We make our jam sessions where we can; at the back of the bus, in different hotel rooms across the country, but now that we've set up camp in L.A for a few weeks, we've been given a studio.

Just because you're on tour, doesn't mean you can't shit out a few hit singles while you're at it.

There's a small studio a few minutes away from the hotel we're staying in, where we've been given a specific driver to call if we need to get across town. The days of catching the bus or even walking places are gone. Clusters of teenage girls each day roam around our hotel, just a catch a glimpse of us and so the staff entrances become our ways out.

We let our driver go and it's just me, Oliver and Luke. Demitri has stayed behind and built an impenetrable fortress in his room, where he'll most likely stay until the storm clears. My phone won't fucking shut up, despite having settings that stop notifications from pinging, because I can't have it on anymore, not when nothing ever stops.

Everything is fast and all consuming.

The studio is covered in vines and concealed by tall palm trees. On the outside, it looks like a white bungalow, nestled on a street corner, but really, from its insides its birthed ballads and epics like you wouldn't believe.

But today's work has ended; we've fucked up a high profile interview, now, it's a jam session.

---

At times like these, nothing is set in stone. There are no rules, there's music and there's singing and laughing and drinking (in Luke's case). There's no Candice, who's been told by management that interfering with the actual nature of what we do is not OK, and so I love these times even more.

I'm sat at a piano, as always, facing away from the others while Luke kicks his feet up, swigs from a bottle and sings random lines from our earlier stuff. Oliver usually heads for a guitar and doesn't sing at all. He sings on our records and onstage, but I've never heard it raw like I have the rest of us, never heard the raspyness of his voice in a silent room, never heard him absentmindedly sing a tune while getting dressed or grabbing a bite to eat.

I let my fingers pass over the keys, creating a tune to the words I've written in one of my old notebooks. It feels like wiping a layer of dust away; only one or two of my songs get recorded, and they're never really hits. But I like them, nestled in the albums like Easter eggs for fans to find.

When I stop, silence erupts in the studio, and then one giant snore.

Luke, his head tipped back, his mouth wide open, has fallen asleep. His bottle slowly slips from his fingers and lands on the carpet but doesn't smash, thank fuck.

I'm suddenly aware that I'm alone in here with Oliver, and feel heat rise in my cheeks. I look over to him, and he's squinting at me. I've been alone with him so many times, too many times, all non-sexual unfortunately, but the actual act of being alone with him always gets me flustered.

I love, love, being alone with him.

"I've never heard that before."

"Never heard what?"

"That song you were playing just now."

"Oh, I was just..." He stands, and pushes me along the seat to make room for himself. "...trying something out."

"Hmmm, it was nice." He smiles, taking one of my hands off the piano and replacing it with his own. "Show me."

I nod, starting on with the higher keys. My notebooks rests on top of the piano and he picks it up and fingers through it, finding notes on the paper that match the notes I'm playing. Before, I'd never let him look through it; but it's not the most private notebook I own, and so I don't bat an eyelid.

He learns, and we're playing together, our fingers moving faster and faster until the song doesn't really sound how I want it to. I smile.

"I meant for it to be slower than this."

He laughs, and we slow it down, back to where it's supposed to be. It ends, and we both lean back. I stare at the keys, but I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my head.

"You should pitch that."

"Nah, no point."

"You should at least try."

"I don't write the hits."

"Scottie; you're the talent. You are the hits."

My cheeks warm again, fucking volcanoes below my eyes. "Let's not talk about it, yeah? It's just a jam session."

"But, we can work on it, right?"

"Course."

"Because I liked it."

"Yeah, you said that."

"I really liked it."

"Jesus, why don't you just get off with it?"

"I think I might." He stares at me with a smile and I stare at the piano keys, refusing to look back at him. With a sigh and the rub of his knees, he stands, patting me on the shoulder on his way up. He stretches, letting out a yawn, his bones cracking and squeaking like he's been hunched over his whole life. The yawn's contagious, and I let my legs stretch out. I look at the clock on the wall, it's almost eleven at night.

"Come on, Cartwright." Oliver saunters over to Luke, who's snoring is getting louder and louder.