Not that I’m objecting, obviously. I didn’t expect. I mean, I hope I don’t need to tell you that there’s only been you. I have told you that. I’m just surprised…”

It would be cute how flustered he was, if your heart wasn’t doing an awkward pitter-patter at the same time.

“I’m going to go when I’m back in Nashville next week,” you say. “Can you fit in some blood work around then?”

Kai looks dazed. “Yes?”

You can’t help but lean in and kiss the adorable disquiet off his lips, catching a taste of tomato sauce.

Even with a net worth in the high nine-figures and three other homes, today’s been a big day.

Buying two villas. Thinking about becoming fluid-bonded with a partner, which you’ve never done in your extremely over-cautious life.

Living (part-time, at least) in the same metro area as Kai.

For the first time in months, you forget to be afraid.