A flirty, sweat-slicked anthem born from summer laughter, cheeky banter, and a very candid chat with a best friend’s mum about sex. “Honey” is Thorne at his most playful — blending early 2000s R&B vibes with sultry vocals and bold queer joy. It’s about pleasure, confidence, and the kind of heat that makes you dance a little dirtier and text someone you probably shouldn’t. Equal parts sweet and suggestive, this track is a love letter to letting go, getting laid, and living deliciously out loud.

If “Honey” is the flirt, “Habitual” is the fallout. A smooth, early-2000s R&B slow-burn laced with longing, this track dives deep into the mess of loving someone who keeps letting you down. It’s about knowing better, doing it anyway, and finally starting to wake up. Written with the very ex it’s about (yes, really), Thorne turns heartbreak into a confessional groove — all polished vocals, bruised honesty, and just enough bite. It’s sad, it’s sexy, and it’s painfully familiar for anyone who’s ever confused comfort for love.

A shimmering throwback to early-2000s Pop-R&B, “Honest With Me” channels the clarity that hits after denial has run its course. Thorne is holding space for the heartbreak while finally demanding the truth — because deep down, they already know it. With silky harmonies and that unmistakable TLC-meets-Mýa energy, this track is a late-night plea set to a groove. It’s vulnerable, frustrated, still in love — but starting to let go.

“Fix” is Thorne stripped back — intimate, acoustic, and almost uncomfortably vulnerable. It feels like a conversation in bed at 2AM, where every word hangs heavy in the dark. The song began after Thorne read about heroin withdrawal — how it could make your bones feel like they were on fire — and that imagery found its way into a track about another kind of addiction: sex, secrecy, and the kind of early-stage chemistry that feels more like a drug than a relationship.

Soft and raw, “Fix” captures the rush of those private moments at the beginning of something intense — before labels, before clarity, before anyone else knows. It’s about giving in, again and again, even when you swore you wouldn’t.