Wicked Resonance

She’s here to write his story. He’s about to rewrite hers. I didn’t sign up for eight weeks on the road with a rock star. Correction: I explicitly tried not to. But here I am—two Pulitzers under my belt, stuck writing a glossy profile of Tyler Stone, frontman of Wicked Resonance and a walking migraine. He’s smug, performative, and infuriatingly charismatic. I’m not impressed. Not by the tour bus, not by the fans—and definitely not by the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. This was supposed to be a puff piece. Instead, it’s a slow-motion collision between two people who should know better. Because the more time we spend together, the more I start to wonder if what’s sparking between us isn’t just friction. And that’s dangerous. Because I don’t do flings. I do truth. And I’ve never been less sure of mine.