Artist Village

[Midnights]

Trailers line dusty paths. Radios crackle. Golf carts race by. Stylists run with garment bags. Someone is always late. Someone is always nervous.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo stood barefoot on the cool vinyl floor of Ben’s trailer, one hip leaned into the narrow counter as she dabbed concealer under her eyes with her ring finger. The air smelled faintly like dry heat and citrus wipes and whatever cologne he’d sprayed on without thinking. Outside, bass from a distant soundcheck thumped through the ground like a second pulse, but in here it was quiet—controlled, almost domestic in a way that still surprised her.

January had shifted everything.

The cabin had done what it was always going to do: stripped the noise away and left them with only the truth of each other. After that, there hadn’t been some dramatic conversation about labels or timelines. He’d just… stayed. His clothes appeared in her closet drawer by drawer, not ceremoniously, just folded and slid in like they belonged there. Two drawers, exactly like she’d promised. Guitar cases leaned against her walls. His coffee mug replaced the one she always reached for. Her apartment stopped feeling like a place she lived alone and started feeling like a place they came back to.

It had been easy in a way that scared her.

Now it was April. Coachella. The first real collision between their life and his world.

She caught her reflection in the small mirror—sunkissed skin, soft neutral makeup, nothing flashy. She was wearing a loose, off-the-shoulder Stevie Nicks band tee tucked into worn denim shorts, black Vans by the door. Boho enough to blend. Comfortable enough to breathe.

Behind her, he sat on the edge of the narrow couch, elbows on his knees as he tuned his guitar. He’d gone quiet in that focused way of his, the one that meant the switch was getting ready to flip—from home to stage, from private to public.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said casually, reaching for her mascara. She didn’t look at him yet, because she knew she’d lose her nerve if she did. “About tonight.”

His fingers stilled on the strings—not stopping completely, just pausing enough to listen.

“I don’t need to be anywhere special,” she continued. “I don’t need a wristband or a golf cart or whatever magic color lanyard everyone’s flashing.” She met his eyes in the mirror then, steady. “I can stand in the crowd. Like everyone else.”

She turned fully, mascara forgotten, voice calm but firm. “I mean it. I want to see you play like a real person sees you play. I don’t want to be backstage or side-stage or hidden behind speakers.” A small, self-aware smile tugged at her mouth. “I don’t want to be handled.”

She could feel him watching her closely, the way he always did when she said something that mattered.

“Phoebe and Jax will be there,” she added, softer now. “They’re coming early. They already scoped out a spot. I won’t be alone. I’ll be fine.”

She stepped closer, resting her hands lightly against his knees. Up close, she could see it—the familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline, the gravity of what tonight meant. Not to her, but to the world outside this trailer.

“I want to support you,” she said quietly. “Not hide from it.”

The trailer door rattled as someone passed outside, laughter trailing behind them. The desert sun filtered through the small window, catching the dust in the air and turning it gold.

He reached out, hooking a finger into the hem of her shirt—not pulling, just anchoring.

She glanced around the trailer: the setlist taped to the wall, the jacket he’d wear onstage hanging from a hook, her tote bag slung over a chair like it belonged there too. It felt strange and grounding all at once—like standing with one foot in a life she loved and one foot in a life that terrified her, and choosing not to run from either.

“I just don’t want to disappear,” she said, honest and even. “Not tonight.”

Relief loosened something in her chest when she saw the tension in him ease, even if no words followed.

She turned back to the mirror and finished her mascara, hands steadier now. Outside, the bassline hit again—louder, closer. Showtime was approaching.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t hiding.

She was just figuring out how to stand in the world beside him—without losing herself in it.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben listened to the fade-out of her voice, letting the silence hang in the air for a beat, heavy with the dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light. He didn’t look up immediately. He gave the G-string a quarter turn, plucked it, listened to the pitch settle, and only then did he dampen the strings with his palm.

He set the guitar into its stand with a deliberate gentleness that belied the thrumming energy under his skin.

"Not handled," he repeated, the words rolling around his mouth like a marble.

He sat back, resting his hands on his thighs, and finally looked at her properly. She looked... effortless. That was the thing about Cleo that still knocked the wind out of him, three months into this domestic experiment. She could stand in a cramped, vibrating trailer in the middle of Indio, wearing a t-shirt and cutoffs, and look like the only real thing in a ten-mile radius of manufactured hype.

He understood what she was asking. He hated the side-stage too. The sound was garbage—all boom and mud, no clarity. It was a place for industry people to be seen, not for music to be felt. And the VIP decks were worse; sterile aquariums for people who spent more time taking selfies than listening to the set.

But the crowd? The crowd was a living, breathing, sweating animal. It was chaos. And the thought of her in the middle of that crush, swallowed whole by the heat and the bodies, made his protective instincts flare up like a struck match.

"You know it's going to be a zoo out there," he said, his voice low. "It’s ninety degrees, people are dehydrated, and they push. It’s not exactly a listening room."

He watched her face, saw the resolve in her jaw—the same stubbornness that had made her refuse to let him win at Mario Kart. She wasn’t asking for permission. She was telling him where she was going to be.

He let out a short, resigned breath, a crooked smile fighting its way onto his face.
"God, you’re cool," he muttered, shaking his head. "It’s annoying, actually. Most people would kill for the laminate you’re trying to ditch."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and crooked a finger at her.

"Come here."

When she stepped into the space between his spread knees, he reached out and looped his hands loosely around her waist, resting his forehead against her stomach for a second. He breathed in the scent of her—citrus and skin—grounding himself before the madness began.

"Okay," he said into the fabric of her shirt. He pulled back to look up at her, his expression sharpening, shifting from boyfriend to the guy who had to go out there and command a field of forty thousand people. "Go into the crowd. Be with Phoebe and Jax. Feel the bass in your chest."

His hands tightened slightly on her hips.

"But you have to promise me something."

He waited until her eyes locked with his.

"Don’t get lost," he said, serious now. "I need to know where you are. Stage right, stage left, soundboard—pick a spot and stay there. Because when the lights hit, I’m going to look for you. And if I can’t find you, I’m going to play the whole set like a nervous wreck, and the reviews will say I’ve lost my edge."

He grinned then, the charm snapping back into place, easy and bright.

"And I can’t have that. My ego is fragile."

He ran his thumbs over the denim of her waistband, soaking in the quiet. He loved that she wanted to see him—the real him, the one who sweated and bled and broke strings—and not just the polished version presented to the VIPs.

"You really want to see me sweat that much?" he teased softly. "Careful, Cleo. It’s not as dignified as the studio. I make weird faces when I hit the high notes."

He didn't make a move to get up. He didn't reach for the jacket hanging on the hook, and he ignored the vibration of the bass outside rattling the trailer door. He just sat there, looking up at her, holding her in the quiet for as long as he could get away with.

"I’ll be playing to you anyway," he whispered, his thumbs still tracing slow, distracting circles on her hips. "You know that, right? Everyone else is just... furniture."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled when he repeated not handled, the word softening in her chest. She rested her hands on his shoulders, grounding herself before answering, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not about the sound,” she said gently. “You know I don’t care if it’s muddy or perfect or whatever audiophile nightmare you’re imagining.” Her thumbs brushed over the seams of his shirt. “It’s about not accidentally being seen. I just want to exist there. Normal. Anonymous. No cameras, no ‘who’s that with him?’ energy.”

She could feel the weight of the moment, how he was trying to protect her without caging her. It made her chest ache in that tender way—like love and fear had braided together.

When he talked about the crowd being chaos, she nodded. “I know. I’ll stay hydrated. I’ll hold onto Phoebe like a life raft. Jax will absolutely body-check anyone who gets too close.” A small smile curved her mouth. “I’ll be fine.”

Then he pulled her closer, forehead against her stomach, and it hit her again how real this all was. Not just him on a stage. Them. Navigating two different worlds.

When he asked her to promise not to get lost, she nodded immediately, serious. “Okay. Deal. I’ll pick a spot and stick to it.”

Then she laughed, soft but genuine. “Yeah… because you staring directly at me from a stage in front of forty thousand people definitely won’t be suspicious at all.”

She tipped her head back, amused. “I’ll just be like, wow, weird, why does the lead singer keep making eye contact with me? Totally normal festival experience.”

Her hands slid up his arms, pulling him just a little closer. “But I get it. I’ll be where you can see me. Stage right. Soundboard. Somewhere obvious.”

When he teased about sweating and weird faces, she grinned. “I’ve seen you make weird faces trying to open jars. I’m prepared.”

Her expression softened when he said he’d be playing to her anyway. That one landed deep. She leaned in, brushing her nose against his hairline.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m going.”

She stayed there for a second longer than necessary, memorizing the quiet before the storm.

“You’re going to be incredible,” she murmured. “I’ll be out there pretending I don’t know you… while absolutely losing my mind because I do.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben laughed, the sound low and dry, shaking his head as he looked up at her. He leaned back against the couch cushions, spreading his arms along the top ridge, completely at ease despite the chaos waiting outside the door.

“Babe,” he said, a knowing, cynical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are vastly underestimating the power of projection. It’s the frontman’s greatest magic trick.”

He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her jaw.

“I could stare directly at you—laser focus, unblinking, singing my heart out to you specifically—and I promise you, there will be at least fifty people in that same sightline who will go home tonight absolutely convinced I was soul-bonding with them. They’ll tweet about it. They’ll make slow-motion edits on TikTok analyzing the angle of my head.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners.

“No one is going to look at you and think, ‘Oh, she’s the one.’ They’re going to be too busy hyperventilating because they think I winked at their friend.”

He dropped his hand to her waist, his thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle over her hip bone.

“That’s the beauty of it,” he murmured, his voice dropping, becoming intimate again. “It’s a secret in plain sight. I’ll be looking at you, and you’ll know I’m looking at you, and the rest of the world will just see the show. It’s just for us. Like the cabin. Just... louder.”

He let that settle, the idea of a private conversation happening over a PA system in front of thousands of people. It felt subversive. It felt like getting away with something.

Then he narrowed his eyes playfully, the "jar" comment finally registering fully.

“And regarding the jar,” he added, pointing a warning finger at her chest. “That was not a standard pickle jar. That was industrial-grade sealing. It was a vacuum-packed fortress. I’d like to see Jax open that jar without making a face.”

He didn't wait for her defense. He sat up, closing the distance between them again, the playfulness bleeding into something heavier, more grounding. He grabbed her hands—the ones that had been resting on his shoulders—and pulled her down until their faces were inches apart.

“Pretend you don’t know me all you want,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to her mouth before flicking back up to her eyes. “As long as you’re the one waiting for me when the lights go down.”

He kissed her then—quick, hard, and tasting like coffee and nerves. It wasn't a goodbye kiss; it was fuel.

When he pulled back, he didn't let go of her hands. He didn't glance at the clock on the wall or the setlist taped next to the mirror. He just leaned his forehead against hers, ignoring the bass thumping outside, ignoring the tour manager who was probably checking his watch ten feet away.

​“Stay here a minute,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “The world can wait. I’m not done looking at you yet.”

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly at the way he said projection, shaking her head as she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, I know,” she said. “Your superpower. Making forty thousand people feel personally seen while absolutely not seeing any of them.”

When he tucked her hair back, she stilled for him, eyes lifting to meet his. “I’m still not emotionally prepared for the think-pieces,” she teased. “Some girl in Idaho is going to be like, he sang that bridge for me and honestly? Respect.”

His thumb on her hip made her breath catch in that familiar way, the one that reminded her this was real, not just festival chaos. “Secret in plain sight,” she repeated quietly, smiling. “I like that. Feels very… heist movie.”

At the jar comment she laughed again, this time louder. “Okay, okay. Industrial pickle jar. You were up against the elite. I concede.”

When he pulled her closer, she went willingly, forehead almost touching his, heart thudding too fast for someone who was supposedly trying to play it cool. “I’ll be waiting,” she whispered back. “Front row in my soul, anonymous in real life.”

She leaned into the kiss, hands fisting lightly in his shirt, letting it linger just a beat longer than planned. It steadied her. Gave her something to carry into the crowd.

But when he murmured that he wasn’t done looking at her, she smiled and pulled back, pressing one last soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Careful,” she said gently. “You’re going to miss your set.”

She turned back to the mirror, already reaching for the curling iron. “You can keep watch while I finish getting ready,” she added over her shoulder, amused.

She clipped a section of her hair back and started adding loose beach waves, not trying to make it perfect—just taming it, giving it that effortless, lived-in look she loved. She caught his reflection watching her and smiled to herself.

Then she tapped a little shimmery eyeshadow onto her lids with her fingertip. “Just enough so I look alive,” she murmured. “Not like the exhausted girlfriend of a touring musician.”

She drew on a soft wing with her liner, steady and practiced, then finished with mascara, blinking a few times to keep it from smudging.

She met his eyes in the mirror again. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Now I look like someone who belongs at a music festival instead of someone who’s about to nap in the artist village.”

A small grin. “You done watching yet, or do I need to do a dramatic hair flip?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben watched the eyeliner application with the same kind of baffled respect he usually reserved for sound engineers who could isolate a feedback frequency in under three seconds. It was a precise, high-stakes operation—one slip and you had to start over—and she did it with a steady hand while teasing him.

"Exhausted girlfriend?" he scoffed, leaning his head back against the wall, his eyes tracking her reflection. "Babe, you look fresh. I look like I’ve been living on a diet of Red Bull and vibration for three days. Which... fair, I have."

When she offered the hair flip, he grinned, lazy and appreciative.

"Do the flip," he dared her softly. "I feel like I'm owed a little backstage choreography."

He stood up then, the spell of sitting still finally breaking as the nervous energy in his legs demanded movement. He crossed the small space in two strides and moved up behind her, watching their reflection in the mirror—him in the suit that was about to get wrecked by sweat, her in the band tee and shorts.

They looked like a mismatched set that somehow fit perfectly. The rock star and the girl who knew exactly how to open the industrial pickle jar.

"You look like you belong," he corrected, his voice dropping as he rested his chin on her shoulder, meeting her eyes in the glass. "And for the record, I’m never done watching. It’s in the rider. 'Ben gets unlimited staring privileges.' It’s right under the no-brown-M&Ms clause."

He reached up, intentionally messing up the perfect beach waves she’d just created by running his hand lightly over the crown of her head—just to be annoying, just to touch her, just to leave his mark before he had to share her with the crowd.

"So," he murmured near her ear, his hands sliding around her waist to pull her back against his chest. "Since you're all shimmery and festival-ready... are you gonna give me a good luck kiss? Or do I have to wait for the reviews to come out first?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled at his reflection, steadying her hand as she finished the wing, her elbow anchored against the narrow counter like muscle memory had taken over. The trailer hummed around them—bass bleeding through the walls, voices passing outside, the faint rattle of equipment—but she stayed focused, grounding herself in the small, familiar ritual. Makeup wasn’t about vanity for her; it was armor. Proof of wakefulness. Proof she was present, not just orbiting his world tonight.

When he mentioned the M&Ms, she froze mid-motion and gasped, hand flying to her chest in exaggerated offense.
“Absolutely not,” she said, scandalized. “Those are the only ones without artificial coloring. You cannot disrespect them like that.”

She rolled her eyes at him in the mirror, lips twitching, then finished lining the second eye with the same careful precision.

At his dare, she leaned back slightly and gave him the hair flip he wanted—one dramatic toss, then another slower one, controlled, just enough movement to show the waves catching the light.
“There,” she said lightly. “Backstage choreography fulfilled. Don’t get greedy.”

Seeing them together in the mirror—him already halfway gone into performance mode, her still anchored in the in-between—made something warm bloom in her chest. It felt real. It felt earned. And then his hand swept over the crown of her head, undoing just enough of her careful work to make her gasp.

“Rude,” she said immediately, laughing as she reached up to fix it again. “I just did that.”

When he asked about the good luck kiss, she paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully, eyes flicking up to his in the mirror.
“Hm,” she murmured, pretending to consider it. “That depends. Are we talking pre-show superstition rules or post-show review-based incentives?”

Before he could answer, her eyes widened slightly as something clicked.
“Oh—wait. Hold on. I forgot.”

She pulled away suddenly, excitement breaking through as she grabbed her duffel and dropped it to the floor. She crouched, rifling through it with urgency, pushing past sunscreen and spare clothes, her movements quick but purposeful.

“I have something for you,” she said, then corrected herself immediately, smiling to herself. “Okay, technically it’s for me. But you’re… involved.”

She pulled out the denim jacket—unassuming at first—and held it up like it was nothing special.
“Promise you won’t laugh,” she added, glancing up at him.

Then she flipped it around.

The back told the truth.

Not stylized. Not ironic. Painted carefully, deliberately—eyes steady, mouth set in that familiar, thoughtful line. The kind of expression she’d seen a hundred times in quiet moments: tuning a guitar, listening back to a take, staring out a window while thinking three steps ahead. The brushwork wasn’t overly polished; you could see the strokes, the texture, the time spent getting it right. It looked lived-in, human.

Beneath the portrait, his name was painted simply, handwritten rather than branded. Ben Wilder. No flourish. No spectacle. Just fact.

She held the jacket (https://i.ibb.co/wFWY0hN7/IMG-1674.png) at chest height, arms slightly bent, letting him really see it. Letting him take it in without explanation. The message didn’t need words—it was already there in the care, in the way she’d chosen denim instead of canvas, something meant to be worn and moved in, something meant to be in the crowd.

She slipped it on, nerves fluttering as the denim settled over her shoulders, then turned slowly to face him, modeling it with a small, hopeful smile.
“So?” she asked softly. “What do you think?”

Standing there in his trailer, wearing his face painted by her own hands, Cleo felt something settle. A quiet certainty.

“This is how I’m watching tonight,” she added, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “In the crowd. Normal. Anonymous. Just… yours.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stopped.

The teasing retort about the M&Ms died in his throat. The restless energy that had been keeping him moving, pacing, touching things just to burn off the adrenaline—it all just evaporated.

He stared at the back of the jacket.

He blinked, then blinked again, trying to reconcile the image with the denim. It wasn’t merch. Merch was screen-printed and soulless; it was a logo designed by a committee to look good on Instagram. This… this was something else entirely.

It was him.

Not the guy on the poster outside the gates. Not the guy who was about to go jump off a drum riser. It was the Ben who sat on her floor at 2 a.m. trying to fix a bridge in a demo. It was the Ben who worried about the acoustics. It was the version of himself he usually only saw when he caught a glimpse in her bathroom mirror after washing his face.

The eyes were gentle. The mouth was set in that specific, thoughtful line he didn't even know he made until right now. And the name—Ben Wilder—written in her hand, stripped of the flashing lights and the bold fonts.

"Anonymous," he repeated, the word coming out as a breathless, incredulous laugh.
He stepped closer, drawn in like a moth, reaching out to hover his hand over the painted denim without quite touching it, afraid the paint might still be wet, afraid it was a hallucination.

"Babe," he said, shaking his head as the sheer absurdity and beauty of it hit him at once. "You keep using that word. Anonymous. I do not think it means what you think it means."
He grinned, a look of pure, unadulterated wonder cracking his stage persona wide open.

"You are wearing a hand-painted mural of my face. On your body. In public." He looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror, his expression softening into something devastatingly tender. "That is the exact opposite of anonymous, Cleo. That is a billboard. That is a declaration of war on anonymity."

He stepped in fully then, unable to keep his distance. He placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her slightly so he could trace the line of the painted jaw with his thumb, marveling at the texture of the acrylic on the rough fabric.

"It’s incredible," he whispered, the humor sliding away to reveal the raw gratitude underneath. "You got the... the worry lines. You got the thinking face."

He looked at her reflection again, shaking his head.

"I can't believe you made this. When did you even have time? You were too busy beating me at Mario Kart."

He didn't check his watch. He didn't look at the door where the muffled sound of a stage manager’s walkie-talkie crackled. He spun her around gently to face him, his hands sliding down to grip her waist, pulling her in until the custom jacket crunched softly against his suit.

"You're not anonymous," he told her firmly, searching her eyes. "You're the loudest thing in the room. Even when you're quiet."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur against her lips.

"And you’re definitely mine. The jacket just makes it official."

He kissed her then—not a good luck kiss, not a quick peck for the road. He kissed her slow and deep, like they were the only two people in the entire dusty, bass-thumping desert. He kissed her like he wanted to absorb the calm she carried, like he wanted to taste the patience it took to paint every single brushstroke on that denim.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't let go. He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, breathing her in.

"Forget the set," he mumbled into the space between them, half-joking but mostly just unwilling to break the connection. "Let's just stay here. I’ll pay the fine. We can order pizza and admire your art."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she leaned back just enough to look at him properly. The trailer felt smaller now, like the air had shifted around them—dusty light slanting through the window, bass still bleeding faintly through the walls, the world outside pressing in while this moment held.

Her hands slid up his arms, slow and grounding, thumbs brushing over his wrists where the tension always lived before a show. She could feel how still he was, how hard he was holding himself together, and it made her chest ache in that familiar, steady way that came with loving him like this.

“I don’t mean anonymous like… invisible,” she said gently. “I mean anonymous like a fan. Like someone who blends in. Just another girl in the crowd who loves the music.”

Her smile curved, warm and a little bashful, the kind she only wore when she was explaining something that mattered to her. Not defensive. Not nervous. Just honest.

“This?” She gestured lightly between them, then to the jacket, the painted denim brushing her knuckles. “This is just me being artsy. That’s all. You know I can’t help it. My brain sees a blank surface and immediately goes, what if we ruined it in a beautiful way?”

She reached back to touch the denim, fingertips grazing the edge of the paint, feeling the texture beneath her skin. Every brushstroke came back to her—the quiet hours, the concentration, the way she’d chased the likeness not to perfect him, but to recognize him. To keep him with her even when he was loud and far away.

“I’m not trying to make a statement,” she added softly. “I’m just… wearing something I made. Something I care about. Same way people wear band tees or patches or whatever. Mine just happens to be… your face.”

Her eyes lifted to his, playful but sincere, steady enough to hold his intensity without flinching.

“I’ll still be standing in the crowd, sweating with everyone else, screaming lyrics and pretending I don’t know the set list. Just a fan,” she said. “A very biased fan.”

She leaned in again, closing the space she’d created, her forehead resting against his. The noise outside faded into something distant, unimportant. Her voice dropped, quieter now, meant only for him.

“You’re the one onstage. I’m just the girl who paints too much.”

Cleo held his gaze for a beat longer, letting the quiet stretch. She could feel his breath against her cheek, could feel how carefully he was holding himself together, like if he moved too fast he might crack the moment open instead of stepping into it.

Her hands slid a little higher, settling at the back of his neck, fingers warm against skin that was already buzzing with anticipation. She didn’t rush it. She never did with things that mattered.

Then she leaned in.

The kiss was unhurried—soft at first, like a question rather than an answer. Her lips pressed to his with an ease that came from knowing him, from months of shared space and late nights and learning the exact weight of each other’s presence. It wasn’t performative, wasn’t dramatic. It was grounding. An anchor before the storm.

She lingered just long enough to feel him exhale into it, to feel his body shift closer without thinking, before she pulled back a fraction—foreheads still touching, noses brushing.

Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle at the nape of his neck, steady and sure, like muscle memory.

“Okay,” she murmured softly, the word carrying everything she didn’t need to spell out. Pride. Calm. Belief.
“I’m ready.”

She smiled then—small, real—and stayed close for another second, letting him take whatever he needed from the moment before the lights, the noise, the jump.

Just long enough to remind him he wasn’t going out there alone.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben accepted the kiss like it was oxygen, closing his eyes and letting the frantic, buzzing static in his brain finally go quiet. For the last three hours, he’d been vibrating at a frequency that made his teeth ache—the pre-show cocktail of adrenaline, terror, and the absurd pressure of knowing thousands of people were waiting for him to do something interesting.

But Cleo felt like Sunday morning. She felt like the cabin. She felt like the one thing in this entire desert that wasn't trying to sell him something or take his picture.

He breathed her in, letting his forehead rest against hers for a long, heavy second, absorbing the calm she was offering.

"Just a fan," he repeated, a low, disbelief-laced chuckle rumbling in his chest. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands sliding from her waist to grip the lapels of the denim jacket—her art, his face, worn like a shield.

"Babe, you are the furthest thing from 'just' anything. You’re the muse. You’re the reason the songs work."

He smoothed his thumbs over the painted denim, shaking his head with a crooked, helpless smile.

"But if you want to play roleplay... fine. You’re the biased fan. I’m the guy onstage trying to impress you. We’ll stick to the script."

The knock on the metal door was sharp, three rapid raps that signaled the end of the peace treaty. The muffled voice of the tour manager cut through the wall: "Five minutes, Ben. Walking now."

The shift was instantaneous. Ben felt it happen—the way his posture straightened, the way the easy, lopsided charm hardened into something sharper, something electric. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his sunglasses, sliding them on. The world dimmed, tinted cool and distant. The armor was complete.

But before he turned toward the door, he looked at her one last time over the rim of the frames.

"You ready?" he asked, throwing her own words back at her, a challenge wrapped in a grin.
He reached out, grabbing his guitar from the stand in one fluid motion, the strap sliding over his shoulder. The weight of it was familiar, comforting.

"Stage right," he reminded her, pointing a finger. "Don't move. If I look over there and see an empty space, I’m going to stop the show and file a missing persons report over the mic."

He reached for the door handle, the roar of the festival bleeding in before he even cracked it open—a wall of sound, bass, and distant screaming. He looked back at Cleo, standing there in her cutoffs and his face on her back, looking more rock and roll than he ever would.

"Okay," he said, taking a breath that was half-nerves, half-fire. "Let's go ruin it in a beautiful way."

He pushed the door open, letting the heat and the noise rush in to swallow them both.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t drop the act for a second. The trailer felt smaller now, charged with pre-show electricity—the bass outside rattling the metal walls, someone laughing down the corridor, the smell of dust and hairspray and warm amps hanging in the air. She leaned into it, into him, into the ridiculous thrill of pretending for fun when they both knew how real this already was.

Her eyes sparkled as she tilted her head, fully committed to the bit.

“Oooooh,” she repeated, slower this time, like she was tasting the idea. “Dangerous is my brand.”

She straightened her posture, shoulders back like she was standing in the pit instead of his trailer, imaginary crowd around her.

“I’m the fan who shows up early,” she continued, warming into it. “Front row. Knows all the words. Has been quietly in love with you since that one B-side you never play live anymore.”

She pretended to scan him up and down, mock-judging.

“And you’re the indie rock star who finally notices me. Locks eyes. Smiles like it was an accident but we both know it wasn’t. You’re thinking, Wow… she gets it.”

Her grin went sly.

“Then you dedicate a song to ‘someone in the crowd’ and I’m pretending not to cry while absolutely crying.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at him, playful and conspiratorial.

“We can try that tonight,” she added, dropping her voice like it was a secret. “Just saying.”

She reached out, lightly tugging the edge of his jacket again, grounding herself before he disappeared into the noise.

“I’ll be stage right,” she promised, tapping two fingers against her chest. “Obsessive fan energy. Low screaming. High emotional support.”

Her smile softened, sincerity threading through the teasing.

“Go impress me,” she whispered. “Pretend you don’t already have me.”

Then she stepped back, giving him space, watching the armor slide back into place as he grabbed his guitar.

And when the door opened and the roar rushed in, she stayed right there—steady, glowing, already picturing exactly where she’d stand.

Cleo was still smiling when it happened—still riding the playful rush of the roleplay, still feeling the warmth of his hands on her waist—when the door swung open without ceremony.

Cleo didn’t linger.

The second the tour manager snagged Ben by the elbow and started pulling, she was already moving—muscle memory kicking in, instincts sharpened by months of learning the rhythms of his world. Trailers emptied fast before a set; if you hesitated, you got left behind or swallowed by the wrong corridor.

She grabbed the denim jacket off the chair in one smooth motion and slid it on as she followed them out, the fabric settling familiar and grounding across her shoulders. The door swung open again and the heat rushed in—dust, bass, voices stacking over each other in chaotic layers.

As they moved, she reached for her lanyard, slipping it over her head mid-walk. The VIP badge flashed once in the light before she tucked it down beneath her shirt, hidden against her chest. Not gone. Just not advertised.

Ben was already half-turned forward, posture shifting, focus narrowing, the pre-show version of him locking into place. The tour manager rattled off instructions without breaking stride. Radios crackled. Someone shouted a countdown.

Cleo stayed just behind them, close enough to feel the gravity of him without interrupting it. She didn’t grab his hand this time. Didn’t slow him down. This part wasn’t about holding on—it was about moving with.

They cut through the backstage maze together, the noise growing louder with every step, the air vibrating with anticipation. She caught one last glimpse of his profile as they rounded the corner toward the stage access—jaw set, eyes bright, alive.

Then the path split.

The tour manager angled him toward the stairs and security gates. Cleo veered instinctively toward the side route that would spill her out near the crowd, exactly where she wanted to be.

No hesitation. No looking back.

Just a quiet inhale, a steadying breath, and then she disappeared into the flow—another body among thousands, jacket on, pass hidden, heart thudding in time with the bass.

Stage right.

She was ready.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the loss of her presence like a sudden drop in barometric pressure. One second she was a warm, solid weight at his side, grounding him; the next, she was gone, slipping away into the shadowy artery that fed the crowd while he was funneled toward the light.
He didn’t look back. He couldn't. If he looked back now, he’d lose the momentum, and right now, momentum was the only thing keeping his heart from rattling out of his ribcage.

The tour manager, a guy named Rick who lived entirely on caffeine and stress, was shouting something into his ear, but Ben just nodded, the words dissolving into the roar that was getting louder with every step. The air tasted like silica dust and sunscreen. The ground beneath his boots vibrated, a constant, low-frequency tremor that traveled up his legs and settled in his gut.

He hit the stairs to the stage deck, taking them two at a time.

His band was already there—Miller behind the kit, tossing a stick and catching it with a grin that said let’s break something; the others plugging in, checking levels. A tech shoved his Fender Stratocaster into his hands. Ben took it, the weight of the strap settling over his shoulder like a second skin. He adjusted the sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, hiding the eyes that were still adjusting from the dim trailer to the blinding desert sun.

Then he stepped out.

The noise hit him like a physical wall—a collective, deafening scream from forty thousand throats. It washed over him, chaotic and hungry.

Ben walked to the center mic, moving with a loose, lanky swagger that he had practiced until it looked like he didn't care at all. He didn't say anything. He just stood there for a second, letting the feedback loop of energy crash against him, feeling the heat radiate off the asphalt and the bodies.

He grabbed the mic stand, leaning into it, looking out at the ocean of people.

It was a blur. A kaleidoscope of neon, glitter, flags, and phone screens. It was overwhelming. It was terrifying.

Stage right.

He didn't panic. He didn't let his eyes dart around frantically. He did exactly what he’d told her he would do: he used the frontman’s magic trick. He scanned the crowd slowly, coolly, looking like he was surveying his kingdom, when in reality, he was hunting.

He swept his gaze past the center rail, past the photographers in the pit, drifting to the right.

And then he stopped.

She was there.

She hadn’t lied. She wasn’t hidden behind a speaker stack or buried in the VIP risers. She was right there in the crush, maybe five rows back, pressed against the barricade by the sheer density of the crowd. The sun caught the loose waves of her hair. She was wearing the sunglasses he’d bought her at a gas station in Arizona.

She looked small in the chaos.

But then she saw him looking. She didn't wave. She didn't hold up a phone. She just tipped her chin up, a small, secret smile curving her lips, and tapped two fingers against her chest, right over her heart.

Obsessive fan energy. High emotional support.

Ben felt a grin crack through his stage persona, genuine and sharp. The knot in his stomach unspooled instantly. She was there. She was watching. The rest of the world was just furniture.

He stepped closer to the mic, his fingers finding the opening chord of the first song. He leaned in, his mouth brushing the metal grille, and for the first time all day, he felt completely, dangerously calm.

He looked directly at her—laser-focused, unblinking—and let the first note ring out.
Let’s see if she cries, he thought, and started the show.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo slipped out before the lights came up.

Five minutes before the last song ended—right as the crowd crested into that feral, end-of-set roar—she turned, ducked, and let herself be carried backward by instinct instead of sound. She didn’t need the encore. She already had it, tucked into her chest, vibrating under her ribs.

By the time the final note hit and the field exploded, she was already moving—cutting through the edge paths, past security who recognized the walk now, back toward Artist Village while everyone else surged forward. Dust clung to her boots. Her ears rang. Her heart wouldn’t slow down.

The trailer was quiet when she got there.

Not empty—quiet in that charged, post-storm way. She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it for a second, breathing, smiling to herself like she’d just gotten away with something. She set the jacket carefully over the chair, the painted denim catching the low light, and dropped onto the couch, legs bouncing, adrenaline buzzing through her hands.

She could still see him.

The way he’d scanned stage right—sharp, quick, just once—and then smiled like he’d found what he was looking for. The way his shoulders loosened after that. The way he played after that.

She didn’t check her phone. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t need proof.

She just waited.

When the door finally slammed open, it was like the night rushed in with him.

Heat. Noise. Sweat. That wild, electric energy that came off him after a set like static. He looked wrecked in the best way—hair damp, chest still heaving, eyes bright and blown wide like he hadn’t fully landed back in his body yet.

Cleo was on her feet before she thought about it.

“Hey,” she said—soft, grounding, exactly where it needed to be.

He stopped dead when he saw her.

The adrenaline cracked into something else immediately. Relief. Joy. That feral post-show grin breaking across his face like the encore had just started all over again.

She didn’t rush him. Didn’t say you were amazing—he already knew. She just stepped into his space, hands warm against his arms, anchoring him back into the room.

“I left early,” she told him quietly, eyes shining. “Wanted to beat the crowd. Wanted to be here.”

And there it was—that moment she loved most. When the stage dropped away. When the noise finally stopped clawing at him. When it was just them again, breathing the same air.

She kissed him—quick, solid, real—right in the middle of all that leftover electricity.

“Welcome back,” she murmured, forehead resting against his. “You did so good.”

Outside, the festival kept roaring.

Inside the trailer, Cleo stayed exactly where she belonged—waiting for him, steady and smiling, holding the quiet for both of them.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben came through the door like he was shot out of a cannon, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins in a chaotic, thrumming rhythm that made his hands shake. His ears were ringing with the ghost of forty thousand people screaming the bridge of his final song. His shirt was soaked through, sticking to his back, and he smelled like sweat and stage smoke and exertion.

He felt wild. He felt invincible. He felt like he needed to run ten miles or sleep for a week, and he wasn't sure which one was going to win.

Then he saw her.

The shift was physical. It was like someone had reached into his chest and grabbed the frenetic, spinning top of his heart and forced it to steady. She was standing there in the middle of the trailer, calm and solid, the eye of the storm.

When she stepped into his space and put her hands on him, the electricity didn't vanish—it just grounded. It stopped arching out randomly and found a conduit.

"You left early," he panted, a breathless laugh escaping him as he leaned into her touch, heedless of the sweat dripping down his temples. "I looked over during the bow... you were gone."

He didn't wait for an answer to his own observation. He couldn't help himself. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his wrecked, overheating body, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"I am disgusting," he groaned against her skin, holding her tighter anyway. "I am a biological hazard. You should flee."

But he didn't let go. He breathed in the smell of her—vanilla and the faint dust of the festival—and felt the last of the performance bleed out of him. He wasn't the guy on the jumbotron anymore. He was just Ben, and his legs were starting to feel heavy.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands sliding up to cup her face, thumbs swiping over her cheekbones. His eyes were dark, still dilated, searching hers with an intensity that hadn't faded yet.

"I saw you," he murmured, his voice rough from an hour of singing at full volume. "Stage right. Sunglasses. The jacket."

A crooked, triumphant grin split his face, stripping away the exhaustion.

"You tapped your chest," he accused softly, delight dancing in his eyes. "I saw it. Don't try to deny it. You broke character, Cleo. You signaled."

He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a second as the adrenaline finally began to curdle into a heavy, satisfied warmth.

"God, it was good to see you there," he whispered, the truth of it hitting him hard. "Every time I looked over... I knew exactly where to find you."

He opened his eyes again, that playful spark returning.

"So?" he asked, tilting his head, waiting for the verdict. "Did I impress you? Or was the biased fan disappointed by the lack of pyrotechnics?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed softly when he called her out, the sound warm and breathy, still riding the aftershock of his set. Her hands stayed on him, steadying him, thumbs brushing absent-mindedly over his ribs like she was anchoring him back into his body.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t want to miss the end, I swear. I just—” she smiled, a little sheepish, “—wanted to make it back before you did. I wanted to be here when you walked in. Beat the chaos.”

She tipped her forehead against his for a second, breathing him in. Sweat, smoke, adrenaline—him. It wasn’t gross. It was honest. It was earned.

Then she giggled when he accused her of breaking character, eyes lighting up.

“I absolutely did not break character,” she protested playfully. “That was just an obsessed fan showing love to her favorite indie rock star. Very on brand, actually.”

Her fingers slid up to his neck, grounding him as she looked at him—really looked at him. The wildness in his eyes. The way his shoulders were finally dropping. The way the noise was slowly leaving him.

“And you are far from disgusting,” she added softly. “You’re… glowing. In a very sweaty, post-show way. But still. Glowing.”

She leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, not caring about the heat or the mess or the smoke still clinging to him. Just him. Her hands pressed into his back, holding him there like she wasn’t letting the night pull him away again.

When she pulled back, her smile was bright and proud.

“You killed it,” she said quietly. “Absolutely destroyed. I don’t think I blinked the whole time.”


Cleo kept her hands on him, not rushing him, just guiding him the way you do when someone’s running on pure fumes. She nudged him gently toward the couch, steering him past the cluttered counter and the half-kicked-off shoes on the floor.

“Come on,” she murmured, warm and steady. “Sit before you decide you’re still invincible and faceplant.”

She eased him down onto the cushions, then perched beside him, one knee turned toward him, her hand still resting at the small of his back. He looked wrecked in the best way—flushed, eyes bright, energy finally starting to soften around the edges.

She brushed a curl off his forehead, thumb gentle against his temple.

“You want anything?” she asked quietly. “Water? Gatorade? A towel? Emotional support lasagna?”

Her smile tugged playful, but her eyes were soft, checking in.

“I can grab you whatever. You just… breathe for a second.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let himself be manhandled. He sank into the couch cushions with a groan that was fifty percent exhaustion and fifty percent pure, unadulterated relief, his legs sprawling out in front of him like they’d suddenly forgotten how to hold his weight.

The sudden lack of motion made the room spin for a second—a vertigo hangover from the lights and the noise—but Cleo was right there, perching beside him, her hand on his back. That touch was the only thing keeping him from floating off the ceiling.

He let out a rough, dry laugh at the menu options, his head falling back against the trailer wall.

"Emotional support lasagna," he repeated, closing his eyes for a beat. "Don't toy with me, Cleo. I am in a fragile state. If you don't actually have layers of pasta and cheese hidden in that tote bag, that is a cruel and unusual punishment."

He cracked one eye open, grinning at her sideways. The adrenaline was still humming under his skin, buzzing like a live wire, but the crash was waving from the horizon. He needed to hydrate, he needed to shower, he needed to decompress—but mostly, he just needed her to not move.

He reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist—gentle, but holding on.

"Water," he decided, his voice gravelly. "Water is probably the responsible choice before I pass out. But..."

He tugged her closer, ignoring the sweat that made his shirt stick to the upholstery, until she was practically in his lap. He dropped his head onto her shoulder, exhaling a long, shaky breath that emptied his lungs completely.

"Give me a minute first," he mumbled into her shirt. "Just... stay right here. The world is still spinning a little bit."

He closed his eyes again, soaking in the quiet. It was wild how fast the switch flipped. Ten minutes ago he was a god to forty thousand people; now he was just a guy who desperately needed a drink of water and his girlfriend to pet his hair.

He felt the vibration of the festival thumping through the floorboards, a distant reminder of the chaos he’d just stepped out of. But in here, with her scent overpowering the stage smoke, it felt manageable.

"You really didn't blink?" he asked, his voice muffled against her shoulder, a hint of that insecure artist needing one last hit of validation. "Not even when I butchered the intro to the new song? Because I definitely saw you wince. Don't lie to the sweaty man."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t pull away when he tugged her closer. If anything, she leaned in, letting his weight settle against her like it belonged there. The couch creaked softly under them, the trailer still humming with distant bass, but her focus narrowed to the way his breathing started to slow once his head found her shoulder.

She slipped her hand up automatically, fingers threading through his damp curls, pushing them back from his forehead. Sweat, smoke, exhaustion—none of it mattered. She’d take all of it if it meant this version of him stayed right here for another minute.

“I didn’t blink,” she said quietly, nodding once even though he couldn’t see it yet. Her voice was steady, certain. “Not once.”

She tilted her head, resting her cheek lightly against the top of his, her thumb tracing slow, grounding lines along his hairline.

“And I cried,” she added, softer. Honest. “A lot. Like… embarrassingly so. Happy crying. Proud crying. The kind where you forget you’re in public and you just let it happen.”

She shifted just enough to look down at him, brushing a curl away from his eyes again, lingering there like she needed to make sure he was really here.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and there was weight behind it—not guilt, but care. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to be perfect for me. Or like one note could undo everything you are.”

Her hand slid to his cheek, her thumb warm against skin that was still flushed from the stage lights.

“No one noticed,” she said gently. “I promise you. No one knows what that song is supposed to sound like yet. You could’ve played it backwards and they still would’ve been with you.”

She smiled to herself, small and real, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“I just saw you,” she whispered. “Up there. Doing the thing you love. Being exactly who you are.”

She hugged him a little closer, unapologetic about the sweat soaking into her shirt.

“So yeah,” she finished softly. “I didn’t blink. I didn’t wince. I just… watched.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben went still against her.

The admission that she cried—happy tears, proud tears—landed harder than the applause had. It cracked something open in his chest that the adrenaline had been plastering over, exposing the raw, beating heart underneath.

He lifted his head slowly, peeling himself off her shoulder just enough to look her in the eye. The fatigue was etched into the lines of his face, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, but his gaze was clear, burning with a quiet, fierce intensity.

"You cried?" he repeated, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

He reached up, his thumb brushing softly under her eye, as if searching for the evidence she’d already wiped away. The thought of her standing in that crush of people, letting go because of something he did, made his throat tight.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping, becoming serious. He waited until she was looking right at him. "Don't apologize. Not for that."

He shook his head slightly, his hand cupping her jaw, holding her gaze with absolute certainty.

"You have never, not once, made me feel like I had to be perfect, Cleo. You are the only place in the world where I don't have to be perfect."

He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of a laugh, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
"Out there? Yeah. I have to be the guy. I have to hit the notes and work the crowd and be... whatever they need me to be. But in here?" He leaned his forehead against hers again, closing his eyes. "In here, I’m just the guy who missed a chord and needs you to tell him it’s okay."

He took a shaky breath, soaking in her proximity, the solid reality of her.

"And for the record," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips against her skin, "I definitely butchered that intro. It was a solid three seconds of panic. But if you say it sounded like artistic liberty... I'm keeping that version."

He kissed her then—slow, heavy with exhaustion, but filled with a profound, aching gratitude. He kissed her like she was the only water he needed.

When he pulled back, he didn't let go. He slumped back against the cushions, sliding his arm around her waist to pull her down with him until she was tucked into his side, her head on his chest.

"Okay," he groaned, the adrenaline finally, truly checking out and leaving his limbs feeling like lead. "Water. Please. Before I turn into dust. But you have to come right back. You're my anchor. If you leave, I might float away."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo’s chest tightened when he lifted his head, when she saw the way the noise had finally drained out of him and left something softer—and far more vulnerable—behind. She didn’t rush to answer. She let the quiet stretch just long enough to feel honest.

“Yeah,” she said gently, nodding once. “I cried.”

Her voice didn’t wobble. She wasn’t embarrassed by it. If anything, there was something calm and sure in the way she said it, like she’d already made peace with what it meant. She leaned into his touch when his thumb brushed under her eye, turning her face slightly into his hand.

“Because I was proud,” she added quietly. “Not because you were perfect. Because you were you up there.”

When he told her she was the only place he didn’t have to be perfect, something warm and heavy settled in her chest. She swallowed, blinking slowly, letting the weight of that land without trying to deflect it.

“I know,” she murmured, softer now. “That’s why I’m here.”

She smiled faintly at the comment about the intro, a breath of a laugh slipping out of her as she brushed her nose against his.

“Artistic liberty,” she confirmed. “Very intentional. Very brave.”

When he asked for water, she nodded immediately, careful as she shifted out from under his arm. Even standing up, she kept one hand on his shoulder for a second, grounding both of them before moving.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised, and meant it.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge, twisting the cap off before bringing it back to him and pressing it into his hand. Then, almost as an afterthought—but really not—she turned to her duffle bag. She knelt, rummaging through it with practiced ease until her fingers closed around something familiar.

“Ah,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

She straightened with the joint between her fingers, crossed back to him, and climbed easily into his lap again like that was exactly where she belonged. This time she leaned back against the armrest, his chest warm against her back, his legs bracketing hers.

She reached for the lighter on the side table, flicked it, shielding the flame with her hand as she lit it. The soft crackle filled the space between them for a moment before she took a small pull, just enough to get it going, then passed it back over her shoulder to him.

“There,” she said softly. “Water first. Then this.”

She relaxed into him, one hand resting over his forearm, the other loosely holding the bottle she’d just given him, ready to help if his hands started shaking again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she added, quieter still. “You can float a little if you want. I’ve got you.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben followed instructions. He drank the water like he’d been wandering the desert for forty years instead of playing a sixty-minute set. The cool liquid hit his throat and he could practically feel his cells singing in gratitude. He downed half the bottle in one go, the plastic crinkling under his grip, before he finally lowered it, gasping a little, a droplet running down his chin which he wiped with the back of his hand.

Then came the offering.

He looked at the joint in her fingers, then up at her face—calm, knowing, beautiful—and thought he might actually burst from how much he loved her in that second. It was the trifecta of salvation: hydration, medication, and Cleo.

He took it from her, his fingers brushing hers—still shaky, but less so now—and brought it to his lips. He took a long, slow drag, the cherry glowing bright in the dim trailer. He held the smoke in his lungs for a beat, letting the familiar burn settle the last of the jitters, before blowing a thin stream toward the ceiling.

His head dropped back against the cushion, his arm tightening around her waist to pull her deeper into his space, anchoring her between his spread thighs.

"You," he murmured, his voice rough and smoky, "are a witch. A benevolent, beautiful witch who knows exactly what I need before I do."

He handed the joint back to her over her shoulder, then let his head loll forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, his cheek pressed against the soft cotton of her shirt. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, steady and slow, a counter-rhythm to the bass still thumping outside.

"I'm floating," he admitted quietly, eyes closing as the tension in his neck finally began to unspool. "I'm gone. If you weren't holding onto me, I'd be on the ceiling."

He wasn't just talking about the weed. He was talking about the drop. The moment the show ends is a cliff edge—you go from everything to nothing in seconds. The silence usually screams. But tonight, with her weight pressing him into the cushions and the smell of her hair filling his nose, the fall didn't feel like crashing. It just felt like landing.

He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, pressing a soft, grateful kiss to the pulse point there.
"Thank you," he whispered, the words vibrating against her skin. "For the water. For the rescue. for the jacket."

He paused, a sleepy, contented smile spreading across his face against her neck.
"And for the artistic liberty defense. I'm putting that in the liner notes. 'Special thanks to Cleo, for spinning my mistakes into jazz.'"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled when she felt him settle, really settle, the tension finally easing out of his body like a slow exhale. She lifted her hand and gently brushed his damp hair back from his forehead while he smoked, her fingers careful, soothing, like she was afraid to startle him out of the calm.

“Yeah,” she murmured softly when he called her a witch, amusement warming her voice. “That tracks.”

She leaned her head back against his shoulder for a second, eyes closing, just breathing him in. The sweat, the smoke, the faint desert dust—none of it bothered her. It was him. All of it was him.

“I’d do anything for you,” she said quietly, not dramatic, just honest. “Be anything. I don’t need to be the loud person in your world. I just want to be the one who reminds you you’re… normal. Human. The guy who forgets where he puts his phone and misses chords sometimes.”

She turned her head and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then another, lingering there, grounding him with touch instead of words. Her thumb traced slow circles along his jaw, gentle and steady.

“No spotlight in here,” she whispered. “Just you and me.”

She kissed just under his eye, light as a promise, then rested her forehead against his temple for a moment before pulling back enough to look at him.

“I’d take being called a witch any day, by the way,” she added with a small grin. “Way better than ‘exhausted girlfriend.’”

Her hand slid back to his cheek, stroking slow and soft, keeping him anchored as the noise outside faded into something distant and unimportant.

Cleo stayed close, her body still curved around his like she’d built herself there on purpose. She kept one hand on his cheek, thumb moving slowly, absent-mindedly, tracing the line of his jaw and up toward his temple—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. Just steady.

She tilted her head, watching his face as the tension continued to melt away, the sharp edges rounding off into something softer and slower.

“How are you feeling now?” she asked quietly.

Her voice was low, careful, like she didn’t want to jolt him out of the moment. She brushed her fingers through his hair again, pushing it back from his eyes so she could really see him.

“Still floating?” she added gently. “Or are you back in your body a little?”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as her thumb swept over his cheekbone. The frantic, high-frequency buzzing that usually lived in his skull for an hour after a show—the noise that demanded he keep moving, keep talking, keep performing—had finally dialed down to a low, manageable hum. The weed was helping to soften the jagged edges of the room, blurring the sharp lights into something warmer, but it was mostly her.

She was a heat sink for his anxiety. She absorbed the static radiating off him and radiated back nothing but pure, steady calm.

He captured her hand, the one stroking his face, and turned his head to press a kiss into the center of her palm. He lingered there for a long moment, breathing against her skin, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse in her wrist against his lips. It was the only clock that mattered right now.

"Landing," he murmured, the word heavy with sleep and a profound, bone-deep satisfaction. "Definitely landing. My legs feel like they’re filled with lead shot, so I think gravity is fully operational again."

He opened his eyes, looking down at her from where he was slumped against the cushions. His legs were spread wide, bracketing hers, creating a protective cage around her even while he was the one falling apart. She was tucked perfectly into the space between them, her back pressed against his chest, her weight settling into him in a way that made him feel solid again.

The stage lights had left phantoms in his vision—bursts of blue and strobe-white—but she was clear. Sharp. Real.

"I feel..." He paused, searching for the word through the pleasant haze, his chin resting heavily on her shoulder. "Quiet. Which is a miracle, honestly. Usually, right now, my brain is screaming at me. It’s usually dissecting the monitor mix or replaying every single mistake on a loop."

He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting so he could wrap his arms tighter around her waist, pulling her deeper into the V of his legs. The trailer felt like a capsule, suspended in time, protected from the bass that was still thumping through the floorboards.

"You were right, by the way," he added softly, his hand finding hers where it rested on his arm, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. "About the human thing. I think I forgot for a minute out there. When the crowd is that loud... it’s easy to start believing your own hype. To think you’re something other than just a person."

He looked at their joined hands—his larger, shaking slightly, knuckles bruised from gripping the guitar; hers small, paint-stained, steady.

"Thanks for reminding me I'm just a guy who misses chords and needs a nap," he whispered, his voice vibrating against her ear. "I like that guy better anyway. He gets to hang out with you."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t rush to answer. She stayed tucked into him, letting the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest set the pace. His words settled over her like warm water—quiet, honest, unguarded—and something in her softened even more. This version of him, stripped of stage lights and expectations, felt sacred. She loved him loud, yes—but she loved him like this more.

She tilted her head just enough to look up at him, her hair brushing his jaw. Her eyes traced his face, memorizing the tired lines, the way his lashes still fluttered like his body hadn’t quite decided it was safe to rest yet. When he said he was landing, a smile touched her mouth without her meaning it to, her fingers tightening gently around his.

“Good,” she murmured. “I was starting to worry you might float away and I’d have to tie you down with extension cords.”

She shifted in his hold so she could face him better, one knee tucked between his. Her free hand slid back to his cheek, thumb following that familiar path—slow, grounding, as much for her as for him. She could still feel the echo of the crowd in him, subtle but there, like a hum under the skin.

“Quiet looks good on you,” she added softly. “I like this version. He feels… present.”

When he talked about forgetting he was human, her expression gentled. She leaned her forehead into his—not enough to bump, just enough to feel him there.

“It makes sense,” she said. “Everyone out there treats you like something endless. Like you’re not allowed to stop.” Her thumb pressed a little firmer, anchoring. “But you are allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to just be a guy who needs a nap.”

Her gaze dropped to their joined hands—his larger, still marked with the effort of the set; hers paint-stained and steady—and she smiled to herself.

“They treat you like a product,” she said gently when she finally spoke. “Not a person. They measure you in streams and tickets and headlines.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, steady and sure. “No wonder you forget sometimes. Anyone would.”

She leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against his, breathing him in.

She pulled back just enough to really look at him—sweat-damp hair, wrecked shoulders, eyes still carrying the residue of stage lights but softer now. Real. Entirely real.

“But I’m here,” she added quietly. “To remind you to breathe. To rest. To eat real food and sleep too late and laugh at dumb movies.”

A small, private smile curved her mouth.

“And to remind you that I love you.”

She leaned in then and kissed him—slow, lingering, unhurried. Not desperate. Not urgent. Just full. A kiss that didn’t ask for anything, only promised to stay. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his again, content to keep him right here in this small, safe pocket of calm.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her words didn't just land; they settled into the marrow of his bones, vibrating at a frequency that made his chest ache.

Product. Streams. Tickets.

She was right, of course. That was the language the machine spoke. It was a loud, relentless dialect that tried to drown out everything else.

He thought about Jax, who was probably out there right now, stealing beers from a cooler and charming security guards. Jax, who had known him since they were scraping gum off desk chairs in detention, who would punch him in the arm if he ever started acting like a "product." He thought about his mom, whose only text before the set had been 'Make sure you hydrate, honey, it looks dry on the livestream.'

They treated him like a human. They kept him tethered to the ground so he didn't float off into the stratosphere of his own ego.

But Cleo? Cleo was doing something different. She wasn't just a tether; she was gravity itself.

Jax made him remember who he was. His family made him remember where he came from. But Cleo... she made him realize who he wanted to be.

When she said I love you—so quiet, so simple, like it was the most obvious fact in the universe—he felt the last of his defenses crumble. The exhaustion, the adrenaline, the lingering stage persona—it all just fell away, leaving him raw and open.

He didn't just kiss her back; he surrendered.

He kissed her with a slow, heavy devotion, pouring every ounce of his exhaustion and his gratitude into it. He tasted the salt on his own lips, the sweetness of hers, the faint, lingering taste of the joint they’d shared. He let his tongue sweep into her mouth, lazy and unhurried, deepening the contact because he needed to feel her everywhere. He needed to verify that she was real, that this quiet pocket of peace wasn't a hallucination brought on by dehydration and stage lights.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her mouth, and slid his hand from her waist to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair to hold her close. He wanted to crawl inside her skin. He wanted to live in this trailer forever.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his forehead against hers, keeping his eyes closed, his breathing syncing with hers in the small, charged space between them.

"I love you," he rasped, his voice rougher now, stripped of all the polish. "God, Cleo. I love you so much it’s actually kind of a problem. It’s unprofessional. My team is going to organize an intervention."

He opened his eyes, searching hers—clear, brown, steady. He needed her to understand the distinction.

"Jax keeps me honest," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "And my mom... she just wants to make sure I'm eating vegetables. They see the human, yeah."

He shook his head slightly, his gaze intense, roaming over her face as if memorizing it all over again.

"But you? You’re the only one who sees the quiet," he whispered. "You’re the only one who knows how to make the noise stop. When I’m with them, I’m Ben the friend, or Ben the son. But when I’m with you..."

He shifted his hips slightly, adjusting the way she sat between his legs, his thighs bracketing hers more firmly, creating a physical shield against the world outside the door.

"...I’m just here," he finished softly. "I don't have to be anything else. Just here."

He let his head fall forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder again, the adrenaline crash finally catching up to him in a wave of heavy, warm fatigue.

"So, yes," he mumbled into her shirt, a sleepy, lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Dumb movies. Real food. Sleeping until noon. I want all of it. But mostly..."

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble.

"...mostly I just want you to never, ever move from this spot. I think I might actually be stuck to the upholstery, but as long as you’re trapped here with me, I don’t care."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo felt his words before she fully understood them. They settled into her chest, warm and heavy, the way a truth does when it finally finds the right place to land. She could feel how tired he was now—really tired. Not the surface exhaustion he joked about, but the deeper kind that came from giving everything you had and then some.

When he said he loved her, her throat tightened. Not in a sad way. In a way that felt like her heart was expanding too fast for her ribs to keep up.

She didn’t answer right away. She just moved.

Her arms came up around him, slow and sure, pulling him closer until his face pressed into her chest. She held him there, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers sliding gently through his damp hair. He felt so real like this—warm, breathing, heavy with the kind of trust that made her chest ache.

She pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, lingering there.

She stayed like that for a moment, rocking him just slightly, feeling his weight settle fully into her. She loved being this for him. The quiet. The landing place. The place where he didn’t have to be anything but himself.

Her thumb brushed slow circles into his back.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” she whispered. “But… if you want… we could go lay down for a bit.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes soft, full of him.

“No expectations. No talking. Just… you and me. Horizontal.”

A small smile curved her lips.

“I promise I won’t move,” she added gently. “Gravity girl, remember?”

Cleo shifted carefully, easing herself up from his lap without breaking the spell of closeness. The moment she stood, she turned back to him and held out both hands, palms open, waiting. It wasn’t a command. It was an invitation.

“Come on,” she said softly.

He took them, trusting, and she slowly guided him backward, step by step, toward the narrow hallway that led to the bedroom. The trailer was cramped, but it did exactly what it was meant to do—contain him, protect him, give him a place to land while the world outside lost its mind over his name on a lineup poster.

She walked backward so she could keep her eyes on him, steadying him when his legs wobbled slightly, laughing quietly when he bumped into the edge of the kitchenette.

“Careful, rockstar,” she teased under her breath. “Hazardous terrain.”

The hallway barely fit them both, shoulders brushing the walls, but she didn’t mind. It felt intimate. Real. Like this little metal box was temporarily their entire universe.

When they reached the bedroom, she nudged the door open with her hip. It wasn’t glamorous—just a narrow bed, rumpled sheets, his hoodie draped over a chair—but it felt like sanctuary.

She guided him down until he sat on the edge of the mattress, then gently pushed his shoulders so he’d lie back. Her movements were slow, intentional, like she was tucking him into something safe.

“There,” she murmured. “You earned this.”

She kicked off her shoes and climbed up beside him, curling into his side, one arm draped across his chest, her cheek resting over his heart. She could feel it slowing now—steady, real, human.

The festival still thumped faintly through the trailer walls, but in here, it felt far away.

Cleo smiled to herself, eyes fluttering closed.

This was the part no one saw.
And it was her favorite.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a long, ragged exhale as his back hit the mattress. It was a cheap, thin foam slab that came standard with the rental trailer, but in that moment, it felt like a cloud spun from silk and angel feathers. His spine cracked audibly, a series of satisfying pops that made him groan again, this time in pure relief.

He felt the mattress dip as she climbed in, the warmth of her body seeking his out like a magnet. When she draped her arm over him and rested her cheek on his heart, he felt his own pulse jump—a traitorous little spike of adrenaline even now.

He stared up at the dark ceiling, listening to the muffled thud of the bass outside. It sounded like a heartbeat, massive and relentless, shaking the thin aluminum walls. His own heart was slowing down, trying to sync with the rhythm of her breathing against his ribs, but his brain was still running laps.

He didn't close his eyes.

If he closed his eyes, the room would start spinning. If he closed his eyes, the show would start replaying on the back of his eyelids—the blinding strobes, the blur of faces, the three seconds where he thought he’d forgotten the lyrics to the second verse.

And besides... he wasn't done with her yet. He wasn't ready to lose consciousness and let this day end.

"Hey," he whispered, the word vibrating through his chest and into her cheek.

He moved his hand, the one not pinned under his own weight, to trace the line of her spine through her shirt. His fingers caught on the denim of the jacket she was still wearing—his face, painted by her, pressed against him.

"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, Gravity Girl," he rasped, his voice low and teasing. "I'm too wired to pass out yet. If I close my eyes, I’m gonna feel like I’m still on the riser."

He shifted slightly, sliding his hand up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair to gently tug her face up so he could see her.

"Talk to me," he murmured, his eyes adjusting to the shadows, finding the glint of her eyes. "Debrief me. Tell me what it looked like from down there. Did the lights work during the bridge? Did Jax actually body-check anyone? I need the field report."

He ran his thumb over her bottom lip, his gaze tracing her features with a kind of desperate fascination.

"Just... keep me here a little longer," he admitted, softer. "I don't want to dream about the show. I want to be with you."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo stayed tucked against him for a second longer when he whispered, listening to the steady thud of his heart under her cheek, feeling the last of the stage electricity still humming through him. The trailer smelled like dust and sweat and something warm and familiar—him—and she breathed it in like she was memorizing it.

“Hey,” she whispered back, soft and grounding.

When his fingers traced her spine, she shivered a little, not from nerves—just from how present it made her feel. His painted jacket crinkled between them, denim and acrylic pressed against his chest, and she smiled to herself at the strange poetry of it.

“Sleep? Not happening,” she murmured when he warned her. “You’re vibrating. I can practically hear it.”

She tilted her face up when he tugged her gently, meeting his eyes in the dim glow from the lamp. Her hand slid to his shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles like she was dialing him down notch by notch.

“From down there?” she echoed. “It was insane. In the best way. The lights during the bridge—perfect timing. Everyone screamed like it was the end of the world. And yes,” she added with a quiet laugh, “Jax absolutely body-checked someone. He tried to play it off like it was an accident, but… it was not.”

Her expression softened as she watched him, really watched him—wired, wrecked, still half onstage.

“You were amazing,” she said gently. “Not polished. Real. That’s why it worked.”

When he asked her to keep him here a little longer, something warm twisted in her chest. She leaned in and pressed her forehead to his, breathing him in.

“I’m right here,” she promised. “Not going anywhere.”

Then she smiled.

And slowly, deliberately, she sat up, bracing herself on her arms over him, hair falling around her face.

“Actually,” she said, eyes lighting up, “if you’re too wired to sleep…”

She grinned wider.

“Let’s go roam the festival. Just for a bit. I’ll change my clothes, you change yours. Throw on a ball cap, sunglasses—try not to look like… well, you.”

She laughed softly.

“We’ll disappear. Be normal people. Grab lemonade. Watch strangers dance badly. Have some fun.”

She tapped his chest playfully.

“Come on, Rockstar. You just conquered a crowd. Now let’s go get churros.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stared up at her. He blinked once, slowly, trying to process the sheer audacity of the suggestion.

His body was currently staging a protest. His calves were tight, his back ached, and he was pretty sure he had tinnitus in his left ear. Logic dictated that he should stay right here, horizontal, until the sun came up or until his manager came knocking, whichever came first.

But then he looked at her.

She was hovering over him, hair creating a curtain around their faces, eyes bright with mischief and that specific brand of chaos that he was hopelessly addicted to. She wasn't asking him to go be Ben Wilder, Indie Darling. She was asking him to just be Ben, the guy who liked fried dough and bad dancing.

And God, he wanted that. He wanted to strip off the sweaty stage clothes and the expectations and just disappear into the dark with her.

A slow, reckless grin spread across his face, cracking through the exhaustion.

"You represent a significant security risk," he murmured, his hands sliding up her thighs to rest on her hips, thumbs digging in playfully. "You know that, right? My tour manager is going to have an aneurysm. He thinks I'm icing my knees."

He laughed, a rough, dry sound, and shook his head against the pillow.

"Churros," he repeated, weighing the word like it was a sacred text. "You had me at churros. That is dirty pool, Cleo. You know I have no defense against cinnamon sugar."

He groaned, engaging his core—which protested loudly—and sat up, bringing her with him until they were face-to-face on the edge of the mattress. The proximity was dizzying, but the adrenaline spike from her idea was already overriding the fatigue.

"Okay," he said, the decision made. "Operation: Incognito is a go. But if I get recognized, I’m throwing you under the bus. I’m going to point at you and yell, 'She made me do it!' while I flee into the night."

He leaned in, kissing her quickly—a seal on the deal, tasting of promise and trouble.

"Give me two minutes to shower off the rock star," he said, standing up and pulling her with him, his energy suddenly shifting from crash to heist. "Find me the ugliest hat you can find. I want to look like a tourist who got lost on the way to the merch tent."

He started pulling his shirt over his head, wincing slightly as the fabric peeled off his sweaty back, but his eyes were locked on her, bright and eager.

"And Cleo?" he added, pausing with the shirt halfway off. "If we don't find a corn dog within twenty minutes, I’m filing a complaint with management."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed the second he called her a “security risk,” the sound warm and unbothered as she leaned closer, bracing her hands on either side of his shoulders.

“Oh, I know,” she said easily. “I live for the thrill. One day I’m gonna be your downfall and it’ll be because I suggested churros after a set.”

When he mentioned cinnamon sugar, her eyes lit up like he’d just recited sacred scripture. She pressed her forehead to his for a beat, grinning.

“That’s your weakness and you know it. I saw the way you looked at that stand earlier like it was your soulmate.”

As he sat up and pulled her with him, she let herself tumble forward dramatically, laughing as she caught herself on his chest.

“Operation: Incognito,” she repeated solemnly. “Copy that. I accept full responsibility for any crimes committed tonight. Including funnel cake theft.”

When he kissed her, she smiled into it, quick and playful, then immediately pulled back when he started tugging his shirt over his head.

“Whoa, whoa,” she teased, eyes flicking over him. “Easy, Rockstar. Save the dramatic costume change for after the shower. You’re still… glistening.”

She wrinkled her nose playfully and gave him a gentle shove toward the tiny bathroom.

“Go. Scrub the stage off. I’ll handle your undercover wardrobe.”

The second he disappeared, Cleo turned to his duffel like it had personally offended her. She unzipped it with flair, kneeling beside it and immediately drowning in the chaos inside.

“Why do you pack like a raccoon,” she muttered fondly, pulling out a tangled mess of shirts. “Is this… three black tees? Are these the same shirt? I think these are the same shirt.”

She tossed them aside, laughing to herself as she dug deeper.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, holding up a floppy beanie. “This one makes you look like you write poetry about pigeons. Hard pass.”

Next came a corduroy cap.

“Nope. This is ‘I drink oat milk unironically.’”

She flung it onto the bed and kept digging, fully committed now.

“You have a hat problem,” she called out toward the bathroom. “This is worse than my Vans collection and that’s saying something.”

Her hand finally closed around the tragic tourist hat again and she froze.

“…I found it.”

She stood slowly, grinning like she’d just uncovered buried treasure.

“This,” she announced to the empty trailer, “is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen and I love it.”

She put it on herself first, turning sideways in the mirror.

“Hi, I’m on vacation and I complain about the heat,” she said in a fake accent, then laughed and yanked it off.

When he reappeared, she plopped it straight onto his damp hair and adjusted the brim crooked.

“Perfect. You look like you got lost on your way to the beer garden.”

She stepped back to admire him, hands on her hips, eyes bright with affection.

“And if we don’t find a corn dog in twenty minutes,” she added sweetly, “I will personally march you to management myself.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, soft and quick.

“Now hurry up, Rockstar. Your secret life as a regular guy awaits.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips and another rubbing vigorously at his damp hair. He felt approximately eighty percent more human than he had ten minutes ago. The layer of stage grime was gone, replaced by the smell of hotel soap and the lingering humidity of the shower.

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he watched her roast his entire wardrobe.

"First of all," he called out, his voice muffled slightly by the towel as he scrubbed his head, "raccoons are resourceful creatures. They are survivors. I take that as a compliment."

He lowered the towel, draping it around his neck, and grinned at her back as she tossed the beanie aside.

"And secondly, that beanie has sentimental value. I wrote three songs in that beanie. It’s full of angst and creative genius. Pigeons need poetry too, Cleo."

He walked over to the bed, reaching for a clean—yes, another black—t-shirt and pulling it on. It stuck slightly to his damp skin, but it felt good. Normal.

Then came the hat.

He watched her hold it up like it was the Holy Grail of bad fashion. He honestly had no idea where that thing had come from. It might have been a gift. It might have been something he bought at a gas station at 3 a.m. in a fugue state.

When she plopped it onto his head, adjusting the brim to a jaunty, catastrophic angle, he turned to look in the mirror.

He blinked.

It was a faded, shapeless bucket hat in a color that could only be described as "beige despair." It looked like something a fisherman would wear if he had given up on ever catching a fish again.

"Wow," he said, staring at his reflection. "You weren't kidding. I look like I’m about to ask someone for directions to the nearest shuffleboard court."

He adjusted it slightly, pulling it lower. It was perfect. No one would look at this hat and think rock star. They would look at this hat and think that man needs assistance.

"I love it," he decided, turning back to her with a wide, boyish grin. "It’s a masterpiece of anti-fashion. If the paparazzi snap a pic of this, my career is over. It’s exactly what we need."

He grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the counter—cheap plastic aviators, not his stage ones—and slid them on.

"Okay," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Agent Wilder is ready for deployment. The objective is fried dough. The stakes are high."

He pulled her in for a quick, energized kiss, tasting her laughter.

"Lead the way, gravity girl. But if anyone asks, my name is Greg, and I'm really looking forward to the retirement seminar tomorrow."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Benjamin.

The name hit him harder than the bass drop at the main stage.

She rarely used it. Usually, he was Ben, or Babe, or—tonight—Greg. "Benjamin" was reserved for moments that had weight. It was the name on his birth certificate, the name his mother used when she was worried, and the name Cleo used when she was stripping away every last layer of bullshit he had left.

And then there were her hands.

Cool, paint-stained fingers sliding up the bare skin of his back, slipping beneath the cotton of his shirt to press against his spine. It sent a jolt through him that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold night air and everything to do with the sudden, desperate need to be nowhere but with her.

He let out a ragged exhale, his hands tightening on her waist, pulling her flush against him for one long, heavy second. He needed to imprint this feeling—her warmth, her bravery, the way she looked at him under the violet light—into his brain forever.

"Okay," he breathed, his voice rough. "Yeah. Trailer. Now."

He didn't make a joke. He didn't ask if she wanted one last look at the lights. He simply accepted the command as the absolute law of the universe.

He took her hand, interlacing their fingers tightly, and turned them away from the glowing orbs.

The walk back was a blur. He moved with purpose now, his "Greg" slouch replaced by a focused, protective stride. He navigated them through the thinning crowd, his body angling instinctively to shield her from a group of stumbling ravers, his eyes scanning the path ahead not for threats, but for the fastest route to the exit.

He felt the shift in the air as they crossed the perimeter back into the Artist Village. The noise dropped. The chaos receded. They were crossing the threshold from the "loud" world she feared back into the quiet one they built together.

When they reached the trailer, he didn't fumble with the key. He unlocked it in one smooth motion, shoved the door open, and practically pulled her inside.

He kicked the door shut behind them, and the silence was instant.

The bass was just a dull thud again. The air conditioner hummed. The smell of dust and citrus soap wrapped around them.

Ben didn't let go of her hand. He reached up with his free hand and snatched the beige bucket hat off his head, tossing it onto the kitchenette counter without looking. It landed with a soft flop next to the half-empty water bottle.

"Greg has left the building," he murmured, the darkness of the trailer feeling less like a cage and more like a cocoon.

He turned to her, backing her gently until her legs hit the edge of the messy bed, his eyes locked on hers—no sunglasses, no hat, no lights.

"You have me," he whispered, stepping into her space, his hands finding her hips. "You have all of me. The loud parts, the quiet parts, the parts that are terrified of losing you. I'm right here."

He leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing still syncing with hers in the quiet dark.

"And for the record," he added, his voice low and thick with emotion, "I like it when you call me Benjamin. It sounds like you're claiming me."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

She didn’t hesitate.

Her hands came up to his face, fingers threading into his hair, thumbs brushing his jaw as she pulled him down into her. The kiss wasn’t careful or reverent this time. It was hungry. Claiming. Months of distance, fear, adrenaline, love—all of it poured straight through her mouth into his.

She kissed him like she was grounding them both.

Her body pressed fully into his, no space left for doubt, for noise, for the world outside the thin aluminum walls. The bed bumped the back of her legs, but she didn’t sit yet—she stayed standing, stayed connected, like she needed to feel him upright and real.

Her breath hitched against his lips, a quiet sound she didn’t bother hiding.

“Benjamin,” she murmured again between kisses, softer this time, like a promise instead of a command. Her forehead rested against his for half a second before she kissed him again, slower now but just as intense, her hands sliding from his hair to his shoulders, gripping him there like he might disappear if she didn’t.

When she finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her eyes were dark, bright with emotion, her chest rising fast.

“I am claiming you,” she said quietly, honestly. “Every version. Every name.”

She leaned in once more, brushing her nose against his, lips hovering.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t give him time to think.

Her hands slid from his shoulders to his wrists, firm and sure, and she guided him backward until the couch hit the backs of his knees. She went with him as he fell, the cushions dipping under their combined weight, the trailer giving a soft, familiar creak as if it already knew how this would go.

He landed on his back, breath knocked loose in a quiet laugh that never quite made it out, and she followed immediately—knees bracketing his hips, hands still holding him there like she’d decided this was where he belonged.

“Stay,” she murmured, not as an order but as an invitation she already knew he’d accept.

She leaned down into him, the kiss meeting him halfway this time—still hungry, still charged, but slower now, deeper. His hands came up to her back instinctively, palms warm through the thin fabric of her top, holding her there as if the couch were suddenly the safest place in the world.

The trailer felt smaller like this. The hum of the AC. The distant bass, dulled and harmless. The beige hat abandoned on the counter like evidence of another life.

She shifted just enough to settle her weight more comfortably, one hand sliding into his hair again, fingers curling at the nape of his neck as she kissed him—unrushed, intentional, full of the kind of want that came from choosing each other over and over again.

When she pulled back, it was only far enough to rest her forehead against his, breath warm against his cheek.

“Right here,” she whispered, lips brushing his again. “Just us. No lights. No noise. No versions.”

She kissed him once more, softer this time, anchoring him to the couch, to the trailer, to her—exactly where she wanted him.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben went down willingly.

He hit the cushions with a heavy thud, the air leaving his lungs in a rush that was half-impact, half-surrender. The couch was narrow and lumpy—standard-issue touring gear—but with her weight settling over his hips, pinning him to the upholstery, it felt like the only place on earth that wasn’t spinning.

"Stay," she murmured.

A rough, breathless laugh tore out of his throat, vibrating against her lips as she kissed him.

"Try and make me leave," he whispered back, his voice raw. "You’d have to call security. You’d have to get a crowbar."

Her mouth was hungry, demanding in a way that scrambled his brain. This wasn't the gentle, grounding Cleo who had shielded him in the crowd. This was Cleo the artist, Cleo the fire, burning through the last of his defenses.

He needed it. God, he needed it. He needed her to erase the thousands of faces he’d seen tonight and replace them with just one.

His hands, which had been gripping her waist, slid upward, impatient and seeking. He pushed under the hem of her crop top, his palms flattening against the warm, smooth skin of her back. The contact sent a jolt straight to his spine. He groaned low in his throat, his fingers splaying out over her ribs, counting them like he was checking that she was real, that she was solid.

"Benjamin," she’d called him.

The name echoed in his head, stripping away the 'Ben Wilder' neon sign, the 'Greg' disguise, the expectations, the noise. It left him feeling exposed and seen in equal measure.

He arched his back off the cushions to meet her, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her—churros and mint and that indescribable taste that was just her. He kissed her like he was trying to breathe for her.

When she pulled back to rest her forehead against his, he kept his eyes closed for a second, fighting to regulate his breathing. His heart was hammering against his ribs, beating a frantic rhythm against her chest.

He opened his eyes. She was right there. Blurred edges, dark eyes, lips swollen from his own.

"You claimed me a long time ago, Cleo," he rasped, his hands sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, holding her face close to his. "I haven't belonged to anyone else since the day we met. You know that."

He searched her gaze, intense and unblinking.

"No versions," he agreed, his thumb brushing hard over her cheekbone. "Just the guy on the couch. Just Benjamin."

He shifted his hips beneath hers, the friction sending a spark of heat through his veins that threatened to override the exhaustion completely.

"But you have to promise," he murmured, pulling her head down so he could speak directly against her mouth again. "If we stay right here... you don't stop looking at me like that. Like I'm the only thing in the room."

He bit her lower lip, gentle but possessive.

"Because when you look at me like that... I forget I ever have to go back out there."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

She smiled against his mouth when he joked about crowbars, her breath shaky but warm. “Good. Because I don’t want to win that fight. I want you right here. With me.”

When he said her name—when he said it meant something—her voice softened, lost its edge. “That’s why I say it,” she admitted. “Because it cuts through everything else. Because it’s you when you’re not performing. Because it reminds you you’re allowed to be held.”

She didn’t pull away from his hands. She leaned into them, honest and open in a way she rarely let herself be. “It’s always been you,” she said simply. “Even when I tried to pretend it wasn’t.”

She let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, the kind that came with confession. “I tried dating in the in-between,” she went on, shrugging slightly even as she stayed over him. “I really did. I wanted it to work. I wanted sparks, or butterflies, or whatever people say is supposed to happen.” She shook her head. “Nothing ever did. It was quiet in the wrong way. Empty.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek, lingering there. “Because I was already in love with you. I just kept carrying it around instead of saying it out loud.”

When he said just Benjamin, her eyes softened completely. “That’s who I want,” she replied. “That’s who I’ve always wanted. Not the noise. Not the crowd. Not the versions.”

She leaned closer, forehead touching his again. “I promise,” she said, steady and sure. “I’m looking at you. I always have. Even when you weren’t in the room.”

Her voice dropped, raw and unguarded. “I love you. I’ve loved you longer than I’ll probably ever admit out loud. And yeah—sometimes it’s scary. Sometimes it hurts. But I’d rather choose you every time than live in a world where I don’t get to.”

She brushed her nose against his, lips hovering close. “You’re not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.”

She leaned in slowly, like she wasn’t sure the moment would hold if she moved too fast. Her forehead brushed his, then her nose, her breath warm and a little unsteady as it mixed with his. One of her hands slid up to his jaw, thumb resting there like she needed the reassurance of bone and warmth and him before she said it.

“One day,” she murmured, soft but certain, “it’s just going to be us.”

She smiled faintly, eyes shining in the low light of the trailer, already somewhere in the future. “Us and our babies. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere normal.” Her voice wavered—not with doubt, but with how much she wanted it. “And all of this—Coachella, the lights, the noise, the beige hat, the chaos—it’s just going to be stories.”

She pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another, lingering. “Stories we tell them when they ask where we met. Or why their dad hates crowds but loves music. Or why their mom still smells like paint half the time.”

Her forehead rested against his again, eyes closing briefly as if she could already see it. “We’ll laugh about how loud everything was. How scary it felt sometimes. How young we were.” A quiet breath escaped her. “And how we still chose each other anyway.”

She opened her eyes, looking at him fully now. “I don’t need it to be perfect,” she whispered. “I just need it to be real. With you.”

Then she kissed him—slow, tender, full of the kind of hope that didn’t ask for guarantees, only time.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The air in the trailer seemed to snap tight, the molecules freezing in place. The cheap AC unit rattled in the corner, and the distant bass from the main stage thumped against the aluminum walls like a heartbeat from a giant he was no longer fighting, but inside Ben’s chest, everything went dead silent.

Us and our babies.

The words hung in the dim light between them, heavier than the humidity, brighter than the strobe lights he’d just spent an hour standing under.

He stared up at her, his hands freezing where they rested on the curve of her waist. He felt his heart skip a beat—a literal, physical stutter, a skipped track—before kicking back in with a heavy, thudding rhythm that echoed in his ears, drowning out the festival.

He had thought about a lot of things with Cleo. He’d thought about next week. He’d thought about how to survive the three months of the European leg without her. He’d even let himself daydream, in his quieter, lonelier moments in sterile hotel rooms, about a house somewhere with a porch that faced a tree line and zero cell reception.

But he had never let himself say the word babies.

It felt too big. Too fragile. Too much like asking the universe for a miracle he didn’t deserve. It was a terrifying, illicit hope—that the guy who lived out of a suitcase and belonged to the public could ever have something that small, that private, that sacred.

Hearing her say it—hearing her paint that picture of the future with the same casual, absolute certainty she used when she mixed colors on a canvas—cracked him wide open. It stripped the last layer of "Ben Wilder" away, leaving only the man beneath.

His throat worked, tight and aching, like he’d swallowed glass. The image of it washed over him: a version of himself who wasn't perpetually exhausted. A version of himself who told stories about the "old days" like they were chapters in a closed book, while holding a kid who had Cleo’s dark eyes and his own stubborn, messy curls.

"You..." His voice cracked, fracturing in the quiet space. He had to stop, swallow hard against the lump in his throat, and try again. "You really see that?"

He slid one hand up her spine, burying it in her hair to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the strands. He needed to feel the reality of her skull, the warmth radiating from her skin, to anchor himself against the vertigo of what she was offering.

"Cleo," he whispered, the name sounding like a prayer in the confessional of the trailer. "That’s not a story. That isn't just some nice idea. That’s... that’s the only thing I want. That’s the finish line."

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, burning intensity. The fatigue that had been dragging at his bones all night was gone, incinerated by a raw, terrifying hope.

"I want the quiet," he rasped, the truth spilling out of him. "I want the stories. I want to be the dad who hates crowds and embarrasses them because he still tries to play acoustic guitar in the living room and gets the lyrics wrong."

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, wiping away a tear she hadn't realized she'd shed—or maybe it was his. The moisture was cool against his thumb, a physical proof of the moment.

"And about the in-between..." He shook his head slightly against the cushion, a shadow passing over his face. "There was no in-between for me. There was just... waiting. It was just noise and gray static until I could get back to where you were."

He pulled her down then, not for a kiss, but to bury his face in the soft, warm crook of her neck. He breathed her in—deep, shuddering inhalations that smelled of vanilla, sweat, and the future she’d just promised him. He held her with a fierce, trembling strength, locking his arms around her like she was the only thing keeping him from floating off the face of the earth and dissolving into the ether.

"Promise me," he mumbled into her skin, the vibration of his voice humming against her collarbone. "Promise me we get there. Even if it takes a while. Even if we have to survive a few more festivals and a few more terrible hats and a thousand miles of highway. Promise me we get to the part where it’s just us."

He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the pulse point of her throat, feeling the steady life beating there.

"Because if I have that..." his voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the trailer, "if I know that's where we're going... I can handle anything. I can walk through fire for that."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t pull away. She stayed right there, forehead pressed to his, hands steady on his face, thumbs brushing the tension at his jaw like she could smooth it out just by touching him.

“Yes,” she said softly, immediately, like the word had been waiting for him. “I really see that.”

Her voice didn’t waver. If anything, it grew calmer, surer, the way it did when she’d already made up her mind.

“I see all of it,” she continued. “The quiet. The house with the porch. The terrible guitar playing and the wrong lyrics and kids who know exactly when to laugh at you and exactly when to climb into your lap anyway. I see you tired in a different way. A good way. I see you whole.”

She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers threading through it, anchoring him just like he needed.

“And you’re right,” she whispered. “It won’t be easy. There will be noise and distance and bad timing and long stretches where we have to choose each other over and over again. I know that. I’m not pretending it’s simple.”

She leaned in, her nose brushing his, her breath warm and certain.

“But it’s you,” she said, quietly fierce. “It’s only ever been you. I don’t want a version of this life without you in it. I don’t want an easier road if it doesn’t have you standing at the end of it.”

Her arms wrapped around him fully now, pulling him close, her heartbeat steady against his chest.

“So yes,” she murmured into his hair. “I promise. We get there. We take the long way if we have to. We survive the festivals and the miles and the terrible hats. We build something small and real and ours.”

She lifted her head just enough to press a slow kiss to his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to walk through fire alone,” she said softly. “I’m already there with you. I always will be.”

Cleo finally shifted, easing out of his hold just enough to sit up. The vinyl cushion creaked beneath her as she dragged a hand down her face, palms pressing briefly over her eyes like she was steadying herself, like she was catching her breath after saying something that had lived inside her for a long time.

She exhaled slowly, then laughed under her breath—soft, disbelieving, a little overwhelmed.

“Wow,” she murmured, brushing her hands back through her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ears. “Okay.”

She glanced down at her hands for a second, flexing her fingers, grounding herself in the reality of the trailer, the noise, the heat. Then she looked over at him.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t guarded. It was warm and open and a little crooked, the kind of smile that reached her eyes and stayed there.

“Hey,” she said gently, like she was checking in, like she was making sure he was still right there with her. Her knee bumped his as she turned toward him, comfortable, familiar. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

She studied his face for a moment, eyes soft, affectionate, full of that quiet certainty.

“You know,” she added, teasing just enough to lighten the air without breaking it, “I can already picture you with a kid on your hip, pretending you’re not totally in love with it.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Her words settled over him like a weighted blanket, pressing the frantic energy of the night down until it was still.

I’m already there with you. I always will be.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the relief wash through him. It was a physical sensation, like a knot in the center of his chest finally coming undone.

Because he knew what the alternative felt like.

He remembered the months after they’d called it off the first time. He remembered walking out onto stages in London and Tokyo and New York, the lights blinding and the crowds screaming his name, and feeling absolutely, hollowly alone. That had been the fire. It hadn’t been hot; it had been freezing. It was a cold burn that stripped the skin off his life and left him raw, going through the motions, playing the songs he wrote about her to rooms full of strangers while the person who mattered wasn't answering his texts.

He had walked through that fire alone. And he had come out the other side singed and terrified that he’d never feel safe again.

"I know," he whispered, opening his eyes to look at her, his voice rough with the memory of that coldness. "I tried doing it alone, Cleo. I tried the walking through fire by myself part."
He reached out, his hand finding hers where it rested on her knee, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

"It sucked," he said, a ghost of a self-deprecating smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "Zero stars. Would not recommend. The catering was bad and the silence was... loud."

He squeezed her hand, anchoring himself in the now.

"So, yeah. I'm holding you to that. No more solo missions. If we're walking through fire, we're holding hands. Deal?"

He watched her sit up, watched her drag her hands down her face and steady herself. He loved that about her—the way she needed a second to recalibrate, to pull herself back from the edge of the big emotions they’d just cracked open.

When she smiled—that crooked, real smile that was just for him—he felt his own mouth curve in response, helpless against the gravity of her.

"We're okay," he echoed, testing the words and finding them solid. "Better than okay."
Then she dropped the comment about the kid, and his smile widened, breaking into a genuine, boyish grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Pretending?" he scoffed, shifting so he was propped up on his elbows, looking up at her with lazy affection. "Babe, please. I have met me. There will be no pretending."
He reached out, tapping the toe of his sneaker against her shin playfully.

"I will be a puddle," he admitted shamelessly. "I will be entirely compromised. That kid is going to look at me once and I’m going to hand over my wallet, my car keys, and the rights to my entire discography. I’ll be wearing one of those baby carriers on stage. It’s going to be humiliating for everyone involved, and I’m going to love every second of it."

He laughed, soft and low, shaking his head.

"You're going to have to be the strict one," he told her, his eyes warm. "Because I'm already a pushover for you. If we make a miniature version? I don't stand a chance."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo listened to him without interrupting, really listened—the way she always did when he stopped joking and let the truth show its teeth. She stayed still, perched there with one knee against the couch cushion, her hands folded loosely in her lap at first, like she was giving his words the space they deserved.

When he talked about the fire, her throat tightened.

She shifted closer without thinking, one hand reaching out to cover his where it rested on her knee, her thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over his knuckles.

“I know,” she said softly. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just honest.
“I felt it too. Even when I was the one who stepped back, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like… standing outside in the cold and telling myself I was fine because at least I wasn’t burning anymore.”

She smiled faintly at his joke, but her eyes stayed serious.
“The silence was loud for me too. I kept thinking if I just dated someone normal, someone safe, it would fix it.” She gave a small shrug. “It never did. The sparks were never there. It was like trying to repaint over something that was already etched into the canvas.”

Her fingers tightened around his hand when he said no more solo missions.

“Deal,” she said immediately, without hesitation. “Always holding hands. Even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.”

She watched his grin grow when he talked about kids, about being a puddle, and that was when her expression finally softened all the way—affection, amusement, and something fiercely tender all tangled together.

“Oh, you’d be the worst,” she teased gently, leaning in just enough to tap her forehead against his. “Absolutely useless. You’d let them stay up past bedtime, give them sugar before dinner, and then look at me like, ‘But they smiled.’”

Her hand slid up to his cheek, cupping it there, grounding him the same way he grounded her.
“And yeah,” she added quietly, “I’ll be the strict one. But not the cold kind. The kind that keeps them safe. The kind that makes sure they know they’re loved even when they’re mad at us.”

She smiled again, smaller this time, but deeper.
“And you?” she murmured. “You’ll be the warm place. The music. The dad who sits on the floor and listens like nothing else matters.”

Her thumb brushed under his eye, slow and reverent.
“I don’t want a life where we’re pretending we’re okay without each other,” she said. “I want the messy one. The real one. The one where we come home tired and still choose each other.”

She leaned down then, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth—no rush, no hunger, just certainty.

“I’m already holding your hand,” she whispered against his lips. “I’m not letting go.”

Cleo let the moment linger for a few quiet seconds longer, her forehead still resting against his, their breathing finally synced instead of frantic. Then she huffed out a soft laugh, the tension easing just enough for her humor to slip back in.

“Okay,” she said, pulling back slightly, one hand still cupping his cheek while the other drifted around to press into the small of her back. She rolled her shoulders, wincing just a little. “Not to ruin the cinematic ending of our love story, but I think my back officially feels like yours now.”

She rubbed at it with her palm, slow and absent, like she’d only just realized how long she’d been standing, shielding, holding herself together.

“Turns out crouching, leaning, emotional breakthroughs, and aggressively protecting a rock star in a bucket hat is not great for posture,” she added, smirking at him. “Who knew.”

Her hand slid back to his shoulder, squeezing once before she nodded toward the narrow hallway.

“We should go lie down,” she said gently. “The bed’s not better. At all. It’s honestly just as tragic.” Her mouth curved into a fond smile. “But at least it’s horizontal, and I feel like that’s the dream right now.”

She shifted closer again, brushing a quick kiss to his jaw, then his mouth—soft, familiar.

“Come on, Benjamin,” she murmured, tugging lightly at his hand. “Let’s go be two exhausted people pretending this mattress is luxury.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a soft exhale of a laugh when she described his future parenting style—giving them sugar, letting them stay up late. She wasn’t wrong. He was absolutely going to be the weak link in the discipline chain. But hearing her say she’d be the one to keep them safe, the one to make sure they knew they were loved even when they were mad… that hit him right in the center of his chest.

It was the missing piece. He could provide the music and the warmth, but she would provide the gravity. She always did.

"The warm place," he repeated quietly, savoring the title. "I can do that. I can be the warm place."

He leaned into her touch as she cupped his cheek, his eyes closing for a brief second. Her admission about the time apart—that it felt like repainting a canvas that was already etched, that the "normal" guys felt empty—settled the last of the old ghosts in his head. He hadn't been the only one suffering in the silence. She’d been right there in the cold with him, just on the other side of the wall.

"I'm not letting go either," he promised, turning his face to kiss her palm. "You're stuck with me. Sorry about your luck."

Then she broke the spell with the back complaint, and he snorted, the sound ungraceful and entirely real. He shifted his hips, wincing as his own lower back gave a sympathetic twinge.

"Hey," he said, grabbing her hand and using it as leverage to help himself sit up, groaning theatrically as his spine realigned. "You can't blame the bucket hat. The bucket hat is innocent. It is a symbol of peace and anonymity."

He stood up, his knees cracking—a sound that seemed way too loud in the sudden quiet of the room. He kept hold of her hand, pulling her gently up from where she’d been crouching over him.

"But you are right," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "My posture is currently shaped like a shrimp. We are aging rapidly, Cleo. If we don't get horizontal soon, we're going to calcify in this position."

He followed her toward the hallway, the space so narrow he had to turn sideways to let her lead. It felt domestic in the weirdest, most specific way—shuffling down a tiny corridor in a metal box, exhausted, aching, and happier than he had been in months.

The bedroom was exactly as promised: tragic. The mattress was thin, the sheets were a polyester blend that probably sparked in the dark, and his hoodie was still thrown over the only chair.

"Luxury," he deadpanned, eyeing the bed. "I believe this mattress is actually just a large yoga mat pretending to be furniture."

But he didn't hesitate. He kicked off his sneakers, leaving them in a pile by the door, and climbed in. He pulled her down with him, not waiting for her to ask, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her back until she was spooned perfectly against his chest.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the faint, lingering smoke of the festival. Her back pressed against his front, fitting together like two puzzle pieces that had been separated for too long.

"Better," he murmured into her neck, his legs tangling with hers. "Much better."

He tightened his arm around her, his hand finding hers and interlacing their fingers over her stomach. He could feel the tension still humming in her shoulders, the stiffness she’d complained about earlier.

"Hey," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the vertebrae at the base of her neck. "Your back. Do you want me to work on it? I think I have just enough energy left in my hands to fix whatever damage my tour lifestyle inflicted on you."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, waiting for her answer, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her hip.

"Just say the word," he added softly. "I owe you. For the bodyguarding. And the emotional support."

He let the quiet settle for a second before speaking again, his voice dropping lower, thick with sleep.

"Because you were right. About the fire. Walking through it alone... it sucked. It was cold."
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, settling into the warmth of her.

"But this?" he breathed. "This is good. This is... quiet."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled softly when he repeated it—the warm place—like he was trying it on to see if it fit.

“You already do,” she said quietly. “You always have. You just hand it out without realizing it.”

When he kissed her palm and promised not to let go, her fingers curled gently around his wrist, grounding herself in the weight of him.
“Good,” she murmured. “Because I don’t want an exit plan anymore. I want a with-you plan.”

His dramatic groan and defense of the bucket hat earned a low laugh from her.
“I’m not blaming the hat,” she said, amused. “I’m blaming the fact that you’ve been living out of buses and stages since your spine was twenty-five.”

When he talked about calcifying, she shook her head fondly as she led him down the narrow hallway.
“We’re already halfway there,” she said. “If we stay vertical any longer, we’re going to need assistance.”

At the sight of the bed, she huffed a quiet laugh.
“This mattress has dreams of being a mattress,” she said. “Ambitions it never achieved.”

When he pulled her down with him and wrapped around her, her body immediately softened, every muscle giving in at once. She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Yeah,” she whispered when he said better. “That’s it. That’s the spot.”

At his question about her back, she nodded slightly, then shifted—careful, deliberate—rolling onto her stomach. She tugged his hoodie out from under her chest so she could settle more comfortably, one arm tucked under the pillow, her head turned just enough that she could still see him.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Yes. Back rub sounds… really good, actually.”

She reached back blindly and caught his wrist before he could start, her fingers curling around him with a gentle but very intentional squeeze. She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes warm but very clear.

“Rules,” she added, calm but fond. “This is not a slippery slope situation. You do not go below the butt. This is maintenance. Structural integrity. Purely therapeutic.”

A corner of her mouth tipped up, teasing but tired.
“I trust you,” she said, pointedly. “But I’m also preemptively setting boundaries because I know you.”

She released his wrist and relaxed again, her shoulders dropping as she exhaled.
“And just so we’re clear,” she murmured, voice quieter now, “this isn’t about turning anything into something else. I just want to feel… taken care of for a minute.”

She shifted a little closer without asking, an invitation wrapped in trust.
“Use those musician hands for good,” she added lightly. “And if you crack my spine on accident, I’m haunting you.”

When he said he owed her, she squeezed his hand gently.
“You don’t,” she said softly. “I wasn’t protecting you. I was just… staying with you. That’s different.”

When his voice dropped—when he talked about the fire and the cold—her eyes closed. She reached back, lacing her fingers through his for a beat before resting her hand again.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I felt it too. The cold part. The alone part.”

She pressed back into his chest until there was nowhere left for the night to echo.
“But this,” she whispered, echoing him, steady now. “This is why I stayed. This is why I came back.”

She turned her head just enough to brush a small, grounding kiss against his arm.
“Let it be quiet. We can face the rest tomorrow.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben listened to the rules with the gravity of a surgeon receiving pre-op instructions. He sat back on his heels, watching her settle into the pillow, the line of her spine visible through the thin fabric of her shirt.

"Structural integrity," he repeated, his voice low and serious. "Understood. I am a professional. I have a permit for this. No slippery slopes. Just maintenance."

He moved carefully, straddling her hips—keeping his weight on his knees so he wasn't crushing her—and rested his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the tension radiating off her even through the cotton. She was tight, wound up like a guitar string tuned three steps too high. It was the physical manifestation of the last two hours: the crowd, the noise, the "bodyguarding," the emotional freefall.

He leaned down, brushing her hair aside to expose the back of her neck.

"And for the record," he murmured near her ear, "I have no intention of cracking your spine. I’m too young to be haunted. I’ve seen those movies; the ghosts always mess with the electronics, and I need my amps to work."

He started at her shoulders, his thumbs digging in slow and deep. His hands were strong—years of fretting chords and hauling gear had given him a grip that could crush a soda can—but he used it gently now. He sought out the knots under her shoulder blades, working them with a rhythmic, patient pressure.

"God, Cleo," he whispered, feeling a particularly stubborn knot at the base of her neck. "You're carrying the whole main stage in your traps. Breathe."

He worked in silence for a minute, the only sound the hum of the AC and her slow exhales. It felt different than the other times he’d touched her. It wasn't about desire—though that was always there, a background hum—it was about service. It was about paying back the debt of her standing between him and the world.

"You said you weren't protecting me," he said quietly, his thumbs moving down her spine, strictly adhering to the boundaries she set. "That you were just staying with me. But Cleo..."
He leaned forward, his weight pressing down through his hands, grounding her into the mattress.

"...staying is protection. When you stay, you make the rest of it irrelevant."

He worked his way back up to her shoulders, kneading the muscles until he felt her truly melt under his touch, her resistance finally bleeding out into the sheets.

"I want to take care of you," he admitted, his voice rough with honesty. "I want to be the one who does this. I don't want you to have to ask. I want to know where it hurts before you even say anything."

He slowed his movements, the massage transitioning from therapeutic work to a long, soothing caress down the length of her back—stopping firmly at the waistband of her jeans, respecting the line.

"Is that okay?" he asked softly, pausing with his hands resting warm and heavy on her lower back. "Pressure okay? Or do I need to call in a specialist?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a slow, unguarded breath as his hands settled, the sound soft and loose like something finally unclenching.

“Mmh,” she murmured when he repeated structural integrity, the seriousness of it making her smile into the pillow. “I appreciate the professionalism. Very reassuring bedside manner.”

When his thumbs found her shoulders, she melted almost immediately. The tension she’d been holding like armor started to give way in layers—her shoulders dropping, her jaw unclenching, her fingers loosening their grip on the sheet.

“That’s… yeah,” she breathed when he brushed her hair aside, her voice already quieter. “That’s really good.”

His joke about ghosts and amps earned a faint, sleepy huff of a laugh.
“I promise I’d be a very considerate ghost,” she murmured. “Just minor hauntings. Flickering lights. Maybe hiding one shoe.”

When he worked into the knot at her neck, she inhaled sharply, then exhaled long and slow as he coaxed it loose.
“Okay—okay,” she said softly. “Found it. That one’s been yelling at me all night.”

At his reminder to breathe, she did—deep, intentional—letting her ribs expand against the mattress. Her body followed his lead without argument now.

When he talked about staying, about how staying was protection, something warm spread through her chest. She didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, just let the words sink in while his hands grounded her.

“You’re not wrong,” she said quietly, voice muffled by the pillow. “It feels different when someone stays. Like the noise doesn’t get a vote.”

As his hands moved lower—careful, respectful—she relaxed even more, the muscles in her back softening under his palms. When he stopped and asked, really asked, she nodded immediately, the motion small but sure.

“Yes,” she said, turning her head just enough that her cheek rested more comfortably. “Benjamin… it’s perfect.”

She shifted her hips with a tiny, instinctive wiggle, not playful—just honest.
“My lower back’s what hurts the most,” she admitted softly. “Feels like I’ve been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day.”

She sighed again, deeper this time, her body fully giving in to the mattress beneath her and the hands taking care of her.

“You’re doing exactly what I need,” she added, voice warm and steady. “Don’t change a thing.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

"Backpack of bricks," Ben repeated, shaking his head with the solemnity of a chiropractor reviewing a troubling X-ray. "I didn't realize you were moonlighting as a construction worker, Cleo. We really need to talk about your work-life balance. Carrying masonry around a music festival is bad for the lumbar."

He paused at her waist, his hands resting on the denim. The fabric of her shirt was bunched up, getting in the way, slipping against her skin every time he tried to apply real pressure to the spot she mentioned.

"Okay," he said, shifting his weight slightly back on his heels. "I’m going to have to call an audible here. To properly address the brick situation, I need skin contact. The cotton is compromising my grip. It’s a friction issue. Pure physics."

He waited a beat—just a split second—to let her object if she wanted to. When she didn't, he moved.

"Breaching the perimeter," he announced softly, sliding his hands underneath the hem of her crop top.

The sensation of his palms hitting her bare skin sent a jolt through him that he had to actively ignore. She was warm, soft, and terrifyingly real. He pushed the fabric up with his wrists, settling his hands directly onto the muscles of her lower back, right above the waistband of her jeans.

He didn't let his fingers wander. He didn't let his thumbs drift south. He locked in on the tension with laser focus.

"Jesus, Cleo," he murmured, his voice dropping the humor for a second as he felt the tightness there. "You weren't kidding. It feels like you have a sack of marbles under your skin."

He dug his thumbs in, slow and deep, working the muscles that ran along her spine. He used the heels of his hands to iron out the stress, moving in deliberate, rhythmic circles. It was intimate, yeah, but in a way that felt more like caretaking than seduction. It was the intimacy of knowing exactly where she hurt and having the power to fix it.

"Is that too much?" he asked, checking in as he applied more pressure to a particularly stubborn knot on the left side. "I’m going heavy on the torque. If you need a safe word, now is the time. Mine is 'banjo'."

He kept working, watching her face turned sideways on the pillow, watching her eyes flutter shut as he eased the pain out of her.

"You know," he said conversationally, keeping the rhythm steady, "I usually charge extra for the under-the-shirt package. It’s a VIP service. But since you kept me from getting mugged by teenage fans earlier, I’ll waive the fee. I’m a benevolent healer."

He leaned forward, pressing his weight down through his arms, feeling her muscles finally start to surrender under his palms.

"Just breathe into it," he whispered, his face hovering just above her shoulder blade. "Let it go. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna break you."

He smiled to himself, a small, lopsided thing in the dark.

"Although, if I fix your back and you immediately go pick up another backpack of bricks, I’m voiding the warranty. Just so we’re clear."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a slow, breathy laugh, her cheek pressed into the pillow as the mattress dipped beneath his weight.

“Wow,” she murmured, voice warm and a little tired. “I knew I should’ve put lumbar negligence on my résumé.”

She felt his hands pause at her waist, felt the fabric of her shirt bunch and slide as he tried to work around it. Even before he said anything, she knew what was coming — the careful way he shifted, the way his focus sharpened.

When he explained it like a physics problem, she hummed softly, already relaxing.

“Mm. Yes,” she said quietly, a smile in her voice. “Science. Proceed. Carefully. The bricks are fragile.”

At breaching the perimeter, her shoulders loosened almost immediately as his palms met her skin. The warmth of his hands grounded her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

“Permission granted,” she murmured. “Perimeter remains calm.”

When his thumbs hit the knot and his humor dropped out of his voice, her breath caught for just a second before she let it go in a long, slow exhale.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “That spot. That’s the one that’s been yelling at me all night.”

She smiled when he asked if it was too much, the sound of it soft and unguarded.

“Not too much,” she reassured him. “And if I say ‘banjo,’ it’s probably because I’m delirious, not because you hurt me.”

At the joke about charging extra, she shook her head lightly against the pillow.

“You’d be terrible at that,” she said. “You’d apologize halfway through and give out coupons.”

His voice softened then — I’ve got you — and something in her chest eased in response.

“I know,” she said simply. “I can feel it.”

After another slow breath, she shifted beneath him, careful, deliberate. One hand slid to his forearm, grounding, guiding.

“Hold on,” she murmured gently. “I need to flip.”

She rolled onto her back at an easy pace, knees bending so he remained straddling her thighs, the movement unhurried and comfortable, not charged — just right. She settled into the pillow, blinking up at him as faint festival light flickered across the ceiling from the window above the bed.

“There,” she said quietly, adjusting just enough to ease the pressure in her spine. “I think my back needed to renegotiate its relationship with gravity.”

Her hands came to rest lightly against his arms, thumbs brushing without thinking, anchoring herself to the fact that he was here.

“You’re very serious about this,” she added, a fond curve to her mouth. “Like if someone walked in right now, you’d tell them to come back later because you’re in the middle of very important lumbar diplomacy.”

She looked at him properly then — really looked at him — the tired softness in his face, the focus that never wavered.

“And for the record,” she said more quietly, “I don’t feel fragile. I feel… held. There’s a difference.”

Her fingers slid briefly to his wrist before settling again.

“And before you ask,” she added, a small smile in her voice, “this is still therapeutic. I just… want to see your face for a minute.”

Cleo lifted her hand slowly, like she was afraid the moment might shatter if she moved too fast. Her fingertips brushed his jaw first, testing, then settled there with quiet certainty. His skin was warm beneath her touch, familiar in a way that felt deeper than memory.

Outside the long window above the bed, the fairgrounds pulsed softly—muted bursts of color bleeding through the glass. Faint purples, golds, and blues slid across his face in slow waves, like the world exhaling instead of shouting. It felt distant now. Contained. Manageable.

Her eyes moved over his face with the kind of attention that wasn’t about desire, but recognition—the slight crease between his brows, the softness that only showed up when the noise finally died down.

“I forget sometimes how much I miss this part,” she admitted quietly. “Not you onstage. Not you in motion. Just… you when everything slows down.”

Her fingers slid up into his hair, barely combing through it, grounding herself in the simple fact of him.

[Benjamin Wilder]

When she flipped over, Ben adjusted instinctively, shifting his weight back so he was hovering over her rather than pinning her down, his knees framing her hips. The shift in gravity changed everything. A minute ago, he was a mechanic working on a problem; now, he was just a guy staring at the only thing in the world he actually wanted to look at.

He watched her settle, the pillow fluffing around her hair like a halo made of cheap polyester. The faint light from the window—purple, then gold, then a soft, aquatic blue—washed over her face, turning the moment into something that felt like a dream sequence in an indie movie he’d definitely watch three times.

"Lumbar Diplomacy," he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady despite the sudden, overwhelming proximity. "That sounds official. I should get business cards. 'Ben Wilder: Musician, Songwriter, Ambassador to the Vertebrae.'"

He let out a soft huff of a laugh, but it faded quickly when she looked up at him with that clear, focused gaze.

I feel held.

The words landed in the center of his chest, right next to us and our babies.

He didn't make a joke about that. He couldn't.

When she reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, he leaned into the touch without hesitation. His eyes slipped shut for a second, his head tilting just enough to press his cheek into her palm. It was an automatic response, a biological imperative: seek the warmth.

"You know," he murmured, his eyes opening to find hers again in the shifting light. "I would absolutely tell them to come back later. I'd put a sign on the door. 'Critical Infrastructure Repair in Progress. Come back when you have a warrant or a pizza.'"

He smiled, but it was soft, stripped of the usual performance. He looked down at her—at the way her hair fanned out, at the way her hand was now sliding into his hair, grounding him just as much as he was grounding her.

"You miss the boring part?" he asked quietly, a genuine, self-deprecating wonder in his voice. "The part where I'm just breathing and staring at the ceiling and not doing anything cool? Because that’s... that’s a very low-value asset, Cleo."

He shifted his weight, lowering himself slowly until he was resting on his forearms on either side of her head, creating a little canopy of privacy.

"But it's yours," he whispered, his face inches from hers now. "This part? The quiet part? It doesn't exist out there. It dissolves the second I walk out the door. It only shows up when I'm with you."

He turned his head slightly, kissing the inside of her wrist where her pulse was beating a steady, calm rhythm against his skin.

"So if you miss it... just remind me to stop running. Drag me back to a trailer. Throw a beige hat at me. Remind me that I don't have to be 'on' to be worth keeping around."

He looked at her then, searching her face in the blue light.

"Because honestly? I prefer this version too. The other guy is exhausting. This guy just wants to lie on a questionable mattress and look at you."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo’s breath softened the moment he lowered himself closer, like the air itself knew to quiet down. She kept her voice low, barely above a whisper, the kind you used when walls felt thin and the world outside still had ears.

“Yeah,” she said gently. “This is the part I miss.”

Her hand slid up the side of his neck, fingers resting just below his ear, thumb pressing into that familiar hollow there. It wasn’t a grip. It was a hold. Steady. Affectionate. Like she was anchoring him in place without asking him to stay.

“The boring part,” she murmured, eyes never leaving his. “The breathing. The staring. The not-performing. That’s not low value to me. That’s the whole point.”

The lights from the fairgrounds shifted again, soft blue bleeding into gold, tracing his cheekbones, catching in his lashes. She watched it happen like it was something sacred, like she didn’t want to miss a second of him being still.

She squeezed his neck lightly, a reassuring pulse of pressure, then let her fingers drift into his hair at the nape, slow and absent-minded.

“I don’t need the guy everyone else gets,” she whispered. “They can have the noise. The shine. The version that runs.”

Her thumb brushed gently along his jaw, her touch careful, reverent.

“This one?” she said, so softly it almost disappeared between them. “This one is mine.”

She leaned her forehead just barely into his, noses almost touching, her words warm against his skin.

“And don’t worry,” she added, a faint smile in her voice. “If anyone tries to barge in, I’ll tell them you’re unavailable. Medically. Spiritually. Vertebrae-related.”

Cleo stayed there, forehead nearly touching his, breathing him in like she was memorizing the moment. Her thumb kept that slow, grounding pressure at his neck, not moving much now, just reminding him she was real and right here.

“I mean it,” she whispered. “The quiet doesn’t scare me anymore. Not when it’s you on the other side of it.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the window as another wash of light passed over the wall, then back to him, as if checking that he hadn’t gone anywhere in the half-second she looked away.

“I don’t need you to fill the space,” she said softly. “I like the space. I like knowing we can sit inside it together and it doesn’t ask anything of us.”

Her fingers slid a little farther into his hair, gentle, familiar, the kind of touch that didn’t rush or expect a response.

[Benjamin Wilder]

This one is mine.

The words didn't just land; they took root.

Ben felt a physical release in his shoulders, a tension leaving him that he hadn’t even realized was there—the constant, low-level hum of needing to be enough. To be interesting. To be the guy on the poster.

Hearing her claim the "boring" version—the guy who stared at ceilings and had back pain and occasionally forgot how to speak in complete sentences—felt like someone cutting the strings that had been holding him up all day.

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, the sound vibrating in the small space between their mouths.

"Medically, spiritually, vertebrae-related," he murmured, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "I like it. It covers all the bases. It’s legally binding."

He shifted his weight slightly, his forearms digging into the mattress as he leaned in closer, until the tip of his nose brushed hers.

"You know," he whispered, his voice dropping to that rough, honest register that only she ever heard. "Usually, the silence freaks me out. When the noise stops, my brain starts thinking I'm failing. That I dropped the beat. That the room is bored."

He closed his eyes for a second, soaking in the feeling of her hand on his neck, the thumb pressing into his pulse.

"But with you?" He opened his eyes, searching hers in the shifting blue light. "It doesn't feel empty. It just feels... full. Like I can actually hear myself think again."

He tilted his head, catching her lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like relief. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't a performance. It was just an acknowledgment of the fact that he was finally, finally home.

When he pulled back, he didn't go far—just an inch, enough to see the way her pupils were blown wide in the dim light.

"So, okay," he breathed against her mouth. "You can have the boring version. He’s all yours. No returns. No exchanges. You break him, you buy him."

He moved one hand from the mattress to cup the side of her face, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.

"But just so we're clear," he added, a flicker of that playful spark returning to his eyes, "this version is also extremely clingy. He's going to want to stay right here, hovering over you like a very affectionate, very heavy blanket, for the foreseeable future. I hope you factored that into your business plan."

He leaned down again, pressing a kiss to her jaw, then her neck, lingering there where her pulse jumped under his lips.

"Because I'm not moving, Cleo. I am structurally integrated into this mattress now. You're trapped."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo lifted her head when he leaned in, meeting him halfway, her nose brushing his as she breathed him in. She didn’t rush the kiss—just stayed there, close enough that their foreheads touched, close enough that his words could settle without echo.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost shy with the honesty of it. “That’s the scary part sometimes.”

Her arms slid tighter around him, one hand settling back at the base of his neck, fingers curling there instinctively.

“You say things out loud that I’m still figuring out how to name,” she murmured. “Like you’ve already walked through the thought before I even realize I’m standing in it.”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh, nudging her forehead against his.

“It’s unfair, actually. You understand me better than anyone.” A beat. Then, teasing warmth crept into her voice. “Well—almost anyone. Phoebe might still have you beat, but she’s had a head start and a lot more wine.”

Her grip tightened again, grounding, affectionate. As she shifted beneath him, her legs relaxed and opened just enough for him to settle more comfortably between them, her body adjusting without ceremony, without tension—just making space for him.

“See?” she murmured, tilting her head back slightly, giving him easier access to her neck without even thinking about it. “Business plan fully accounts for the clingy model.”

Her fingers traced slow, reassuring lines along his neck and into his hair.

“You don’t freak me out when you go quiet,” she said softly. “You make it feel safe. Like we’re not missing anything—like this is the thing.”

She pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw, then rested her forehead against his again, breathing steady now.

“So yeah,” she whispered. “Hover. Stay. Integrate into the mattress. I’m not returning you.”

A faint smile curved her lips.

“And if you ever forget that you’re enough,” she added quietly, “I’ll remind you. Even when you’re not saying a word.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a low, appreciative groan as she shifted beneath him, his hips settling into the space she made like he was docking a ship. The mattress groaned in protest—a sharp, metallic squeak from a spring near his left knee—but he ignored it. He was too busy focusing on the way her legs felt bracketing his, the way the heat of her soaked through his jeans, the way she made room for him without even pausing her sentence.

"I concede to Phoebe," he murmured into the curve of her neck, his voice vibrating against her skin. "I’m not fighting her for the title. I have a healthy, trembling respect for Phoebe. She has that sister-telepathy thing. I’m just happy to be on the podium."

He pressed a kiss to the soft spot just below her ear, lingering there, breathing in the scent of her skin. It was grounding in a way the green room never was.

"But second best at understanding you?" He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression hovering somewhere between playful and intensely serious. "I’ll take it. I’ll put that on my tombstone. 'Here lies Ben. He got it. Mostly.'"

When she said this is the thing—that the quiet wasn't a lack of something, but the point of it all—he felt his chest tighten.

In his world, everyone was always chasing "The Thing." The next hit. The next tour. The next viral moment. It was a constant, exhausting sprint toward a finish line that kept moving. Hearing her say that this—a lumpy mattress, a narrow trailer, two exhausted people in the dark—was the destination? It silenced the noise in his head completely.

"You know," he whispered, lifting a hand to cup her face, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. "I spend my whole life trying to make things that sound good. Trying to fill the silence so people don't get bored."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, closing his eyes.

"But you're the only one who makes the silence sound better than the music."

He opened his eyes, staring into hers, letting the weight of that admission sit between them.

"So, okay. Clingy model activated. System override." He let his full weight sink onto her—carefully, but deliberately—wrapping his arms under her shoulders to hug her tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"I’m going to need you to remind me," he mumbled into her skin, his voice thick with emotion. "Because sometimes I forget. Sometimes I feel like I'm just a collection of loud noises and bad hair decisions. So... yeah. Remind me."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled when he said her name like that—soft, unguarded—and she lifted her head just enough to look at him properly, really look at him, like she was memorizing the version of him that only showed up here.

“I know,” she whispered back, her voice steady, certain. “I remind you every day. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes just by staying.”

Her hand slid up to the back of his neck again, thumb resting at his pulse, feeling it slow under her touch. She leaned into his weight when he let himself sink closer, welcoming it, her arms tightening around him in response.

“You’re not just noise,” she said quietly. “You’re not the mess or the mistakes or the bad hair eras.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “You’re the part that stays when everything else turns off.”

She shifted slightly, comfortable, familiar, and then one of her hands slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, warm fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along his lower back. Nothing rushed. Nothing demanding. Just there.

“I’ll remind you,” she murmured. “As many times as it takes.”

She lifted her face and kissed him—slow, grounding, full—before pulling back just enough to speak against his mouth, her words soft and teasing, wrapped in affection.

“And for the record,” she added gently, almost amused, “you’ve been a very good boy.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her hand still moving in lazy lines along his back.

“Now hush,” she whispered. “You’re home.”

Then she kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t hungry. It was slow and soft and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to settle something rather than start it. Her lips brushed his once, twice, a quiet punctuation mark, before she let herself relax fully beneath him.

“Come here,” she murmured, barely audible.

She shifted just enough to tuck herself closer, one arm snug around his back, the other still warm beneath his shirt. Her fingers stilled, resting flat against him now, no patterns—just contact.

Her voice dropped even lower, thick with sleep already creeping in.

“You don’t have to hold the world tonight,” she whispered. “I’ve got it.”

She pressed one last gentle kiss to his mouth, then another to his cheek, and finally settled her face against his shoulder, breath evening out.

[Benjamin Wilder]

You’ve been a very good boy.

The words hit him low in his chest, bypassing his brain entirely and landing somewhere primal. It wasn't just praise; it was permission. Permission to stop trying so hard. Permission to stop performing. Permission to just be.

He felt his breath hitch, a jagged little intake of air that he buried against her neck. It unspooled the last of the tension in his spine, the final knot he hadn't even realized he was still guarding. He went heavy against her, his weight sinking fully into the mattress, his body finally accepting that he didn't have to hold himself up anymore.

She had him.

"Home," he breathed, the word vibrating against her skin, more a sensation than a sound.
He kept his eyes closed, listening to the shift in her breathing as she settled. I've got it. It was the most ridiculous, impossible thing for her to say—she was one person, small enough that he could wrap his entire body around her, lying in a tin can of a trailer in the middle of a desert. She couldn't possibly hold the world.

But as he lay there, feeling the steady rise and fall of her ribs against his, he realized she was right.

She did have it. Because his world had shrunk down to exactly this size. The radius of her arms. The smell of her shampoo. The warmth of her hand resting flat against his lower back.

He didn't sleep. Not yet. He fought the pull of it for just a minute longer, because he wanted to be conscious for this part. He wanted to feel the exact moment the silence stopped being lonely and started being peaceful.

He moved his hand—slowly, heavy with exhaustion—from her waist to slide up her spine, his palm flat and protective, mirroring her hold on him.

"Okay," he whispered into the dark, his voice rough and barely audible, meant only for the inch of space between them. "You've got it."

He pressed a kiss to the soft skin behind her ear, lingering there, breathing her in.
"But I'm not letting go," he mumbled, his speech slurring slightly as the adrenaline finally, truly crashed. "Just for the record. I'm still holding on. I'm just... resting my eyes."

He tightened his grip on her just a fraction—a reflex, a reminder—and let his head drop heavy onto the pillow next to hers, his nose brushing her cheek.

"Wake me up if you need help holding it," he whispered. "Or if you want another churro. Those are the only two valid reasons."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo shifted slowly, carefully, like she didn’t want to disturb the fragile quiet he’d finally let himself sink into.

She slid just enough out from under him to change the balance, her body still angled toward his, still close, still holding. She tucked herself higher against the pillows, easing him down so his head rested beneath her chin, his weight settling comfortably into the mattress instead of bracing against it.

“There,” she whispered, barely sound at all.

Her arm curved around him instinctively, palm flattening between his shoulder blades, fingers spreading wide in that familiar, grounding way. The other hand drifted to his hair, combing through it slowly, gently, over and over—no rush, no pattern, just reassurance.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured again, softer this time, like a promise she’d already been keeping for years. “You don’t have to hold anything right now.”

She pressed a light kiss to the crown of his head, letting it linger there, her chin resting against him as if that’s exactly where it belonged.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

Her breathing slowed on purpose, deep and steady, inviting his to follow. This was how they did it now—quietly, without ceremony. No grand declarations. No noise. Just choosing each other in the dark.

Cleo closed her eyes, holding him close, signing herself fully into the stillness.

This was it.

And for once, she didn’t need anything else.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let himself be moved.

He let himself be the heavy thing she held. It went against every instinct he had—the ones that told him to stand up, to lead, to be the guy out in front taking the hits—but those instincts were currently offline, dismantled by the slow, rhythmic drag of her fingers through his hair.

He felt her chin rest on the top of his head. He felt the steady, thumping kick of her heart against his ear.

It was the best sound he had ever heard. Better than the crowd. Better than the click track. It was the only rhythm that didn't demand anything from him.

He tried to fight the pull of sleep for one more second. He wanted to tell her that she was stronger than him. He wanted to tell her that she was the only reason the room wasn't spinning. He wanted to make one last joke about the structural integrity of the pillow.
But his mouth wouldn't cooperate. His limbs felt like they were made of lead and warm water.

"You win," he mumbled against her collarbone, the words slurring together into a sleepy, shapeless sound. "I surrender. You got me."

He curled his hand into the fabric of her shirt, a weak, reflexive grip just to make sure she was still there.

"Wake me up..." he whispered, his brain firing its final, nonsensical synapse as the darkness took him. "...if the aliens come. I want to see the ship."

He didn't hear if she answered. The noise was gone. The static was gone.
There was just the smell of vanilla, the weight of her hand in his hair, and the absolute, terrifying safety of being held.

Ben Wilder let go.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Morning came quietly.

Not all at once—no alarm, no panic—but in layers. Pale desert light crept in through the long window above the bed, softened by dust and the thin curtains that never quite closed right. The trailer hummed awake around her: the low whir of the fridge, the distant thud of a bass test from a stage far enough away to feel like weather instead of noise.

Cleo was already up.

She moved through the narrow kitchenette barefoot except for a pair of socks that hit just above her ankles, soft and mismatched, the kind she always stole and never returned. One of his t-shirts hung off her shoulders, washed thin from too many tours, falling to mid-thigh and smelling faintly like him—clean cotton, coffee, something warm underneath she never bothered to name. Her hair was twisted up into a messy bun that had given up halfway through the job, loose pieces framing her face.

The counter space was barely generous enough for a cutting board and a pan, but she worked around it easily, like she’d done this a hundred times. Eggs cracked one-handed into a bowl. A piece of toast popped up a little too dark. A kettle hissed softly, impatient.

She leaned her hip against the counter while the pan heated, watching the sunlight crawl higher along the opposite wall. There was something grounding about it—this small, ordinary task in a place built for motion. No rushing. No scanning exits. Just the quiet choreography of breakfast.

She flipped the eggs carefully, humming under her breath without realizing it. Not a song he’d written. Not one she’d painted to. Just a sound. Content.

Every so often, she glanced down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom, where the bed was still rumpled, sheets twisted from the way they’d fallen asleep tangled together. She smiled to herself and turned back to the stove before the feeling could get too big.

A mug waited by the sink—his favorite, chipped at the rim. She poured hot water over grounds, stirring slowly, steam fogging the small window above the counter. The smell filled the trailer, rich and familiar, settling into the quiet like a promise.

This—this was the part she loved.
Not the after. Not the before.
The in-between.

Cleo slid the eggs onto a plate, buttered the toast, and set everything down neatly, like she belonged there. Like this wasn’t borrowed time or a pause between chaos, but something real.

Something chosen.

She stood there for a moment longer, hands resting on the counter, wrapped in his shirt, wrapped in the quiet, and let herself breathe it in before the day could ask anything of them at all.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben woke up fighting the sun.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the dusty beam of light that was drilling directly into his retina, trying to burrow back into the warmth of the pillow. His hand swept out instinctively across the mattress, searching for the solid, warm weight of Cleo.

It hit cool sheets.

For a split second, the old, familiar panic flared—the tour panic. Where am I? What time is it? Did I miss the bus? Did I sleep through check-out?

Then his brain rebooted.

Trailer. Desert. Cleo.

He inhaled sharply and caught the scent. Not the stale air of a hotel room or the chemical smell of a tour bus, but coffee. Rich, dark coffee and… toast?

The panic evaporated, replaced by a slow, heavy contentment that settled deep in his bones.

He groaned, rolling onto his back. The mattress—which, as predicted, had absolutely zero structural integrity—creaked in protest. His lower back felt like it had been fused into a single, solid rod of calcium. His hair was almost certainly standing up in eight different directions. He felt less like a rock star and more like something that had washed up on a beach after a storm.

But he was smiling.

He dragged himself upright, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and shuffled toward the narrow hallway.

He stopped in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the cheap wood frame, and just watched.

She was standing at the counter, bathed in that pale morning light. She was wearing his vintage Fender tee—the one he’d spent three weeks looking for and had accused his drummer of stealing. It hung off her shoulder, soft and gray, hitting her mid-thigh. Her socks didn't match. Her hair was a glorious, tumbling disaster.

She was humming something quiet, flipping eggs with a focus that made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t a music video. It wasn’t a photo shoot. It was just… breakfast.

And it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

This was it. This was the thing he’d been chasing. Not the stadium lights, not the roar of the crowd, not the platinum plaques. Just this. A girl in his stolen shirt making toast in a tin can while the world outside stayed quiet.

He stayed there for a long minute, just breathing her in, letting the image burn itself into his memory so he could pull it out later when the noise got too loud.

Then, inevitably, the floorboard under his foot squeaked.

He didn't wait for her to turn. He crossed the three steps between them and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, burying his face directly into the curve of her neck. He let his full weight lean against her, heavy and sleep-warm.

"I knew it," he mumbled into her skin, his voice rough with sleep. "I blamed the dryer. I blamed the laundry service. I even blamed a very nice lady in Cincinnati. But it was you. You’re the shirt thief."

He squeezed her gently, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade through the thin fabric.
"I’m calling the police," he whispered, tightening his hold. "Right after I get some of that coffee. Prioritizing."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, squinting at the eggs in the pan with drowsy approval.
"Tell me those are for us," he rasped. "If those are for a secret second family, I’m going to be devastated. I’m starving."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t jump when he wrapped around her—she just laughed, soft and breathy, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a smile. She shifted her weight slightly at the counter so the pan stayed steady, the smell of butter and coffee hanging warm in the small trailer kitchen. Morning light spilled in through the narrow window, dust motes floating lazily in it, catching on the curve of his arms around her waist.

“Mmm,” she said, tilting her head just enough to give him better access to her neck, completely unbothered by the accusation. “Bold of you to assume the shirt didn’t leave willingly.”

The oversized Fender tee slid farther off one shoulder as she moved, the hem brushing mid-thigh when she leaned forward to flick the spatula once, unhurried and practiced. She glanced down at his arms like she was assessing something familiar and beloved—weighty, warm, exactly where they belonged.

“And actually,” she added casually, voice sweet, “this breakfast isn’t for us.”

She didn’t rush the moment. She let the sizzle of eggs and the low hum of the coffee maker fill the space, let the idea land and sit there just long enough to be dangerous.

“It’s for my other boyfriend,” she continued, lips twitching. “And the kids. They’re very demanding. Very loud. Honestly, they never let me sleep in.”

She felt it—the way his body tightened just a fraction behind her, the way his grip changed almost imperceptibly. That was her cue.

She turned in his arms then, careful of the pan, the movement smooth and familiar. Her smirk was already there as she slid her hands up his chest and looped them around his neck, standing up on the balls of her socked feet so she could look him square in the eye.

“Kidding,” she said softly. “Relax.”

Her thumbs brushed along the back of his neck, slow and grounding, the touch deliberate in the way that always anchored him fully back into the room, back into himself.

“It’s for you,” she admitted. “For us. Because you looked like you might actually perish if you didn’t eat in the next ten minutes.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his, smiling up at him with that quiet, intimate warmth that made the tiny trailer feel like a whole world.

“And yes,” she added, voice low and amused, “I stole the shirt. I regret nothing. It’s the perfect breakfast shirt.”

She kissed him quickly—warm, familiar, unhurried—then rested her forehead against his, breathing him in.

“Now sit,” she murmured. “Or at least stay right there and supervise like a grumpy, hungry man who just woke up in a very good life.”

Cleo smiled to herself as she turned back around in his arms, fitting easily into the space she’d already made there, like it had been shaped for him overnight. His chest was warm against her back, solid and familiar, and she leaned into it without thinking, letting him stay exactly where he was.

She reached forward, fingers curling around the chipped ceramic mug she’d poured a minute ago, the steam still rising in lazy spirals. She lifted it carefully, mindful of his sleepy balance, then guided it back toward him.

“Here you go, baby,” she murmured, tilting her head just enough so her cheek brushed his jaw. Her voice was still soft, morning-soft, the kind that didn’t disturb the quiet but lived comfortably inside it.

She placed the mug into his hands, her fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary, thumbs brushing over his knuckles as if to make sure he was really awake, really here.

“You have another big day ahead of you,” she added gently, not heavy, not daunting—just factual. Supportive. Certain.

She rested back against him again once the coffee was secure, one hand absently smoothing over his forearm, grounding both of them.

“But right now,” she said quietly, glancing down at the pan and then back toward the window where the desert light was still soft and forgiving, “you’re allowed to just stand here and drink coffee like a normal person.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“I’ve got breakfast,” she murmured. “You’ve got me. We’re doing great so far.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben accepted the mug with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. He wrapped his hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into his palms, chasing away the last lingering chill of the air conditioning.

"Oh, god," he groaned after the first sip, the caffeine hitting his bloodstream like a jump start. "Okay. You're forgiven. You can steal whatever you want. Take the pants. Take the socks. Just keep the coffee coming."

He didn't move away, though. He stayed draped over her back like a very expensive, very tired cape, his chin resting on her shoulder so he could watch the eggs sizzle.

When she called him baby, he felt a warm, steady thump in his chest that had nothing to do with the caffeine. It was a small word—common, even—but coming from her, in this kitchen, wearing his shirt, it felt like she was locking the door against the rest of the world. It felt like she was talking to him, not the guy on the laminate pass.

"You know," he murmured into her hair, his voice low and vibrating against her back. "Calling me 'baby' while I'm incapacitated by morning brain is a cheap tactic. It makes me compliant. I have zero defenses against domesticity right now."

He took another sip, closing his eyes for a second as the steam wreathed his face.

"And don't remind me about the Big Day," he added, keeping his eyes shut. "Future Ben has a big day. Future Ben has soundcheck and interviews and has to be charming. Present Ben is currently a moss growing on a rock. Present Ben is just here for the eggs."

He opened his eyes, looking at her profile—the messy bun, the soft curve of her jaw, the focused set of her mouth.

"But you're right," he whispered, shifting his weight to press a little firmer against her, grounding himself in the reality of her spine against his chest. "We're doing great. I'd argue we're winning."

He moved one hand from her waist to lightly trace the hem of the stolen t-shirt where it hit her thigh.

"And regarding the shirt," he said, a smile evident in his voice. "I'm officially dropping the charges. It looked okay on me. It looks like a masterpiece on you. I’m retiring it. It’s yours."
He paused, doing a quick mental calculation of his suitcase.

"Although, I have to warn you—at this rate, I’m going to be performing topless by Tuesday. I’m rapidly running out of inventory. If you keep looking better in my clothes than I do, I’m going to be naked in a week. Which..." He paused, considering. "...actually, never mind. I see no downsides to this plan."

He kissed her cheek, right near her ear, lingering there as the smell of toast popped up from the toaster.

"We've got time," he mumbled against her skin, no rush in his voice at all. "Future Ben can wait. The world isn't awake yet. I just want to stand here and watch you cook."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a quiet laugh as he accepted the mug like it was sacred, her shoulder lifting slightly under his chin when he groaned.

“Oh, no,” she said softly, amused. “You don’t get to forgive me that easily. The shirts are non-negotiable. That was part of the agreement.”

She tipped her head just enough to glance at him, eyes warm, mouth curved in something knowingly fond.

“You remember the agreement, right?” she continued, tone light but pointed. “I steal your shirts. You complain about it dramatically. And then”—her smile turned just a little more mischievous—“you get to peel them off me when you get home.”

She shifted the pan, eggs sliding easily, her movements unhurried, domestic in a way that felt intentional.

“Or did Present Ben forget already?” she teased gently. “Because I distinctly remember you being very on board with that clause.”

When he talked about being moss on a rock, she hummed in agreement.

“Present Ben is allowed to be moss,” she murmured. “Present Ben is encouraged to be moss. Future Ben can handle the world. Present Ben’s only job is coffee and eggs and leaning on me.”

She reached back briefly, her hand finding his wrist where it rested at her waist, squeezing once—grounding, affectionate.

“And yes,” she added, glancing down at his hand tracing the hem of the shirt, “we are absolutely winning. But if you end up topless onstage by Tuesday, that’s on you for having such stealable clothes.”

She turned her head enough for his kiss to land, smiling against his mouth when he lingered.

“We do have time,” she said quietly. “And I like you right here. Sleepy. Unarmed. Domestic.”

She flipped the eggs, steam rising, then leaned back into him again.

“So drink your coffee,” she finished softly. “Watch me cook. We’ll let the rest of the world wait its turn.”

Cleo lifted the slice of toast from the counter—the one she’d already buttered earlier, edges a little uneven, the butter melted glossy into the bread from the warmth of the kitchenette—and brought it back toward him without ceremony.

She nudged it lightly against his hand first, then closer to his mouth when he didn’t immediately take the hint.

“Eat this one,” she murmured, voice soft but firm. “This is the part where you don’t forget.”

She leaned back into him again as she did it, letting his weight settle where it always did, familiar and grounding. One shoulder tucked under his chin, the toast hovering patiently between them.

“You can watch,” she added quietly, a smile in her voice. “I don’t mind being observed. Just… multitask. Chew while you admire.”

She glanced sideways at him, eyes warm, unhurried.

“I know today’s big,” she said gently. “Which is exactly why you need to be fed first.”

Then, almost under her breath—more instinct than statement—

“I like doing this for you.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben blinked, the neurons in his brain firing in a slow, domino-like cascade as the words sank in.

You get to peel them off me.

The fog in his head didn't just lift; it was forcefully evicted.

"The Peeling Clause," he repeated, his voice gaining a sudden, newfound reverence. "Right. Yes. It’s coming back to me now. I recall the bylaws."

He tightened his arms around her waist, a spark of heat cutting through the morning haze.
"That is a very strong clause," he murmured into her neck, sounding genuinely impressed by his past self's negotiating skills. "That is top-tier legal work. I would like to formally commend Past Ben for securing that amendment. He was a visionary."

He was about to launch into a further analysis of the benefits of said clause when the toast appeared in his peripheral vision, hovering insistently near his mouth.

He didn't argue. He didn't even try to take it from her. His hands were occupied—one holding the coffee, the other holding her—so he simply leaned forward and took a bite directly from her hand.

The crunch was loud in the quiet kitchen. The butter was salty and warm and tasted like salvation. He chewed slowly, letting his chin rest heavy on her shoulder again, his eyes slipping shut in pure, unadulterated bliss.

"Multitasking," he mumbled around the toast, swallowing with difficulty. "I am doing it. I am efficiency personified. Eating, holding, admiring. I’m basically a Swiss Army Knife."
But when she said, I like doing this for you, the joke died in his throat.

He stopped chewing. He opened his eyes, staring at the side of her face—the way the morning light caught the stray hairs escaping her bun, the curve of her cheek, the utter lack of pretense.

It hit him then, hard. The realization that she wasn't just tolerating his chaotic life; she was actively carving out a space for him to be human inside of it. She wanted to feed him toast. She wanted to stand in a cramped kitchenette and let him drape himself over her like a tired golden retriever.

He swallowed the lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the bread.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice rough and devoid of any humor now, "how much I need you to do this."

He moved his face just enough to press a kiss to the side of her neck, right where her pulse was beating.

"If you weren't doing this," he admitted into her skin, "breakfast would be a lukewarm Red Bull and three panic attacks in a trench coat. You're not just feeding me, Cleo. You're... calibrating me."

He took another bite of the toast when she nudged it closer, chewing thoughtfully this time.

"So, okay. I accept the care. I accept the eggs. And I definitely accept the shirt theft."
He pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against the back of her head.

"But just so we're clear," he added, a sleepy smirk evident in his tone, "tonight? When I get back? I am invoking the Peeling Clause immediately. I'm going to be very litigious about it."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a quiet laugh at his reverent tone, the sound soft and close, like she didn’t want it to travel farther than the walls.

“The Peeling Clause,” she murmured back. “You agreed to it very enthusiastically, actually. No objections on record. I believe you said something like, ‘That feels fair and spiritually correct.’”

When he leaned in to take the bite of toast straight from her hand, she shook her head fondly, angling it a little closer so he didn’t miss it.

“See?” she said gently. “This is why I do things this way. If I put it down, you’ll forget it exists. If I hand it to you, you eat. Very simple system.”

She stayed still while he chewed, letting him rest against her, letting the quiet do its work. When his humor faded and his voice went rough, her expression softened immediately.

“I know,” she said quietly, without hesitation. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned then, fully, carefully within the small space of his arms, setting the toast down just long enough to bring both hands up to his face. Her palms were warm from the kitchenette, thumbs brushing his cheeks as she looked at him—really looked at him.

“You don’t have to earn this,” she said softly. “You don’t have to be calibrated or fixed or ready. You just get to be.”

She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth—slow, grounding, familiar—before resting her forehead against his.

“And yes,” she added, a faint smile curving her lips, affectionate and sure, “the care and the eggs and the shirt theft are all included.”

Her thumbs brushed along his jaw one last time as she held his gaze.

“Welcome to your new life, Benjamin.”

Cleo held his face for one more beat—just long enough to let the words land—then her mouth tipped into a quick, almost bashful smile, like she’d suddenly remembered herself.

“Anyway,” she said lightly, the softness snapping back into motion.

She dropped her hands from his cheeks and turned away before he could say anything else, pivoting back toward the tiny counter like she hadn’t just rewritten the architecture of his life.

She slid the eggs from the pan onto a plate with practiced ease, toast joining them in a slightly crooked stack. She adjusted it once, then twice—because of course she did—before setting the plate aside.

Then she reached for the coffee pot, poured herself a mug of plain black coffee, no sugar, no fuss, steam curling up into the narrow space. She carried it across the trailer and set it down on the small table beside the kitchenette, the sound of ceramic meeting wood quiet and domestic.

“All right,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Food exists. Coffee exists.”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, just briefly, eyes warm and amused.

“Sit,” she added. “Or hover dramatically. Either way.”

Cleo lifted the mug to her lips, took a slow sip, the kind that was more about ritual than caffeine. She leaned her hip lightly against the counter, eyes drifting toward him like this was just another quiet morning detail she was filing away.

“Yes,” she said casually, almost absent-minded, lowering the mug again. “You can peel your shirt off me tonight.”

She said it the way someone might say yes, we’re out of milk or don’t forget to lock the door—easy, unceremonious, like it was already decided and didn’t need fanfare.

She took another sip, eyes flicking briefly to the window, then back to him.

“You earned it,” she added, tone mild, lips ghosting into the smallest smile. “Good behavior. Proper nourishment. Very domestic.”

She set the mug down on the counter and turned fully toward him then, crossing her arms loosely—not defensive, just comfortable.

“But not yet,” she said, lifting a brow. “Right now you’re supposed to eat and pretend you’re a functional adult with responsibilities.”

A beat.

“Tonight,” she repeated, like it was nothing at all.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben set his mug down on the wobbly table with a deliberate, decisive clink.

He didn't look tired anymore. The fog of sleep had been burned off instantly by the sheer, casual audacity of her delivery. She had dropped the promise of tonight with the same tone she used to announce the coffee was ready, and it was, without a doubt, the most effective management strategy anyone had ever used on him.

He pulled the flimsy trailer chair out and sat down, dragging the plate of eggs closer, but his eyes never left her face. A slow, confident grin spread across his mouth—the kind that usually didn’t make an appearance until at least 9 PM.

"You know," he said, picking up his fork and pointing it at her accusatorily. "That was cold. That was calculated. And it was... incredibly hot."

He shook his head, looking down at the plate with feigned disbelief before stabbing a piece of egg.

"You just weaponized my own shirt against me to ensure I adhere to a nutritional plan," he noted, impressed. "That is Machiavellian, Cleo. I am dating a supervillain. I respect it."

He ate the egg. It was perfect. Of course it was. He took a bite of the toast, chewing with the sudden, vigorous energy of a man who had a very specific goal to work toward.

"Terms accepted," he announced, swallowing. "I will be a functional adult. I will eat the protein. I will go out there and do the soundcheck and smile at the people and pretend I am not counting down the minutes until I get back to this tin can."

He leaned back in the chair, balancing on the back legs for a second—a move that tested the structural integrity of the furniture significantly—and looked her up and down. He took in the messy bun, the mismatched socks, and the vintage Fender tee that draped over her frame like a flag he had planted.

"Tonight," he echoed, his voice dropping the joke, turning low and steady.

He let the chair legs thud back onto the floor, grounding himself.

"I’m going to hold you to that, by the way. So find a way to keep wearing it. Tie it up, tuck it in, throw a jacket over it—I don't care. Just make it part of the outfit."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on hers.

"Because I want to look over from the stage today and see you wearing that shirt. And I want to know exactly where it's ending up later."

He winked, a flash of the rock star charm finally breaking through the domestic morning haze, sharp and bright.

"Now stop looking at me like that or I’m going to skip soundcheck and we’re going to get in trouble." He shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth, pointing at his plate with his free hand. "See? Eating. Behaving. I am a model citizen."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t rise to the bait right away. She just watched him with that look—the one that made him feel simultaneously ten feet tall and completely transparent—arms loosely crossed, weight settled into one hip, steam from her coffee curling up between them like a quiet boundary she had no intention of breaking. The trailer was filled with soft morning sounds now: the faint hum of electricity, the ticking of the stovetop cooling, the desert light creeping higher along the wall.

“Calculated?” she repeated mildly. “Please. If I were calculating, you’d already be halfway through breakfast and late for soundcheck.”

She lifted her mug for a small sip, eyes never leaving him, and when he called her a supervillain, the corner of her mouth tipped just enough to show she was amused—pleased, even—by the accuracy.

“I prefer competent partner with foresight,” she said. “But sure. Supervillain works. Capes are impractical, though.”

She let him eat.

Really let him eat.

She didn’t hover, didn’t rush him, didn’t comment on the way he attacked the eggs like they were a task to complete. She just leaned there, occasionally shifting her weight, watching the subtle changes she’d already learned to recognize—the way his shoulders dropped once the caffeine and food hit, the way his jaw unclenched, the way the sharp edge of performance slowly dulled into something more human.

Every so often her eyes flicked back to him, checking, confirming. Fed. Grounded. Still here.

When his plate was finally empty and he leaned back with that satisfied, slightly smug look, she moved at last.

“Okay,” she said gently, reaching past him to reclaim a bit of counter space. “Now I’m allowed to eat.”

She picked up her own plate and settled onto the edge of the kitchenette counter, the chipped laminate cool against the backs of her thighs. She didn’t bother with a fork at first. Instead, she peeled a piece of egg apart with her fingers, slow and unhurried, like she wasn’t in a rush anymore. She popped it into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then did the same with another piece.

Mid-bite, she glanced over at him.

“And before you get too comfortable,” she added, calm but unmistakably directive, “you’re going to go take a real shower. Not the three-in-one body-wash-shampoo-engine-degreaser situation you always buy.”

She peeled another piece of egg apart, still watching him now, eyes sharp but fond.

“Use something that smells like an adult who expects to be hugged later,” she said. “Then get dressed. Properly. No mystery stains.”

She licked her thumb without thinking, wiped it on a paper towel, and took another sip of her coffee, the bitterness grounding.

“And before soundcheck,” she continued, like she was simply checking items off a list she’d already committed to memory, “we’re meeting my sister and Jax in the courtyard. I already told her we’d be there.”

She looked at him again—really looked this time. The man who’d been noise and lights and adrenaline the night before. The man who was now barefoot, fed, slightly rumpled, and entirely hers in this quiet moment.

“So don’t disappear,” she said. “Eat, shower, dress, exist. In that order.”

She took another bite of egg, utterly at ease, like this version of them had always existed.

“I’ll still be here when you’re done,” she added, almost offhand. “Go.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben watched her eat the egg with her fingers. It was such a small, tactile thing—sitting on the counter, unbothered, commanding the room while dismantling breakfast—but it made his brain short-circuit slightly. She was telling him to wash his ass while looking like the coolest person he had ever met.

Dream girl behavior. Absolute dream girl behavior.

"Engine degreaser?" he repeated, standing up and feigning deep, personal offense as he carried his empty plate to the tiny sink. "I will have you know that 'Turbo Clean: Arctic Blast' is a staple of the touring industry. It exfoliates, it cleans, and in a pinch, it can probably jump-start the bus. It is versatility in a bottle, Cleo. It is efficiency."

He rinsed the plate and leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at her.

"But fine. I hear you. Message received." He nodded solemnly. "I will locate something with 'sandalwood' or 'bergamot' or whatever fancy lumber you prefer your boyfriend to smell like. I will scrub until I smell like a sentient candle. For you."

When she mentioned Phoebe and Jax, he didn't flinch. Actually, he brightened. Jax wasn't just "Cleo's sister's boyfriend"—he was Ben's best friend. He was the guy who knew Ben before the laminate passes and the pyro. And Phoebe... well, Phoebe was terrifying, but she was family.

"Courtyard. Phoebe and Jax. Got it," he confirmed, nodding. "I'll be happy to see Jax's ugly mug. It's been too long since I had a conversation about drum fills that didn't end in an argument."

He pushed off the sink, walking over to where she was perched on the counter. He stepped into her space, crowding her just a little, effectively trapping her between his body and the laminate. He rested his hands on the counter on either side of her thighs, leaning in until they were eye-level.

"I’ll bring my best behavior," he promised, a smile playing on his lips. "I’ll even wear a clean shirt—assuming I have any left that you haven't requisitioned for your own wardrobe."

He let his gaze drop to her mouth, then back up to her eyes, his expression sobering.

"And hey," he said, his voice dropping the humor, turning low and sincere.

He waited until her eyes locked on his.

"I'm not disappearing. I'm done with the disappearing act. You tell me to show up, I show up. That's the new rule. I'm right here."

He leaned forward, stealing a quick, lingering kiss—tasting coffee and salt and quiet morning.

"Shower. Dress. Exist. On it," he murmured against her mouth. Then he pulled back, flashing that boyish, lopsided grin.

He turned and headed for the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the hook, already mentally cataloging his toiletries bag to see if he had anything that didn't smell like a locker room in a blizzard.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t even look up right away when he went on his dramatic tirade. She just lifted a brow, calmly finished the bite of egg between her fingers, and wiped them on a napkin with deliberate slowness—like she was letting him get it out of his system.

When she did finally meet his eyes, there was a lazy glint of amusement there.

“That explains a lot,” she said lightly. “I always wondered why you smell like a snowstorm that got into a fight with a locker room.”

She hopped down from the counter as he moved toward the sink, leaning her hip against the edge and watching him with a fond, knowing smile as he rinsed the plate. When he made his exaggerated concession, she nodded once, approving.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t need lumber. I just need you to smell… touchable.”

At the mention of the courtyard, her mouth curved upward again—soft this time, familiar.

“Good,” she said. “They’ll like seeing you. And Phoebe will pretend she’s not assessing you for weaknesses.”

When he crowded her space, she didn’t move away. She stayed exactly where she was, chin tipped up, eyes steady on his. Her hands rested behind her on the counter, grounding herself as much as him.

“I know,” she said quietly when his tone shifted. “That’s why I’m here.”

The kiss landed warm and grounding, and she leaned into it without hesitation, fingers brushing briefly over his ribs before she let him pull back.

“Go,” she murmured, nudging him lightly. “Be clean. Be human. Try not to dissolve the pipes.”

Once the bathroom door closed and the shower started, Cleo let out a quiet breath and finished the rest of her breakfast, slower now. She rinsed her plate, set it neatly in the sink, wiped the counter like it mattered—because it did—and then moved into the bedroom.

She changed her underwear, tugged on a pair of high-waisted denim shorts, fastening them with practiced ease. She shook her hair out fully, leaving it down the way it naturally fell, then sprayed dry shampoo at the roots, working it through with her fingers until it looked soft and lived-in instead of slept-in.

She wiped her face clean with a makeup remover, then reapplied just enough to look awake—concealer where she needed it, mascara, a light wash of color across her cheeks. Nothing dramatic. Just alive.

Deodorant. Fresh socks.

She clipped one side of her hair back, a simple barrette catching the section near her temple so it hung loose but revealed her ear, the rest of her hair falling freely over her shoulders.

The shirt stayed.

She tied it in the back, folded the excess fabric inward, and tucked it neatly so it sat right—intentional, casual, unmistakably his.

She stepped back into the kitchenette just as the water shut off, timing so exact it made her smile to herself.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a white towel knotted low on his hips and a smaller hand towel occupied with aggressively drying his hair. He felt scrubbed raw, smelling faintly of something woodsy and expensive that he’d dug out from the bottom of his toiletry bag.

"Okay," he announced, his voice muffled slightly by the towel as he rubbed at his wet curls. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice. I smell like a lumberjack who went to therapy. I smell like a very expensive piece of driftwood. The 'Arctic Blast' is weeping in the shower drain right now."

He lowered the hand towel, shaking his hair out—it was damp and dark, sticking up in chaotic waves—and looked up.

He stopped dead.

"Whoa," he said, the towel in his hand forgotten. "Hold on."

He narrowed his eyes, walking closer, scanning her from the socks up to the denim shorts and the shirt. Especially the shirt.

"Explain the physics," he demanded, gesturing at her with the hand towel. "I was in there for ten minutes. Ten minutes ago, that was a dress. It was a tent. I come out, and suddenly it fits? It has structure?"

He stopped right in front of her, his bare chest damp, the towel around his waist slipping just an inch as he leaned in to inspect the knot at her back.

"That is literal witchcraft, Cleo," he murmured, impressed. "You put a hex on the cotton. Admit it."

He straightened up, his eyes traveling over her face—the fresh makeup, the hair clip, the way she looked effortlessly cool in his stolen laundry. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face, the kind that was usually reserved for a really good hook in a new song.

"You look..." He shook his head, letting out a short exhale. "You look incredible. Dangerous, actually. If I look out at the crowd today and see you wearing that, I’m going to forget all the lyrics to my own songs."

He dropped the hand towel onto the nearest chair and stepped into her space, resting his hands on her waist, his thumbs brushing the skin just above the denim of her shorts.

"It’s a good thing we have a schedule," he said, his voice dropping low, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Because if we didn't have to go meet your terrifying sister and my idiot best friend right now..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He just kissed her.

It wasn't a "good morning" kiss. It was a "you look hot and I'm halfway naked" kiss. He pressed her back against the counter for just a second, tasting the coffee on her tongue, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt against his bare chest.

He pulled back with a groan, resting his forehead against hers.

"Okay. Schedule. Right. Jax. Phoebe. Soundcheck. Focusing."

He stepped back, reluctantly letting her go.

"Turn around," he instructed playfully, grabbing his boxers from the small pile of clean clothes he’d set out. "Or don't. I'm not shy. But we're on the clock."

He moved fast, the efficiency of a guy who had changed in airport bathrooms and backstage closets for half his life. The towel dropped. Boxers on. Then the black jeans—slim fit, worn at the knees—pulled up and buttoned.

He grabbed a plain white tee from his bag, pulling it over his head. It settled over his damp skin, clean and crisp. No logos, no branding. Just Ben.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing the curls back from his forehead, and turned back to her, spreading his arms.

"Clean shirt. Adult soap smell. Pants." He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of that confident charm lighting up his eyes. "Acceptable?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just watched him for half a beat—steam still clinging to his skin, hair damp and darker, that clean, woodsy scent filling the tiny space—then she crossed the distance between them without ceremony. Her arms slid around his waist, pressing her cheek briefly to his chest, grounding herself in the warmth that was already so familiar.

“Mm,” she murmured, amused and approving. “You smell… alarmingly put together.”

She tipped her face up and kissed him quickly—soft, decisive, the kind that said yes, hi, you’re mine—then pulled back before it could turn into something else. Her hands lingered at his sides for just a second longer than necessary.

“Oh—” she said, already half-turning away, a little laugh in her voice as reality caught up. “I have to brush my teeth.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes bright, casual, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“You should too,” she added lightly. “If we’re about to be in public pretending to be functioning adults.”

When he kept looking at her like that—half-awed, half-distracted—she shook her head fondly, smoothing the front of the shirt down as if that might help.

“And before you say anything else,” she said, stepping toward the sink, “yes, it’s witchcraft. I will not be explaining it. Some things are better left mysterious.”

She reached for her toothbrush, already mentally shifting gears, but still smiling to herself—because he was clean, dressed, right there, and they were about to walk back into the day together.

Cleo rinsed her toothbrush and set it back in its crooked cup, watching the foam disappear down the tiny sink like it always did—too fast, too loud, too real. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then turned, leaning her hip against the counter.

She looked at him again, really looked this time. Clean shirt. Damp hair. Awake. Present. Still there.

“Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “Now I feel like we can face people.”

She crossed the space between them again, slower this time, slipping her fingers through his for just a second—an anchor, not a grab.

“You ready?” she asked, voice gentle, practical. “Phoebe’s going to scan you like airport security, and Jax is going to pretend he didn’t miss you even though he absolutely did.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckle, an unconscious habit.

“And then you’re going to go do the loud, shiny part,” she added, eyes lifting to his. “And I’ll be right there. Same shirt. Same place.”

She squeezed his hand once more, then let go, already reaching for her bag.

“Come on,” she said, tipping her head toward the door. “Let’s go be responsible for a few hours. We can come back and disappear later.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

"Functioning adults," Ben repeated, nodding as he moved to the sink she vacated. "Right. Oral hygiene. The cornerstone of a civilized society. I’m on it."

He brushed his teeth with the speed and efficiency of a man who knew he was on a countdown, splashing water on his face one last time to wake up the parts of his brain that were still dreaming about the eggs. He wiped his face with the towel, checking the mirror.

The guy staring back looked... better. Less like a ghost, more like a person. The dark circles were still there—faint purple bruises under his eyes—but the frantic edge was gone.
He stepped back out, feeling minty and significantly more human.

"I accept the mystery," he said, eyeing the shirt on her again as she gathered her things. "If I ask too many questions about the physics of the knot, the spell might break, and I can't risk that. It’s a great look."

When she took his hand, that anchor dropped again.

You ready?

He took a breath. Was he? The second he stepped out that door, he was Ben Wilder again. He was a commodity. He was a schedule. He was a setlist.

But then she broke it down: Phoebe, Jax, the loud part, and her.

"Phoebe is absolutely going to scan me," he agreed, lacing his fingers through hers and giving a squeeze back. "She’s going to look at my soul, find it wanting, and then hug me anyway because she loves you. And Jax..." He snorted softly. "Jax is going to act like he’s too cool to care, and then he’s going to try to tackle me. I’m prepared for physical violence. It’s his love language."

He watched her thumb brush his knuckle.

Same shirt. Same place.

That was the line that did it. That was the armor. He didn't need the leather jacket or the stage lights to feel invincible. He just needed to know where she was standing.

"Okay," he exhaled, the last of the hesitation leaving his chest. "Loud part, then back to the quiet part. I can do that."

He let go of her hand just long enough to grab his sunglasses from the table—the black wayfarers that served as his shield against the world—and his laminate pass. He looped the pass over his head, the familiar weight of it settling against his chest, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like a leash.

He slid the sunglasses on, the world tinting a cool, manageable dark.

"Let's go," he said, a grin touching the corner of his mouth as he reached for the door handle, pushing it open to let the blinding desert light flood in. "Let's go convince your sister I'm good enough for you. Should take about five minutes. I'm very charming when I'm caffeinated."

He held the door for her, stepping out into the heat, ready to face the noise because he knew exactly who was walking beside him.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo waited where she always did—off to the side of the trailer, just far enough from the traffic to feel invisible, just close enough that he’d find her without thinking.

She was still in the same clothes from earlier: his tee knotted and tucked in the back so it hugged instead of swallowed her, high-waisted jean shorts worn soft and lived-in, Vans dusty at the soles. Her hair was down, one side clipped back so her ear caught the breeze and the distant echo of the crowd. She leaned her shoulder into the cool metal of the trailer, weight settled, relaxed in a way that only came after the set was over.

The joint was already halfway gone, ember steady between her fingers. She took her time with it—slow inhale, slower exhale—smoke drifting up and dissolving into the Coachella night. In her other hand, a Corona bottle beaded with condensation, lime wedged just right at the lip. Cold. Simple. Familiar.

The day replayed itself softly in her mind, not in sharp details but in warm impressions.

The private courtyard that morning—quiet, shaded, tucked away from everything loud. Phoebe perched on the edge of a low wall, sunglasses on, immediately clocking Cleo in Ben’s shirt and lifting a brow like she’d won something. Jax grinning like an idiot the second he saw Ben, pulling him into a one-armed hug and immediately launching into some half-serious, half-ridiculous argument about gear and timing.

Phoebe and Ben had gone at each other almost instantly. Not mean. Never mean. Just that playful, sharp banter that only happened when everyone felt safe.

“So you’re the one feeding him now?” Phoebe had said dryly, eyeing Cleo over the rim of her coffee.

Ben hadn’t missed a beat. “Keeping me alive, actually. It’s a full-time position. Union benefits.”

Cleo had laughed, standing between them, letting it happen. Letting herself be the thing they joked around instead of worried over. It felt easy. Familiar. Like being folded into a circle instead of standing outside it.

That had been the whole day, really—easy. No rush. No vigilance. No bracing for impact.

Now, leaning against the trailer, Cleo felt the same calm settle in her chest.

Artist Village hummed softly around her, but it wasn’t intrusive. No fans pressing in. No eyes searching. Just crew voices in the distance, golf carts rolling by, the muted glow of lights strung too high to feel harsh. This place wasn’t about spectacle. It was about pause.

A pocket carved out of chaos.

She’d stood in this exact spot during his set too—off to the side, easy to spot if you knew where to look. She knew he did. She’d felt it when his eyes flicked over, quick and sure, like muscle memory. Like reassurance.

Now the bass had faded. The lights had shifted. The roar was breaking down into pockets of noise and laughter and aftermath.

Cleo tipped the bottle back for a small sip, wiped her thumb across the glass, and let herself smile—soft, private.

She wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. Or crowds. Or headlines. Or what it meant to love someone whose life existed at this volume.

Right now, she was just happy.

Waiting.

Ready for him to come home from the noise.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The ringing in his ears was fading, dialing down from a scream to a dull, manageable hum.
Ben walked the last stretch of the path back to the Artist Village alone. He’d sent the security detail ahead, waved off the golf cart, needing the walk to bleed off the last of the stage adrenaline. His shirt—a fresh one he’d changed into post-show—was already sticking to his back, and his hair was a disaster of sweat and desert dust, but he felt lighter than he had in years.

Usually, this was the hardest part. The drop. The moment the lights cut out and the noise stopped and you were left standing in the dark with your own brain, wondering if you’d done enough.

But tonight, the silence didn't feel empty. It felt like a destination.

He rounded the corner of the trailer row, his boots crunching softly on the gravel, and his eyes went to her spot automatically. He didn't even have to scan. He knew exactly where she’d be.

And there she was.

Leaning against the aluminum siding like she was holding the whole structure up, one leg bent, the ember of a joint glowing soft orange near her face. She was still wearing his shirt. Seeing it from the stage had nearly made him miss a chord change in the second verse of "Static"—a flash of gray cotton and familiar hair in the wings that grounded him so hard he almost forgot to sing.

Now, seeing it up close in the dim ambient light, it just looked like... home.

He slowed his pace, letting the sight of her wash over him. The Corona in her hand. The relaxed slope of her shoulders. The way she was looking at nothing and everything all at once.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, tired but genuine.

The day replayed in his head as he closed the distance. The courtyard. He’d expected an interrogation from Phoebe; instead, he’d gotten roasted about his tour rider within five minutes. Union benefits. He chuckled softly to himself, remembering Cleo’s laugh, the way she’d stood between them not as a shield, but as a bridge. And Jax—God, he’d missed Jax. The way his best friend had dragged him into a headlock before he could even say hello, treating him like Ben from the garage days, not Ben from the billboards.

It had felt normal. It had felt real.

He stopped a few feet away from her, not wanting to startle her, though he suspected she already knew he was there. She had that radar.

"You know," he said, his voice raspy from ninety minutes of singing, low and intimate in the quiet air. "I've played this festival three times. I've been to the after-parties. I've stood on the VIP risers."

He stepped into her space, the smell of her smoke mixing with the sweat and dust on his skin. He reached out, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her gently away from the trailer and into him.

"But this?" He looked down at her, his eyes tracing the line of the shirt, the messy hair, the beer bottle. "Walking back to this? Best headliner experience I've ever had."

He leaned down, stealing a sip from her Corona without asking, the lime hitting his tongue sharp and cold. He swallowed, letting out a satisfied sigh, and rested his forehead against hers.

"You stayed," he whispered, the relief heavy in his voice. "Same shirt. Same place."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled before she spoke, the kind of smile that came from knowing exactly how this moment was supposed to go. She pushed off the trailer slowly, closing the distance without urgency, like she’d been waiting there long enough to earn it. His sweat, the dust, the leftover heat from the stage—none of it stopped her. She fit into him anyway, arms around his waist, forehead brushing his chest for a second before she looked up.

“I stayed,” she said simply, like it had never been a question. “You always come back this way.”

She leaned up and kissed him then—easy, familiar—her mouth warm against his, unbothered by the taste of salt or lime or the echo of the set still humming in him. When she pulled back, she didn’t move far, just enough to see his face, her hands still resting at his sides.

“And yeah,” she added, voice low, amused, eyes bright. “Same shirt. Same spot. That was the deal.”

Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his hips, not tugging, just reminding him it was there.

“You said you’d peel it off me,” she went on, calm and sure. “So I figured I’d make it easy for you and not mess with the terms.”

She tilted her head, a glint of something playful flashing across her expression.

“Why would I take it off myself?”

This time when she kissed him, it was deeper—hungrier—not rushed, just full. She didn’t pull away when his hands came up, didn’t tense or look around. No instinct to shrink, no instinct to hide. The Artist Village felt sealed off from everything else, like a pocket where the world didn’t get a vote.

When she finally broke the kiss, she rested her forehead against his, breathing him in.

“I know this doesn’t stay quiet forever,” she said softly, honest but unbothered. “I’m not pretending it does.”

Her thumb brushed along his jaw, grounding, affectionate.

“But right now?” she murmured. “This is ours. And I’m exactly where I want to be.”

She kissed him instead—soft at first, like punctuation, then deeper for half a second longer than necessary, just enough to steal the rest of the adrenaline out of him. Her hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers warm, steady, grounding him back into his body after the stage had wrung him out.

“C’mon,” she murmured against his mouth as she pulled back, breath brushing his lips. “You’re still buzzing.”

She slipped past him just enough to reach for his wrist, not dragging, just guiding—like she’d done it a hundred times already, like it was instinct now. She took the joint from her lips, stubbed it out carefully on the edge of the ashtray by the trailer steps, and set the beer down beside it, deliberate, unhurried.

Then she turned back to him, fingers still laced through his.

“Inside,” she said quietly, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Before you crash right here and I have to explain to someone why the headliner is asleep on the gravel.”

She backed toward the trailer door, tugging him with her, laughing softly when he stumbled a little from exhaustion more than anything else. She opened the door with her free hand and stepped inside first, still holding onto him so he followed without thinking.

Once they were both in, she kicked the door shut behind them with her heel, the noise of the festival dulling instantly, replaced by the hum of the trailer and the quiet they always seemed to find together.

She turned back to him, close again, hands coming up to his chest.

“There,” she said, softer now. “You made it back.”

And then she kissed him one more time—slow, unguarded—before finally peeling away just enough to let him breathe, her forehead resting briefly against his like a promise she didn’t need to say out loud.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben leaned back against the closed door, the latch clicking into place with a finality that severed the connection to the outside world.

The sudden drop in volume should have been jarring—going from a hundred thousand screaming people to just the hum of the AC unit usually made his ears ring and his brain spin. But tonight, the buzz under his skin didn't feel like static. It felt like fuel.

He was vibrating with it. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, a live wire that wasn't ready to be grounded just yet.

"I made it back," he echoed, his voice low and rough, staring down at her. "But only because I had a very specific incentive waiting for me."

He didn't move away from the door. He tossed his sunglasses onto the kitchenette counter without looking, the plastic clattering against the laminate, his eyes never leaving hers. He took a step toward her, eating up the space in the tiny hallway, the energy rolling off him in waves.

He wasn't the tired, soft morning version of Ben right now. He was the guy who had just held a stadium in the palm of his hand, and he was looking at her like she was the only encore that mattered.

"You mentioned a deal," he murmured, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of her shorts and pulling her flush against him. "You mentioned terms. And I am a man of my word, Cleo. I respect a contract."

He grinned then—a sharp, electric thing that was all adrenaline and intent.

"The Peeling Clause," he said, the words vibrating against her mouth as he leaned in, not kissing her yet, just hovering. "I believe the timeline was 'tonight.' And technically..." He glanced at the microwave clock that blinked an incorrect time, then back to her. "...it is tonight."

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't need one.

His hands slid up from her waist, skimming over the ribs he’d memorized, finding the soft, worn cotton of the vintage Fender tee. His tee. The one she’d stolen, worn like armor, and promised to him.

He spun her gently, just enough to reach the back, his fingers finding the knot she’d tied earlier.

"Witchcraft," he whispered near her ear, his breath hot, his fingers working the fabric loose with a dexterity that usually applied to guitar solos. "Let's see if I can break the spell."
He pulled the knot free, the fabric slackening instantly.

He turned her back around to face him, his hands sliding under the hem of the shirt, palms flat and warm against her bare stomach. The contact sent a fresh spike of electricity straight to his spine.

"Arms up, baby," he commanded softly, the request hovering somewhere between playful and desperate.

He lifted the shirt, peeling it up over her ribs, over her chest, the gray cotton sliding against her skin. He took his time, savoring the reveal, the way the trailer light hit her skin, the way she looked looking back at him—unflinching, his.

He pulled it over her head, tossing it blindly behind him. It landed somewhere near the sink. He didn't care.

He brought his hands back to her immediately, sliding into her hair, tilting her face up.
"Clause fulfilled," he breathed, his heart hammering a frantic, triumphant rhythm against his ribs. "Now come here."

He kissed her then, and it wasn't the soft, grounding kiss of the morning. It was the crash. It was all the noise and the light and the adrenaline of the last two hours poured into one single, desperate point of contact. He kissed her like he was trying to devour the quiet, like he wanted to make sure that even when the buzz finally faded, this was what remained.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

There was no hesitation, no coyness, and absolutely no negotiation needed. Cleo didn't make him wait a single second.

When he demanded "Arms up," her arms shot up, her body acting on instinct and desire before her brain could even process the command. She let him strip the shirt from her body, the cool air of the trailer hitting her skin for a split second before his heat replaced it. She didn't mourn the loss of the shirt; she was too busy reveling in the manic, electric look in his eyes.

When he crashed his mouth onto hers, she met him with equal force. She opened to him instantly, her hands tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, drinking in the taste of adrenaline and salt and Ben. She fed off the vibration under his skin, that high-frequency hum of the crowd that was now entirely focused on her. It was overwhelming in the best way possible, a tidal wave she was more than happy to drown in.

But as his hands began to roam, mapping her waist and hips, she realized they were dangerously close to the kitchenette’s built-in vinyl banquette—a piece of furniture she didn't trust as far as she could throw it.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, planting her palms flat against his chest. She didn't push him away; she pushed him backward.

"Not here," she breathed against his lips, her voice wrecked. "Bedroom. Now."

She didn't wait for him to agree. She kept her hands on his chest, walking him backward down the narrow hallway, her eyes locked on his. She needed the bed. She needed the sanctuary of the back room where she had stripped the generic, scratchy tour bedding and replaced it with the soft, high-thread-count sheets and pillows she’d brought from home. If he was going to look at her like that—like he wanted to devour her whole—she wanted to be somewhere soft when it happened.

They stumbled into the small back room, the space instantly dominated by the size of the bed and the size of him.

Cleo didn't waste time. Her fingers flew to the button of her shorts, fumbling only slightly in her haste. She popped the button and shoved the denim down over her hips, shimmying until they bunched around her knees. Ben was there instantly, his hands aiding her, helping her kick the fabric free until she was standing in just her underwear.

She scrambled backward onto the mattress, sinking into the familiar softness of her own sheets. She didn't retreat far, just enough to make room for him.

Ben stood at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, looking like a god of chaos and rock and roll. Cleo sat up on her knees, reaching out to hook her fingers into his belt loops, mirroring the exact move he’d pulled on her in the hallway.

"Contract's not fulfilled yet," she whispered, her eyes dark and demanding as she yanked him hard toward her. "Come here."

[Benjamin Wilder]

When Cleo yanked him by the belt loops, Ben didn’t just stumble forward—he willingly collapsed into her gravity.

He crashed against her, his hands landing hot and heavy on her bare waist, fingers digging into the soft skin there as if to make sure she wasn’t a hallucination brought on by dehydration and stage lights. He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound of approval, as she kissed him with that same demanding energy.

His hands didn’t stay still. They couldn’t. He swept them down the curve of her spine, over the flare of her hips, and gripped her thighs, pulling her flush against his jeans. The friction was maddening—the rough denim against her smooth skin, the heat radiating off her. He wanted to map every inch of her, to replace the memory of the crowd with the reality of her body. His palms slid up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, worshiping the skin he’d just uncovered.

But there was a problem. A logistical, fabric-based problem.

He tore his mouth away, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers for a split second.

"Too many clothes," he rasped, the words frantic. "I am wearing entirely too many clothes."
He pulled back, creating just enough space to operate. It wasn't a seductive striptease; it was a tactical evacuation.

He toed his boots off, kicking them toward the corner with zero regard for where they landed. The socks followed—always the most unsexy part of the process, hopping on one foot, nearly tripping, but fueled by sheer desperation. He unbuttoned his jeans with fumbling haste, shoving them down his legs and kicking them free. The white tee was last, ripped over his head in one fluid motion and tossed onto the pile of denim.

He stood there for half a heartbeat in just his black boxers, chest heaving, the cool air hitting his sweat-dampened skin.

Cleo was watching him from the bed, on her knees, looking like absolute ruin.

"Better," he growled.

He didn't wait for a review. He moved back to the bed, climbing onto the mattress and pressing her down into the pillows. He followed her down, covering her body with his, his skin finally meeting hers from chest to knee. The sensation was electric—a live wire touching a conductor. He buried his face in her neck, kissing the sensitive spot behind her ear, his hand sliding down her stomach to rest possessively on her hip.

He shifted his weight, settling between her legs, and that’s when it registered.

His knees didn't hit the scratchy, industrial-grade polyester he was used to. His cheek wasn't pressed against a pillowcase that felt like recycled cardboard.

It was soft. Silk-cotton soft. Cool and smooth and smelling like... home.

Ben froze for a microsecond, lifting his head to blink at the pillow beneath them. He ran his hand over the sheet next to her head, testing the thread count.

"Wait," he murmured, looking down at her, his eyes wide with genuine awe amidst the haze of lust. "Did you... did you smuggle the good sheets into the trailer?"

He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, shaking his head.

"You brought the Egyptian cotton," he whispered, staring at her like she had just invented fire. "Cleo. You are a genius. You are the love of my life. I am never leaving this bed."

He kissed her nose, then her mouth, his humor dissolving back into the heat the second his lips touched hers.

"I’m going to ruin them," he promised against her lips, his voice dropping to a low, filthy growl as he ground his hips against hers, letting her feel exactly how hard he was for her. "I’m going to absolutely wreck these fancy sheets, and you're going to let me."

He didn't wait for an answer. He kissed her deep and wet, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her, his hand sliding down between their bodies to find the damp heat of her, needing to touch, needing to claim, needing to prove that the contract was definitely, absolutely fulfilled.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

"Priorities, Ben," she managed to choke out, a breathless, incredulous laugh bubbling up in her chest before being crushed by the weight of his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until there was no air left between them. "I have... priorities."

But her priorities shifted violently the second his hand slid down.

When his fingers found the damp heat between her legs, the laugh died instantly. Her breath hitched, a soft, broken gasp vibrating against his lips as her head fell back into the expensive, high-thread-count cotton. It was too much and not enough all at once.

She didn't just let him; she invited him. Her legs fell further apart, her knees drifting wide to grant him better access, opening herself up to him completely. She felt exposed and electric, every nerve ending firing at once as he began to move, his fingers flicking and rubbing against the most sensitive part of her with a rhythm that made her vision blur.

"Do it," she whispered, the words barely forming as she arched her back off the mattress, chasing the friction, needing more of it.

Her hands weren't idle. She roamed over the sweat-damp expanse of his back, her nails dragging lightly down his spine, tracing the muscles that shifted under her touch. She gripped his shoulders, digging her fingers in, anchoring herself as the sensation built.

"Wreck them," she challenged, her voice trembling as she looked up at him with dark, dilated eyes. "I can buy more sheets. Just... don't stop."

She couldn't think. The friction of his fingers against her was the only thing tethering her to the earth, winding a coil of heat tight low in her belly. She threw her head back, a ragged moan escaping her throat as he found a rhythm that made her toes curl into the mattress.

"Benjamin," she breathed, the name fracturing on a gasp.
She didn't want him just looking; she wanted him closer. Her hands tangled into his damp hair, gripping the strands and pulling his face down to hers. She kissed him messy and hard, tasting the salt on his skin, biting at his lower lip with a desperation that matched his own.

But his hand... god, his hand. She rocked her hips up to meet his touch, chasing the pressure, her thighs trembling as she fell further apart for him. The sensation was blinding, but the barrier of the cotton between them was suddenly infuriating. She needed skin on skin everywhere.

Her hand slid down his slick chest, over his stomach, until her fingers hooked into the elastic of his black boxers. She tugged sharply, her knuckles grazing the hot, hard length of him underneath, making him hiss against her mouth.

"Off," she demanded, her voice a wreck as she pulled at the fabric. "Now. I need... I need all of you."

[Benjamin Wilder]

"Say less," Ben growled.

He didn't need to be told twice. He lifted his hips, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoving them down in one frantic, ungraceful motion. He kicked them off the end of the bed, not caring where they landed, not caring about anything except the friction of skin on skin.

He settled back between her legs, the sensation of his naked thighs brushing against hers sending a shockwave through him that nearly made his eyes roll back. He felt heavy, hard, and desperate, the adrenaline from the show now fully transmuted into a need to be as close to her as physics would allow.

He kissed her again—a searing, open-mouthed claim that tasted of mutual want—before he began his descent.

He trailed his lips down the column of her throat, feeling her pulse hammer a frantic rhythm against his mouth. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the slope of her shoulder, tasting the salt of the day and the sweetness of her skin.

When he reached her chest, he didn't rush. He lingered, admiring the way her breath hitched, the way her back arched off the mattress to meet him.

"Beautiful," he murmured against her skin, the vibration causing her to shiver.

He opened his mouth over her left breast, taking the nipple deep, his tongue swirling and teasing until it hardened against him. He sucked hard, a rhythmic pull that matched the movement of his hips, while his left hand came up to cup her other breast. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumb flicking over the peak, playing her body like an instrument he knew by heart.

But he needed to touch her everywhere. He was a glutton for her.

His right hand slid down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. The silk was damp, clinging to her, but he bypassed it, sliding his fingers straight into the wet heat of her.

"Jesus, Baby," he hissed, the sound wrecked as he felt how slick she was for him.
He worked her with a steady, punishing rhythm, his fingers sliding in and out while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. He felt her hips buck against his hand, heard the ragged, high-pitched noise she made as his mouth continued to wreck her nipple. He wanted to drown in the sound of her falling apart.

He stayed there for a long, torturous minute, splitting his focus between her chest and her center, until he felt her trembling on the edge.

"Not yet," he whispered against her breast, releasing her nipple with a wet pop. "I'm not done."

He kissed his way down her ribcage, over the flat plane of her stomach, feeling her muscles contract under his lips. When he reached the waistband of her panties, he didn't hesitate. He hooked his fingers into the sides and dragged them down, his patience officially expired.

"Gone," he said, watching her lift her hips to help him shuck the fabric down her legs. She kicked them free, leaving her completely bare, spread open on the pale sheets like a feast.
Ben sat back on his heels for a split second, his breath sawing in and out of his chest, just to look at her. She was flushed, breathless, wrecked, and absolutely perfect.

"Mine," he said, a low, guttural claim.

Then he dove.

He pressed her thighs wider and buried his face between them, his tongue broad and flat as he tasted her. He groaned against her, the flavor of her flooding his senses, intoxicating and real. He licked a long, slow stripe from bottom to top, savoring the shudder that ripped through her, before settling in. He used his hands to grip her hips, anchoring her to the mattress, and began to devour her with the same intensity he’d given the crowd an hour ago—only this performance was just for her.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The moment his mouth sealed over her, the world simply ceased to exist.

A sharp, jagged gasp tore from her throat, her head falling back against the pillows as the first wave of pure, concentrated sensation crashed into her. It was too much, and it was exactly what she needed. He was devouring her, eating her with a hunger that made her feel like the only sustenance he had ever known, and the sheer intensity of it set her skin on fire.

Her hands were restless, frantic things that didn't know where to land. First, they flew to her own breasts, clutching at the soft flesh he’d just worshipped, fingers digging in as she tried to ground herself against the mattress. But it wasn’t enough. She needed to touch him. Her hands left her body and scrambled downward, weaving instantly into the thick strands of his hair.

Her body bowed off the bed, an involuntary arch that lifted her chest high, leaving her breasts beautifully perched in the air, nipples hard and aching, offering themselves to the room while he claimed the rest of her.

She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him—something. To tell him how good it was, or to say his name. Her lips formed the shape of a word, Ben, but the only thing that escaped was a broken, strangled moan that vibrated through her entire chest.

"I... oh, god... nngh!"

He was relentless. He was prioritizing her pleasure with a focus that made her heart ache just as much as her body. He always did this. No matter how tired he was, no matter the adrenaline of the show, he always made sure she was taken care of, worshipped, seen.

The pleasure spiked, sharp and electric, traveling straight down her legs. Her toes flexed, curling tight against the sheets. With a desperate whimper, her grip in his hair tightened, and instead of pulling him away, she shoved his head down, urging him deeper, closer, harder against her core. She was drowning in him, in the way he loved her, and she never wanted to be saved.

His tongue hit a spot—that specific, maddening spot he knew the coordinates of better than he knew his own songs—and her hips jerked off the mattress, a high, keen cry tearing from her throat.

"Ben!"

It came out as a gasp, half-sob, half-prayer. Everything was narrowing down to the wet heat of his mouth and the rough scrape of his stubble against her sensitive inner thighs. The friction was unbearable in the best possible way. It felt like he was drinking her in, unspooling her nerve endings one by one until she was nothing but a vibrating wire of sensation.

She dragged her heels against the sheets, widening her legs further, abandoning all modesty. She needed more. She needed all of it. Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to anchor him right where he was, terrified he might stop, terrified he wouldn't.

"Don't stop," she panted, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears. "God, don't… right there."

Every sweep of his tongue sent a fresh jolt of electricity shooting up her spine, making her vision blur. She was melting, liquefying under his touch. It was overwhelming, the way he claimed her—so possessive, so attentive. He wasn't just getting off; he was worshipping her, dismantling her defenses with a terrifyingly skilled patience.

Her head thrashed side to side on the pillow, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The pressure was building in her lower belly, a tight, coiling spring that was winding tighter and tighter with every flick, every suck. She was dangling over the precipice, and he was the gravity pulling her down.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the change in her the second it happened—the way her hips snapped up, the way her thighs clamped tighter around his ears, the way her breath hitched into that high, desperate keening sound he wanted to bottle and keep forever.

She was close. She was right on the edge of the cliff, toes dangling over the precipice, begging him to push her.

Don't stop.

God, he wanted to finish it right here. He wanted to drink her down until she shattered against his mouth. The urge to just bury his face in her and let her ride it out was a physical ache in his jaw.

But he was greedy.

He didn't just want to watch her fall; he wanted to fall with her. He wanted to be wrapped around her, buried deep inside her, feeling those spasms clamp around him when she finally let go.

With a groan of sheer willpower, he slowed.

He didn't stop touching her—that would be cruel—but he shifted gears. He pulled his mouth away from her heat, ignoring the frustrated whimper she made, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Then another, softer this time, just a ghost of pressure.

He began to work his way up, dropping soft, lingering kisses along the path of her hips, soothing the skin he’d just overstimulated. He kissed the curve of her waist, the dip of her navel, deliberately cooling the frantic fire he’d started just so he could stoke it back up again on his own terms.

He crawled up the bed, his body hovering over hers, his forearms bracketing her head to take his weight. He looked down at her—flushed, wrecked, chest heaving, lips swollen and wet. She looked like a masterpiece he’d just ruined, and it was the proudest he’d felt all night.

He lowered his head, brushing his lips against her ear, his voice a low, rough rumble against her skin.

"I know," he whispered, feeling her tremble beneath him. "I know you're close. I can feel it."
He moved his hand down between their bodies, his fingers brushing through her slick heat, finding the entrance but not pushing inside. He just circled the opening, teasing her, reminding her that he was right there.

"But I’m selfish," he murmured, biting gently at the cord of her neck. "I don't want to be down there when it happens. I want to be inside you."

He lifted his head to look her in the eye, his gaze dark and possessive.

"I want to feel you come around me," he told her, the truth raw and unvarnished. "I want to feel you push me over the edge with you. So hold on for me, baby. Just for a second."

He shifted his hips, the tip of him brushing against her wetness, seeking the friction, lining himself up but holding back—waiting for her to look at him, to see him, to know exactly who was about to take her apart.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The loss of his mouth was a physical blow, a sudden, jarring cold that made a strangled noise tear from her throat. Her body felt like a live wire that had been snapped, the ends fraying and sparking, her skin buzzing with a frantic, unspent energy that had nowhere to go.

Every slow, open-mouthed kiss he pressed into her thigh, her waist, her stomach, felt like he was branding her. It was torture, exquisite and agonizing. Her muscles twitched, her legs trembling—buckling even though she was lying down—as if her body was trying to chase the sensation he’d just stolen from her.

When he finally loomed over her, blocking out the light, she felt small and consumed, and she loved it. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused, trying to find his face through the fog of lust. She felt raw, unraveled, her nerves vibrating so hard she thought she might shatter if he didn't put her back together.

His words rumbled through her chest, vibrating against the very skin he was tormenting. Selfish. The word hung in the air, heavy and thick.

She didn't care about selfish. She didn't care about anything except the friction she needed to survive. When he brushed against her entrance, teasing that swollen, aching bundle of nerves, her hips jerked instinctively, a sharp, broken gasp escaping her lips. She dug her heels into the mattress, trying to force the contact, trying to capture him, but he held the distance, making her whine.

His gaze locked onto hers, dark and demanding, anchoring her when she felt like she was floating away.

"Then stop talking," Cleo breathed, her voice a fractured, desperate thing that barely sounded like her own. She reached up, her fingers digging frantically into his biceps, her nails biting into the muscle as she tried to pull him down, to bridge that maddening gap. "If you want to be inside... then be inside. Don't—God, Ben, don't make me wait. I can’t... I can’t hold it."

She arched her back, offering herself up, a silent plea for him to end the ache.
"Take me," she begged, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes. "Push me over. Please."

She didn’t close her eyes. Instinct screamed at her to squeeze them shut, to lose herself in the overwhelming friction of him stretching her open, but she fought it. She forced her gaze to stay locked on his, watching the cords of his neck strain, watching the way his pupils blew wide until his eyes were almost entirely black.

There was no barrier. Nothing between them.

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow as he pushed forward—slow, thick, and devastatingly real. The raw slide of skin against skin was a shock to her system, a sudden, terrifying intimacy she had guarded against for so long. Usually, the fear would be there, the logical voice in her head listing reasons why they shouldn't.

But that voice was silent now.

In its place was the echo of the last four months. The late-night confessions, the tentative plans woven in the dark, the way they had slowly, methodically dismantled the walls between them until this moment felt less like a choice and more like gravity. This is it, she thought, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This is the end. We’re done looking.

They had chosen each other. And this—this absolute invasion, this total possession—was the seal on that promise.

He bottomed out, filling her completely, and a sob tore from her throat. She felt full, completed, anchored to the mattress by the weight of him and the weight of their future.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles together to keep him there, deep inside where he belonged. Her hands came up to cup his face, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones, refusing to let him look away.

"Benjamin," she gasped, her voice trembling but clear. She needed him to hear this. She needed him to know she was all in.

She arched into his hold, surrendering the last piece of herself she’d been holding back.

"Don't pull out," she whispered, the words rushing out on a jagged breath. "I want everything. The future... us." Her eyes searched his, pleading and fierce.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben hesitated for a fraction of a second—a microscopic pause where his brain flickered toward the duffle bag in the corner, toward the box of condoms buried under a t-shirt.

But then she begged.

Take me. Push me over.

The raw, desperate need in her voice severed the last thread of his restraint. The logic center of his brain went dark, replaced entirely by a primal, singular drive to possess her. He didn't reach for the bag. He reached down between them, wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock.

He guided the head to her entrance, brushing against the slick, swollen heat of her, and the sensation alone nearly made his knees buckle. There was no latex barrier. No dulling of the friction. It was just her. Hot, wet, and waiting.

"Baby," he groaned, the word torn from his throat as he pressed forward.

He entered her slowly, agonizingly so. The feeling of sliding into her raw was overwhelming—a shock to his system that made his breath hiss through his clenched teeth. The velvety, wet heat of her sheath clamped down on him instantly, tighter and warmer than anything he had ever felt.

He pushed deeper, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her, watching her eyes widen and her lips part in a silent gasp. He didn't stop until his hips met hers with a heavy, final thud, burying himself completely inside her.

For a moment, he couldn't move. He just held there, buried to the hilt, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles together to keep him there, deep inside where he belonged. Then her hands were on his face, holding him, forcing him to look at her.

When she spoke, the words hit him harder than the physical pleasure.

Don't pull out. I want everything. The future... us.

Ben stopped breathing.

The command short-circuited him. The last time—the only time—they’d done this without a condom, he’d pulled out with a frantic discipline because the stakes were too high. But now? She wasn't just asking for pleasure. She was asking for him. She was asking for consequences. She was asking for a life.

He looked down at her, searching her eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation. There was none. Just open, honest, terrifying love.

"Everything," he rasped, accepting the terms. Accepting the future.

He lowered his mouth to hers, sealing the promise with a slow, deep kiss. He kept the pace agonizingly slow, grinding his hips in a circle before pulling almost all the way out, then dragging himself back in. He swallowed her moan, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to mimic the long, heavy slide of his cock inside her.

The friction was maddening. Every inch of skin-on-skin contact felt electric. He could feel the ridges of her tightening around him, milking him with every slow stroke, and it was taking every ounce of willpower he possessed not to lose it right then.

He braced his weight on his left arm, muscles trembling with strain, while his right hand moved to her breast. He cupped the soft weight of it, his thumb dragging purposefully over the hardened nipple, pinching lightly as he thrust.

"You feel..." He broke the kiss, gasping for air against her neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder. "So fucking good, baby. You feel so good."

He couldn't stay slow. The heat was rising too fast, the need to claim her overpowering his restraint. He picked up the pace, his thrusts turning harder, faster, the wet slap of his skin against hers filling the quiet room.

He shifted his weight, dropping his head to her other breast. He opened his mouth over the peak, latching onto the nipple and sucking hard, pulling at the sensitive flesh in time with the driving rhythm of his hips.

He felt her back arch off the mattress, felt her inner muscles clamp down on him in a spasm that nearly sent him over the edge. He groaned, a low, animalistic sound, and drove into her harder, pounding into her with a desperate, rhythmic intensity, losing himself completely in the heat, the taste of her skin, and the absolute certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

The world outside of the bed ceased to exist. There was only the darkness behind Cleo's eyelids and the overwhelming, electric reality of Ben everywhere—inside her, on top of her, surrounding her.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, shutting out the light to focus entirely on the friction. The sensation of him—raw, bare, and scorching hot—was so intense it felt like he was touching nerves she didn't know she had. Every time he withdrew, she felt the empty ache, and every time he drove back in, it was a collision of pleasure that made her head spin.

She licked her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them, tasting the salt of her own sweat. As he shifted gears, abandoning the slow torture for a hard, demanding rhythm, her breath hitched.

Thud.

He slammed into her, and her teeth instantly sank into her bottom lip, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

Thud.

She bit down again, a sharp inhale hissing through her teeth. The force of his thrusts sent shockwaves through her soft body. Her breasts bounced and swayed with the impact, jiggling in time with the feral, heavy rhythm he was setting. The sensation of his mouth latching onto her nipple sent a bolt of lightning straight to her core, and she couldn't hold it back.

"Oh god, Ben... yes," she moaned, the sound turning into a ragged groan as he hit that deep, sweet spot again.

Her hands, which had been clutching his face, slid down the damp, straining muscles of his neck and out to his shoulders. She needed to anchor herself. She needed to hold on while he took her apart. Her fingers curled, nails digging fiercely into the skin of his shoulders and dragging down his back, marking him just as deeply as he was marking her.

She loved the weight of him. She loved the burn. She loved that there was nothing between them but heat and promise. She threw her head back into the pillow, her hips rising to meet his slaps, surrendering completely to the pounding.

"Harder," she breathed, her voice wrecked, her legs tightening their lock around his waist. "Give me... everything."

The rhythm became too much to process, a blur of friction and heat that consumed her entire world. Every heavy thrust pushed her closer to the edge of a cliff she was desperate to fall off. The pressure inside her was building to an unbearable peak, a tight, hot coil winding tighter with every second.

"Ben, Ben," she gasped, the name tearing out of her throat as a broken sob.
She couldn't keep her hips still anymore; she began to grind back against him, meeting his fury with a desperate, chaotic need of her own. Her fingernails scored down his back, digging in hard enough to leave white lines that would surely turn red, anchoring herself to him as the room began to spin behind her closed eyelids.

"Please... right there... don't stop!"

And then the dam broke.

It started as a spark deep inside, right where he was grinding against her, and exploded into a blinding white light. Her back arched violently off the mattress, her heels digging into the sheets, and a high, keen cry ripped from her lips, drowning out the wet slap of their bodies.

Oh god.

Her body seized, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic, powerful spasms, milking him, trying to wring every drop of pleasure from him. She felt herself shattering, piece by piece, dissolving into pure sensation. The pleasure came in rolling, crushing waves, crashing down so hard her toes curled and her vision went static behind her eyelids.

She was drowning in it, in him. She shook uncontrollably, her head thrashing side to side on the damp pillow, her mouth falling open in a silent scream of ecstasy. She held him there, wrapped tight around him, riding out the aftershocks until she collapsed back down, limp and gasping, her heart fluttering.

[Benjamin Wilder]

The sound of her cry—high, desperate, and completely wrecked—shattered whatever control Ben had left.

He felt her clamp down on him, her inner muscles squeezing him in a rhythmic, pulsing vice that was pure, white-hot oblivion. It was the best thing he had ever felt in his life. The sensation of her falling apart around him triggered a primitive, undeniable instinct to pour himself into the cracks.

"Fuck... that's it," he groaned, the words rough and fractured, tearing out of his throat.
He didn't slow down. He couldn't. He drove into her harder, his hips snapping with a frantic, desperate rhythm, chasing the release she was already riding. He needed to be with her. He needed to be in her.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of muscle there as he gave one final, devastating thrust.

He bottomed out deep inside her, holding himself there as the release hit him like a freight train. It started at the base of his spine and exploded outward, blinding and absolute. He spilled himself into her, pulsing hot and heavy, giving her everything she asked for—the future, the promise, the "us."

He groaned into her skin, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he emptied himself completely. It felt like he was pouring his soul into her, leaving nothing behind. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a sharp, exquisite ringing in his ears that drowned out everything else.

He held on for a long time, riding out the aftershocks, his breathing ragged and harsh in the quiet room. His heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break through to beat against hers.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the world started to come back into focus. The hum of the trailer. The smell of sex and expensive sheets. The feeling of her nails still digging into his back.

He collapsed onto her, his arms giving out, but he was careful to take most of his weight on his elbows so he didn't crush her. He was heavy, slick with sweat, and utterly spent.
He didn't pull out. He couldn't bring himself to sever the connection yet. He just lay there, buried deep, his forehead resting against hers, listening to the frantic, syncopated rhythm of their breathing as it tried to sync up.

He turned his head slightly, pressing a soft, wet kiss to her temple, then her cheek.

"Stay right here," he whispered, his voice a wrecked rasp, barely audible. "Don't move. Don't go anywhere."

He moved his hand to her hair, stroking the damp strands back from her forehead with a trembling hand, needing to see her face. He needed to see the aftermath. He needed to know she was still with him.

"Hey," he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, tasting salt. "Come back to me, Cleo. Breathe."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo let out a long, trembling exhale, her chest rising and falling against his as she fought to slow her racing heart. She didn't pull away; instead, she lifted her heavy arms, wrapping them tighter around his shoulders to anchor him to her.

She pressed her forehead firmly against his, closing the tiny distance he’d left between them, mingling their breath in the small, heated space.

"I'm here," she breathed out, her voice a soft, airy whisper against his lips. She turned her head just enough to brush a kiss over his nose, reassuring him instantly. "I'm right here, Ben. I'm okay. I promise."

Her fingers drifted up from his shoulders, her palms cupping his face gently. She used her thumbs to trace the sharp line of his jaw, wiping away a bead of sweat near his temple, her touch feather-light and adoring against the roughness of his skin. She needed him to feel how present she was, how safe they were.

"Come here," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum.

She shifted slightly beneath him, guiding him down with a gentle pressure on the back of his neck. She didn't want him holding his own weight anymore; she wanted to take it all. She guided him until he slumped forward, tucking his head down so his cheek rested heavily against the soft swell of her breast, using her body as his pillow.

Once he was settled, heavy and warm against her, she began to weave her fingers through his damp hair. She scratched lightly at his scalp, a slow, hypnotic rhythm meant to lull him into the quiet. She stared up at the ceiling of the trailer, her chest rising and falling beneath his cheek, holding him close as the world outside the room slowly ceased to exist.

Her hand continued its steady, soothing path through his hair, twisting the damp strands around her fingers before smoothing them back down. The silence in the trailer was heavy and comfortable, broken only by their breathing finally finding a matching cadence.

She bit her lip, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as reality—and a very specific physical need—started to intrude on the bliss.

"Ben?" she whispered into the top of his head, her voice vibrating slightly against his ear where he lay pressed to her chest. She paused, waiting a beat to make sure he wasn't already asleep. "You hungry? I’m starving."

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben was floating.

He was pretty sure his bones had liquefied. He was currently existing as a heavy, sweaty puddle of organic matter draped over the only solid thing in the universe. Her heartbeat was thumping against his ear—thud-thud, thud-thud—a steady, percussive rhythm that was infinitely more calming than the click track he’d been living with for months.

He felt her fingers scratching his scalp, and he let out a long, ragged sigh that deflated his lungs completely. It was the kind of touch that usually put him to sleep in under thirty seconds. He was drifting, hovering somewhere between consciousness and a coma, wrapped in the scent of her skin and the lingering static of what they’d just done.

Then she dropped the bomb.

You hungry? I’m starving.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, vibrating against her ribs before escaping as a low, raspy huff. Of course. Of course she was starving. They had just burned enough calories to power a small generator, and Cleo’s priority setting had immediately switched from "soul-bonding" to "sustenance."

God, he loved her.

"I could eat a house," he mumbled into her skin, his voice muffled and thick with sleep. "I could eat this trailer. I could eat the drywall."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her breast, right over her heart, thanking it for doing the heavy lifting, then groaned as the reality of physics set in. To eat, he had to move. To move, he had to separate himself from the warmth, and that sounded like a terrible administrative decision.

"But I can't move," he complained, his words slurring slightly. "My limbs have been deactivated. You broke me. You have to feed me like a baby bird."

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with her scent one last time, and forced his muscles to cooperate. He pushed himself up slowly, his arms trembling as they took his weight again. The slide of pulling out of her felt like losing a limb—a sudden, cold absence that made him hiss softly through his teeth.

He collapsed onto his side next to her, immediately throwing an arm over her waist and hooking his leg over hers to re-establish the perimeter. He wasn't letting her get too far.

He blinked his eyes open, the room swimming into focus. He looked at her—hair a beautiful, tangled disaster, lips swollen and bitten, eyes bright in the dim light. She looked like rock and roll. She looked like trouble.

"Okay," he said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek. "What are we thinking? I saw a pizza box in the kitchenette earlier. Please tell me it wasn't a prop. Please tell me it has contents."

He paused, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

"Also," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, serious and soft. "I meant it. Everything I said. Future. Us. All of it."

He smirked, a faint echo of his usual charm breaking through the exhaustion.

"But mostly the pizza right now. If there's pepperoni, I might cry."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t rush to answer. She just watched him for a second—really looked at him—like she was taking inventory now that the adrenaline had finally drained out of him. The way his arm stayed locked around her waist. The way his thumb kept tracing her mouth like he was grounding himself there.

Her hand came up to his face, slow and familiar, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, fingers sliding into his hair at his temple. She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didn’t need an audience.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “There’s pizza.”

She leaned in closer as she said it, her forehead brushing his, her voice dropping like it was a secret meant just for him.

“And yes,” she added, lips hovering near his ear now, “it’s your favorite. The real one. Not the ‘we’re desperate and it’s 1 a.m.’ version.”

Her thumb traced his jaw, then tipped his chin up just enough so he had to look at her.

“I brought it,” she said simply, like that explained everything—which it kind of did.

She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for half a beat before pulling back just enough to see his reaction, her eyes warm and amused.

“You play a set like that,” she murmured, still stroking his face, “you don’t get fed drywall. You get fed properly.”

Her hand slid back to his chest, keeping him close.

“But we’re not moving yet,” she added, teasing, steady. “You need about thirty more seconds of pretending you’re not going to cry over pepperoni.”

Cleo adjusted beneath him without asking him to move, shifting just enough so his weight settled more comfortably along her body instead of fighting gravity. She liked the heaviness of him there. The way it pressed her into the mattress, real and warm and unmistakably him.

Her hands slid up his back, slow and deliberate, palms flattening between his shoulder blades as if she was smoothing him down, coaxing him out of the static. One hand drifted into his hair, fingers combing through the damp curls at the back of his head, scratching lightly at his scalp until she felt his breath change.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben let out a sound that was half-groan, half-purr as her fingernails scraped lightly against his scalp. It was a tactical strike. She knew exactly where the buttons were to shut down his operating system, and she was pressing them with ruthless efficiency.

"Thirty seconds," he mumbled into the curve of her neck, his voice muffled and vibrating against her skin. "I can do thirty seconds. I can do a minute. Honestly, if you keep scratching my head like that, I might just live here. You'll have to build the pizza box around me."

He closed his eyes, soaking in the sensation. The scalp scratch was top-tier, but the information she’d just dropped was vital.

The real one.

His brain, currently swimming in a haze of endorphins and exhaustion, tried to process the logistics. She must have had a runner go get it. Or she smuggled it in herself, hiding a grease-stained box under a blanket like it was nuclear launch codes.

"You are a wizard," he whispered, turning his head just enough to press a kiss to her collarbone. "You anticipated the crash. You pre-gamed the hunger. That is... that is unparalleled management, Cleo. I am putting you in charge of the entire tour. Everyone else is fired."

He felt the heavy, comfortable weight of his own body settling onto hers, and for once, he didn't feel the urge to pull away or check his phone or worry about the time. The silence in the trailer wasn't demanding. It was just... pause.

He opened his eyes, looking up at her from his position on her chest. The view—her chin, the curve of her throat, the messy hair framing her face—was better than any skyline he’d seen from a hotel window.

"And for the record," he said, shifting his hand to rest flat on her stomach, his thumb brushing back and forth over her skin. "I reserve the right to be emotional about the pepperoni. It’s been a long day. I have had a lot of feelings. The pepperoni is just the straw that breaks the camel's back."

He smirked, soft and lazy, but his eyes were serious as he watched her.
"But you're right," he murmured, the humor fading into something warmer, deeper. "I'm not moving yet."

He squeezed her waist gently, anchoring himself.

"Because the pizza is great, and I am going to destroy it," he admitted quietly. "But this? Being right here? This is the actual fuel."

He rested his cheek back against her breast, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart, feeling the way her breath hitched and slowed. He closed his eyes again, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

"So take your time," he whispered into the quiet. "I'm not going anywhere."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo kept her fingers moving through his hair, slow and unhurried, nails grazing just enough to make him melt without ever breaking the quiet spell they’d fallen into. She felt the sound he made against her skin more than she heard it, and it pulled a soft laugh out of her chest.

“Thirty seconds,” she echoed gently, amused. “You say that like you’ve ever respected a time limit in your life.”

Her thumb traced small circles at the base of his skull while her other hand stayed steady at his shoulder, grounding him there. When he started talking about firing everyone, she chuckled again, the sound warm and low.

“Absolutely not,” she said, smiling to herself. “I am not managing a tour. That’s a nightmare with spreadsheets.”

Her hand slid back into his hair, affectionate, sure.

“But,” she added, tilting her head slightly so her cheek brushed his curls, “I can definitely manage you, Benjamin. When you need it. Which is… more often than you think.”

When he lifted his head to look at her, she met his eyes easily. No deflection. No jokes to dodge it. Just honesty, sitting right there between them.

“I am scared,” she admitted softly, nodding once. “Terrified? Yeah. Absolutely.”

Her fingers didn’t stop moving, though. If anything, they became steadier, more certain.

“But I’m not running,” she went on, shaking her head slightly. “Not ahead. Not away. I’m right here.”

She brushed her thumb along his temple, then down to his cheek, her touch gentle but deliberate.

“And if pepperoni is what tips you over the edge tonight,” she added with a faint smile, “then we’ll let it. You’ve earned at least one emotional breakdown over pizza.”

Her arms tightened around him just a little, enough to make it clear she was holding him exactly where he was.

“Fuel works both ways,” she murmured. “You can stay as long as you need.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

"Terrified is good," Ben murmured into the hollow of her throat, his voice vibrating against her pulse. "Terrified is sane. Terrified means you read the fine print."

He turned his face just enough to press a kiss to her skin, lingering there.

"I'm terrified too, Cleo. All the time. I wake up scared I'm going to mess this up. Scared the noise is going to get too loud and scare you off."

He lifted his head then, propping his chin on her chest so he could look her dead in the eye. His hair was falling into his eyes, messy and unstyled, and he didn't bother to fix it.

"But you're not running," he repeated, testing the weight of the words. He smiled, a slow, tired, genuine thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "That’s the headline. You can be scared. You can be managing spreadsheets in your nightmares. As long as you’re here."

He moved his hand from her waist to capture the hand that was playing with his hair, interlocking their fingers and bringing her knuckles to his lips.

"And yes," he admitted, letting out a long, dramatic sigh that deflated his whole body back onto hers. "I need management. I am a chaos engine. Without you, I’d probably be eating a granola bar in a ditch right now. You are critical infrastructure."

He stayed there for another beat, soaking in the quiet, the safety, the absolute miracle that she was real and she was his.

Then, his stomach growled. Loudly. It was a roar that vibrated through both of them.
Ben groaned, dropping his forehead against her sternum.

"Okay," he mumbled, defeated by his own biology. "The machine requires fuel. The emotional breakdown over pepperoni has been scheduled."

He squeezed her hand one last time, then summoned every ounce of willpower he possessed to roll off her. The loss of warmth was immediate and tragic, but the promise of carbohydrates was a strong motivator.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his chaotic hair, his back to her. He looked over his shoulder, a grin flashing in the dim light—boyish, hungry, and completely in love.

"Don't move," he commanded playfully, pointing a finger at her. "I am going to hunt and gather. I will return with the spoils. If there is garlic sauce, I might propose."

He stood up, naked and unashamed, and padded out toward the kitchenette to retrieve the holy grail.

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled as he talked, the kind of smile that lived more in her eyes than her mouth. She listened to him without interrupting, her thumb still brushing slow, familiar paths through his hair until he finally shifted his weight and rolled away.

When the warmth left, she felt it immediately—but she didn’t chase it. She just watched him go, still smiling, still soft.

As soon as he disappeared toward the kitchenette, she pushed herself upright, the mattress creaking quietly beneath her. She gathered the sheet up with both hands and pulled it over her chest, tucking it securely under her arms the way she always did, instinctive and comfortable rather than shy. The fabric pooled around her waist as she settled back against the headboard.

She reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering there for a second, smoothing it back into place. Her face felt warm—not flushed, not overwhelmed—just content in that deep, settled way she hadn’t known she was capable of until recently.

“Terrified’s fine,” she murmured to herself, mostly fond, mostly amused.

She glanced toward the kitchenette, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving around, the trailer alive in that small, domestic way. Her smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew steadier—less dazzled, more sure.

She waited there, wrapped in the covers, relaxed and happy, like she belonged exactly where she was.

Cleo heard him before she saw him—the soft shuffle of bare feet, the quiet rustle of cardboard, the unmistakable sound of someone trying very hard not to drop food on the floor. She looked up, still tucked into the bed, sheet snug under her arms, and her smile came easily, unguarded.

He came back into view like a prize he’d wrestled from the wild, pizza box held triumphantly in one hand and two cold Coronas hooked by the necks in the other, lime wedges already jammed in like he’d planned ahead. Shoulders loose now, posture lighter. The moment he caught her eye, something in his face shifted—relief, joy, that boyish glow that only showed up when he felt safe landing somewhere.

“There you are,” she said softly, not accusatory, not urgent. Just pleased.

She shifted a little higher against the headboard, knees drawing up under the covers, making room for him without moving from where she was. Her gaze tracked him openly as he crossed back toward the bed, steam and garlic and comfort filling the small trailer, the bottles clinking quietly with each step.

“You look very successful,” she added, amusement warming her voice. “Like a man who conquered his quest.”

When he set the pizza box down and lifted the beers slightly in a wordless see?, she laughed under her breath. As he turned back to her, she reached out, fingers catching lightly at his wrist—not to stop him, just to touch. Just to remind him she was still here.

Her thumb brushed over his skin, slow and familiar.

“I’m happy,” she said simply, like it was an observation rather than a confession. She didn’t overthink it. Didn’t dress it up. “I was just… waiting.”

She leaned forward enough to press a soft kiss to his shoulder, content, unhurried, the moment stretching comfortably around them.

“Come here,” she murmured, smiling, eyes flicking to the beers and then back to him. “Eat with me.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben climbed back onto the mattress, balancing the pizza box on his knees like it was a sacred text and gripping the sweating beers in his left hand.

"Quest complete," he announced, his voice regaining some of that playful, stage-ready cadence, though it was softer now. Roughened by the last twenty minutes. "Although, full disclosure: the cargo has sustained some thermal damage. It is no longer molten lava hot. It is now... aggressively lukewarm."

He set the beers on the small nightstand—carefully, avoiding the perilous tilt—and placed the box between them on the duvet. He flipped the lid open. The smell of pepperoni, garlic, and slightly congealed cheese wafted up, and to Ben, it smelled like five-star dining.

"But considering the specific nature of the delay," he added, flashing a grin that was all boyish charm and no regret, "I think we can accept the compromise. I’d trade hot cheese for the Peeling Clause any day of the week."

He looked at her then—really looked at her.

She was wrapped in the white sheet, hair messy, shoulders bare, looking like some kind of indie-movie angel that had decided to crash in his trailer. When she said I’m happy, the words hit him harder than the adrenaline crash.

He paused, a slice of pepperoni pizza halfway to his mouth. He set it back down.

"Happy," he repeated, testing the word. He liked the sound of it in this room. He liked the weight of it.

He shifted his hips, sliding closer until his bare leg pressed against her sheet-covered one, re-establishing the contact he couldn't seem to live without for more than thirty seconds.

"You know," he murmured, leaning in to press a quick, greasy-fingered kiss to her cheek, right where she’d kissed his shoulder. "That’s the best review I’ve gotten all night. Better than the encore. Better than the paycheck."

He picked the slice back up, folding it in half with the expertise of a man who had eaten 90% of his meals standing up or in a moving vehicle.

"And for the record," he said, taking a bite and closing his eyes for a second in pure, unadulterated bliss as the flavor hit him. He swallowed, pointing the crust at her. "I am also happy. I am ecstatic. I am a man with a naked girlfriend, a cold beer, and lukewarm pepperoni. I have peaked, Cleo. It’s all downhill from here."

He nudged the box toward her, offering the bounty.

"Eat," he commanded gently, watching her with a gaze that was soft, heavy, and completely unguarded. "Before I lose my manners and inhale the whole thing. I’m a growing boy, remember?"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled when he climbed back onto the bed, the pizza box wobbling on his knees like it was something precious and precarious. She watched the careful way he set the beers down, the exaggerated focus, the tiny domestic rituals that still felt new enough to notice.

“Lukewarm is fine,” she said easily, voice soft, unbothered. “It’s earned a little rest. So have you.”

When he opened the box and the smell filled the trailer, she laughed quietly, the sound warm and real. She shifted closer, the sheet slipping just enough to show a bare shoulder before she tugged it back up, more habit than modesty. His leg pressed against hers and she leaned into it without thinking, like her body had already decided where it belonged.

“Happy,” she echoed when he said it again, nodding once. “Yeah. That one sticks.”

She tilted her head when he kissed her cheek, smiling into it, eyes closing for half a second like she was cataloging the feeling for later. When he declared his peak, she snorted softly.

“Downhill from here, huh?” she said, amused. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

She reached for a slice when he nudged the box toward her, fingers brushing his as she took it. She didn’t rush. She took a bite, chewed slowly, eyes on him the whole time like she was studying something familiar and still surprising.

“Mm,” she murmured. “Still perfect. You chose well.”

She leaned back against the headboard, one knee bumping his thigh under the covers, comfortable, full in that quiet way that had nothing to do with food.

“And don’t worry,” she added gently, glancing at the pizza and then back at him. “I’m eating. You’re safe. Your manners are intact.”

She lifted her slice slightly toward him, a small toast.

“To peaks,” she said softly. “And not rushing past them.”

Cleo shifted a little closer after that, settling into the pillows with the sheet still tucked under her arms, pizza balanced carefully in one hand. She took another bite, slower this time, then reached out with her free hand to rest it on his knee—just there, not asking for anything, not pulling, just anchoring.

She watched him chew, watched the way his shoulders finally dropped now that the night was behind him, the performance already turning into memory. The hum in the trailer felt softer, like even the walls were exhaling.

“You did amazing today,” she said quietly, not loud enough to carry past the thin aluminum. It wasn’t praise the way fans gave it. It was steadier than that. “I know you always wonder if it landed. It did. I thought the girl next to me was going to have a panic attack, she was crying so hard.”

She leaned her head back, eyes flicking up to the ceiling for a second, then back to him, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

“I like this version of the after,” she added. “No noise. No rush. Just… us decompressing with yummy pizza choices.”

Her thumb brushed once, absent-minded, against his knee.

She lifted her slice again, taking another bite, contentment settling in her chest like something earned rather than accidental.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben chewed slowly, savoring the collision of garlic, grease, and lukewarm cheese. It wasn't just sustenance; it was a religious experience. He washed it down with a sip of cold Corona, feeling the carbonation bite pleasantly at the back of his throat.

When Cleo spoke, her voice low and steady against the hum of the trailer, Ben stopped chewing.

You did amazing today.

The tension he hadn’t even realized he was still carrying in his jaw finally let go. He swallowed, looking at her with an intensity that had nothing to do with the stage lights. Hearing it from the label was fine. Hearing it from the fans was a rush. But hearing it from Cleo? That was the only rubric he actually graded himself on.

"Panic attack crying?" he asked, a small, crooked smile touching his lips. "Good. That's the demographic I'm aiming for. Emotional devastation."

He chuckled, but it was soft, self-deprecating. He shifted his leg under the sheet, pressing closer to her warmth.

"Honestly, though?" He looked down at his half-eaten slice, then back up at her, his expression sobering. "I couldn't tell. From up there, it's just a wall of noise and light. I spend half the set terrified I'm losing them. But if you say it landed... then I believe it."

He reached out, covering her hand on his knee with his own, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

"Your opinion is the only one that actually scares me, Cleo. You see the cracks. If you say it was good, then I can finally turn my brain off."

He looked around the cramped trailer—the wood paneling, the messy bed, the pile of clothes on the floor, the woman in the sheet holding a slice of pepperoni pizza like a scepter.

A year ago, he would have been at some sponsored after-party right now. He would be standing in a VIP tent, wearing sunglasses at night, nursing a drink he didn't want, talking to people who didn't know his middle name, waiting for permission to leave.

"And you're right," he murmured, his gaze coming back to her, heavy with affection. "This version of the after? Unbeatable. I've done the tents. I've done the Neon Carnival. It’s loud, it’s sweaty, and nobody actually eats."

He raised his beer bottle, clinking it gently against the crust of her pizza slice.
"To the quiet," he whispered, his voice rough and sincere. "To lukewarm pepperoni. And to the fact that I am currently in bed with the prettiest girl at Coachella, and I didn't even have to wear a wristband to get here."

He took another bite of his pizza, chewing with a contented hum, feeling the bone-deep exhaustion finally starting to feel like rest instead of a crash.

"We are absolutely staying in," he decided, pointing his slice at the door. "If anyone knocks, we're dead. Or contagious. You pick the lie."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled at the way he lifted his beer, at the way he tried to wrap something sacred in humor before letting himself actually feel it.

She shifted closer, the sheet sliding slightly as she leaned her shoulder into his side, grounding herself in the familiar weight of him. The trailer hummed softly around them—generator noise in the distance, muted footsteps passing outside, a world still moving even though theirs had paused. The smell of pepperoni, dust, and sweat lingered in the air, unmistakably real.

Earlier, she’d been in the crowd—right side, a little back from the barricade, exactly where she could see him without being seen too much herself. It was different out there. No buffer. No quiet. Just bodies pressed together, heat, sound. She’d felt the bass in her ribs before she ever saw him, the lights sweeping over the desert like something unreal. And when he came out, the noise had hit her full force—thousands of girls screaming his name, hands in the air, voices cracking with something between joy and possession.

It still startled her, that sound. Not jealousy—she knew the difference now—but the sheer scale of it. The way loving him meant sharing him with a thousand strangers who felt something real and unearned all at once. She’d stood there with her beer sweating through her fingers, watching girls cry when he smiled, scream when he stepped closer to the edge of the stage. It was overwhelming in a quiet, private way. Like standing near the ocean and realizing it could take something from you if it wanted to.

There had been a time—years ago—when she hadn’t understood how lonely it could feel to love someone whose life existed in public. Back then, dating meant inside jokes, late dinners, anonymity. Now it meant standing in a crowd where no one knew her name, listening to people shout his like a prayer. Sometimes that scared her. Sometimes it made her feel small. And sometimes—tonight included—it made her feel steady. Because she knew where he was looking when the lights dipped. She knew exactly which side of the stage he checked between songs.

“You always do that,” she said softly now, her voice calm, unhurried. “You act like you’re aiming for chaos, when really you just want it to feel honest.”

She glanced down at their hands, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, and let herself stay there for a moment. This was the part no one photographed. No wristbands. No noise. Just pizza grease, quiet breathing, and the aftermath.

“You didn’t lose them,” she added gently, certain. “I was right there. I watched their faces. You had them the whole time.”

When he joked about lying if someone knocked, she shook her head, a small laugh slipping out—easy, unbraced.

“No,” she said simply. “We don’t need to lie.”

She leaned back just enough to really look at him—not the headliner, not the guy on posters, but the one sitting barefoot on a mattress with pizza on his knee.

“We’ll just tell them the truth,” she continued, grounded and sure. “That we’re in happy domestic bliss. That we’re unavailable. That we’d prefer to remain completely unbothered.”

The words felt good in her mouth. Chosen. Intentional.

She leaned in then, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—affectionate, unhidden, unafraid. Not rushed. Not performed. Just theirs.

When she pulled back, she stayed close, her shoulder still against his chest.

“I know I can’t stay invisible forever,” she added quietly, not heavy—just honest. “And I know I share you. I always will.”

Her gaze softened as she looked at him.

“But right now? Right here?”
She smiled, small and sure.
“This part is ours.”

Then, gently, she nudged the pizza box toward him with the back of her hand.

“Now eat,” she murmured. “Before you turn into a headline for entirely the wrong reason.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben stopped chewing.

The bite of pizza sat heavy in his mouth for a second before he swallowed it down, the flavor forgotten. He set the slice back in the box, wiping his hands on a napkin with slow, deliberate movements. The playful energy that had been buzzing in the room dampened, replaced by something thicker. Heavier.

I know I share you.

The words landed softly, without malice, but they hit him like a physical weight in the center of his chest.

He looked at her—sitting there with the sheet tucked under her arms, hair messy, looking at him with that steady, accepting gaze that always made him feel like he could stop running. She wasn't complaining. She was just stating a fact of their life, a term of the contract she’d signed when she fell in love with him.

But he hated it.

He hated that she had to stand in the dark while he stood in the light. He hated that she had to watch strangers scream his name and feel like she had to carve out a little corner of him just to keep for herself.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and rough.

He shifted on the mattress, turning fully toward her, ignoring the pizza, ignoring the beer. He reached out, his hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse.

"You don't share me, Cleo."

He waited until her eyes locked on his, until he was sure she was really listening.
"You share the noise," he corrected gently, intense and quiet. "You share the guy who runs around on that stage and sweats and makes faces and sings the songs. That guy? Yeah. He belongs to the crowd for ninety minutes. They can have him."

He leaned in closer, his forehead resting against hers, his hand sliding into her hair to hold her there.

"But this guy?" He bumped his nose against hers. "The one who eats cold pizza in the nude? The one who’s scared he’s going to forget the lyrics? The one who needs you to scratch his head just to fall asleep?"

He kissed her softly, a seal on the promise.

"Nobody else gets him. Nobody else even knows he exists. He’s not shared property. He’s exclusively yours. I checked the deed. It’s in your name."

He pulled back just enough to see her face, his expression softening into that lopsided, tired smile.

"So let them have the headline. Let them have the photos. I don't care about any of that. I only care about the part where I get to come back here and hide with you."

He ran his thumb over her lower lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth and then back up.
"Happy domestic bliss," he echoed, liking the sound of it more than he should. "Unavailable. Unbothered. I like that policy. I’m going to have security print it on the laminates for the next tour."

He picked up his pizza slice again, the mood shifting back from intense to comfortable, but the weight of the promise still hanging in the air.

"Now," he said, taking a bite and chewing with renewed purpose. "I am going to eat this. And if anyone knocks, I will personally bark like a dog until they go away. I’m very committed to the bit."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t interrupt him. She let the quiet stretch while he spoke, let the seriousness land the way it needed to. Her expression softened—not wounded, not defensive—just steady. When his hand came to her neck, she leaned into it instinctively, her pulse calm under his thumb, her breathing even.

“I know,” she said gently when he finished, her voice low and sure. “I hear what you’re saying. And I believe you.”

She reached up, brushing her thumb along his wrist, grounding him the same way he was grounding her.

“And I’m not saying it like it’s a loss,” she added. “It’s just… the shape of it. I share the noise, like you said. I share the schedule and the waiting and the screaming and the nights where you come back hoarse and vibrating. That part doesn’t scare me the way it used to.”

She smiled faintly when he talked about barking at people, the tension easing out of her shoulders.

“But,” she continued, shifting a little closer, “unfortunately for you… you do have to share me.”

She reached into the pizza box and took a bite from the slice her sister had already abandoned earlier—cheese stretching, pepperoni sliding just a little before snapping free. She chewed slowly, unapologetic, then washed it down with a long drink of her beer, the bottle cool against her palm.

“You have to share me with my sister,” she said simply. “That part isn’t negotiable.”

She set the bottle down and looked back at him, eyes warm, teasing but sincere.

“And someday,” she added, quieter now, “other little people might get me too.”

She nudged his knee lightly with hers, a small smile pulling at her mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about names,” she admitted, like she was talking about something ordinary and safe. “Unisex ones. Ones that don’t feel boxed in.”

She paused just long enough to make sure he was really listening.

“Sage,” she said first, fond and certain. “And Briar.”

Her smile widened just a touch, softer at the edges.

“They feel grounded,” she said. “Like people who know how to grow without asking permission.”

She leaned in then, pressing a quiet kiss to the corner of his mouth—affectionate, familiar—before settling back against him again.

“So yes,” she finished lightly, her forehead resting against his. “You’re exclusively mine. No confusion there.”

Then, with a soft exhale and another sip of beer—

“But I come with layers. You’ll figure it out.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, letting the cold glass rest against his bottom lip as he processed the terms and conditions she was laying out.

"Phoebe," he said, nodding slowly as he lowered the bottle. "I accept the terms. I will share you with Phoebe."

He pointed a finger at her, his expression serious but his eyes dancing with a laid-back, calculated amusement.

"But you need to understand the economics of that deal. That is a win-win for me. Because if Phoebe has you, that means she’s distracted. And if Phoebe is distracted, that means I get custody of Jax."

He grinned then, the thought of his best friend—who was currently enduring Phoebe’s terrifyingly competent management style—making him feel a lot better about the arrangement.

"I haven't had quality time with that guy in months. We need to go stand near a grill and talk about nothing. If sharing you means I get my best friend back in the rotation, I am signing that contract immediately."

But then she dropped the other names.

Sage. Briar.

A year ago, those words would have sounded like a siren. A year ago, if Cleo had started listing off baby names in the afterglow of a hookup, Ben would have been looking for the exit sign. He would have felt the walls of the trailer closing in, the crushing weight of expectation choking out the fun.

But he looked at her now—messy hair, pizza in hand, that calm, surfer-girl confidence radiating off her like heat—and he didn't feel the panic.

He felt... grounded.

Especially considering what they’d just done. He’d spent the last twenty minutes making sure that those names weren't just hypothetical concepts anymore. He hadn't pulled out. He hadn't hesitated. He had doubled down on "us."

"Sage and Briar," he repeated, testing the syllables in the quiet air.

He tilted his head, considering it.

"I like 'em," he decided, his voice low and raspy. "They sound cool. Like... half rock star, half surfer. Like kids who are going to steal my vinyl collection and your surfboard and be cooler than both of us by the time they're ten."

He set his pizza crust back in the box and wiped his hands, shifting his weight so he could lean back into the pillows, pulling her with him until she was tucked into his side again.

"But here's the thing about those 'little people,'" he murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head, his hand finding hers under the sheet.

"They're going to be half me, Cleo. Which means you're not just sharing yourself with them."

He squeezed her hand, a solid, possessive pressure.

"You're sharing them with me. We're splitting the equity. 50/50."

He closed his eyes, visualizing it for a second—a chaotic, loud, messy future with little versions of them running around, named Sage and Briar, causing trouble. It didn't look scary. It looked like the only thing that made sense.

"I can do 50/50," he whispered into her hair. "As long as they get your patience. If they get my attention span, we’re doomed."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo listened to him over the rim of her bottle, eyes warm, mouth tipped into that half-smile she got when he was being serious but trying to hide it behind charm. She shifted closer on the mattress, the sheet rustling as she tucked her leg against his, her fingers sliding along his wrist, grounding herself in the familiar feel of him.

“Sharing me with Phoebe is non-negotiable,” she said lightly, amused. “She came first. I don’t make the rules, I just live under her jurisdiction.” Her thumb traced the inside of his forearm as she looked up at him. “But—” her tone softened, more thoughtful now, “are you going on a break anytime soon?”

She tilted her head, searching his face. “Because if you are… I want us to go somewhere. All four of us. I haven’t really seen my sister.” A small shrug. “Not the way I want to. I love being out here with you, I really do—but I miss her. A vacation that doesn’t involve wristbands or itineraries sounds kind of perfect.”

When he said the names out loud, tested them like chords, she laughed quietly, a little embarrassed and a little delighted.

“They’re so L.A.,” she admitted, chuckling. “I know. I hear it when I say them. But I like that they sound like sunlight and scraped knees and barefoot kids.” She nodded as he talked about vinyls and surfboards, eyes lighting up. “Oh, they’re absolutely stealing both. And breaking them. And somehow making it look cooler than we ever could.”

“I can’t wait,” she said softly, and meant it in a way that wasn’t rushed or reckless—just open. She leaned in, tapping his nose with her index finger, smiling. “I hope they get your puppy-dog eyes and that big stupid smile you do when you’re pretending not to care.”

Her expression softened when he talked about sharing, about equity, about halves. She squeezed his hand back, steady and sure.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Half you. Half me. I know.” Her voice warmed with the truth of it. “And I can’t wait for that either.”

She shifted closer until her shoulder fit perfectly beneath his chin, her fingers slipping up into his hair, slow and familiar. “I don’t need it to be neat,” she added. “I just want it to be real. Loud sometimes. Quiet when it needs to be. Ours.”

She smiled into him, content, already picturing it—not as a fantasy, but as something possible.

[Benjamin Wilder]

"A vacation," Ben repeated, the word tasting sweeter than the beer.

He shifted his weight, pulling his arm tighter around her to bring her fully onto his chest. He rested his chin on the top of her head, staring up at the dark wood paneling of the trailer ceiling as he did the mental math of his Google Calendar.

"I have three weeks," he said, the realization hitting him with a wave of relief. "After San Diego. Three weeks where I don't have to be Ben Wilder. I don't have to do soundcheck. I don't have to smile at radio DJs."

He looked down at her, a grin spreading across his face—the exact 'stupid smile' she had just accused him of having.

"If you're telling me I can spend those three weeks on a beach with you, watching Jax try to surf and fail miserably while Phoebe yells at him? That’s not a vacation, Cleo. That’s paradise. Book it. Tell Phoebe to pack her sunscreen. I’m paying."

He kissed her forehead, lingering there for a second, breathing her in. The idea of disappearing with her—really disappearing, not just hiding in a trailer for an hour—felt like the only thing that mattered.

But then she brought up the eyes. And the smile.

He huffed a laugh, vibrating against her ribs.

"First of all," he murmured, his hand sliding down her back to rest possessively on her hip. "My smile is a precision instrument. It’s industry standard. Calling it 'stupid' is a direct attack on my brand."

He rolled his eyes, but his hand tightened on her, gentle and grounding.

"But if we’re putting in orders with the universe..." He paused, his voice dropping, losing the joke. "I hope they get your calm. I hope they get that thing you do where you just sit in a room and the whole world slows down to match you. Because if they get my energy and your face? We’re in trouble. They’re going to run the world."

He thought about Sage and Briar. He thought about scraped knees and sunlight. He thought about the fact that ten minutes ago, he might have just started the process of meeting them.

The terror was still there, buzzing in the back of his mind, but it was quieter now. It was drowned out by the feeling of her hand in his hair and the absolute certainty that he didn't want to do any of this—the loud parts or the quiet parts—with anyone else.

"Real," he echoed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Loud, quiet, messy. I’m in. I’m all the way in."

He reached for his beer again, taking a long sip, then rested the cold bottle against her bare arm, making her squirm just to hear her laugh.

"But seriously," he whispered, grinning against her skin. "We need to get Jax to a beach. I need to see him sunburned. It’s good for my soul."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo smiled into his chest when he said it out loud, the word settling between them like something already half-real. Vacation. She shifted so her cheek rested over his heart, listening to it thud—steady, present—while his arm tightened around her.

“Three weeks,” she echoed softly, letting the number stretch. “That sounds… unreal.” Her fingers traced slow lines along his ribs, grounding herself in the fact that this wasn’t hypothetical. “No schedules. No wristbands. No pretending to care about green rooms.”

When he painted the picture—Jax flailing in the water, Phoebe yelling from the sand—she laughed, the sound warm and easy. “I would pay money to see that,” she said. “Phoebe with a whistle? Jax absolutely convinced he’s a natural athlete? I’m already relaxed.”

She tipped her head back enough to look at him, her expression fond and certain. “Paradise sounds right,” she agreed. “And I love that you’re already paying. Very generous of you. Very on brand.”

At his protest about the smile, she scoffed quietly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “Please,” she murmured. “Your brand will survive. I promise.”

When his voice dropped and he talked about what he hoped they’d inherit, she went still in that way she did when something landed exactly where it needed to. She nodded, slow and thoughtful. “I hope so too,” she said. “Calm is a learned skill. I can teach that.” A small smile curved. “Energy, though? That’s all you. We’ll just… redirect.”

She kissed his temple, lingering, then hummed when the cold bottle touched her arm, squirming despite herself. “You’re evil,” she laughed, nudging him with her knee. “Put that thing away.”

Then, when he mentioned booking it—really booking it—she shifted again, reaching out to the night table. Her phone was there, still plugged in, screen lighting up the dim trailer as she unplugged it. She propped herself on one elbow against him, thumb already scrolling, comfortable and decisive.

“Okay,” she said, practical but excited, eyes flicking between the screen and his face. “Where do you want to go?” A grin tugged at her mouth. “There are a ton of beaches.”

Cleo’s thumb slowed as she scrolled, the glow of the screen lighting up her face in soft flashes of blues and whites. She made a little thinking sound under her breath, brows knitting, then relaxing again as she flicked past beaches like she was flipping through postcards.

“Okay, so—classic tropical,” she murmured, half to herself. “Warm water, palm trees, very predictable.” Another scroll. “Pretty, but predictable.”

She shifted slightly on his chest, getting more comfortable, one leg hooking lazily over his. Her finger paused. Then stopped.

“Oh,” she said, eyes widening just a touch. A smile spread, slow and delighted, like she’d found a secret.
“Ooooh.”

She turned the phone so he could see, angling it between them, excitement creeping into her voice.

“Wait. What if we go to the Blue Lagoon.”

She laughed softly, already sold. “Like—hot water, cold air. Steam everywhere. You in a robe pretending you’re not freezing. Me refusing to get out because it feels like a bath built by gods.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, bright. “It’s not loud. It’s not party energy. It’s quiet and weird and kind of dreamy.” She tapped the screen once, decisive. “Very us hiding-from-the-world coded.”

She leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

“And,” she added lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice, “I think watching Jax attempt to relax in geothermal water while Phoebe reads the rules out loud might actually heal me.”

She grinned, settling back against him. “Tell me you don’t love it.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben blinked at the screen, his brain doing a rapid tactical recalibration from "white sand and coconuts" to "volcanic rocks and steam."

He leaned in closer, squinting at the glowing blue water on her phone, then looked up at her with a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face.

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "That is a pivot. We just went from 'Surfin' USA' to 'Björk music video.' I respect the boldness. I respect the vibe shift."

He took the phone from her hand, holding it up to inspect the photo of the misty, ethereal lagoon, then handed it back, dropping his head back onto her shoulder.

"I don't love it," he corrected, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I am obsessed with it. It’s perfect. It looks like an alien planet where the only inhabitants are people in robes who are aggressively relaxed. That is my dream aesthetic."

He closed his eyes, already picturing the scene.

"Phoebe reading the rules is a given," he mused, a laugh vibrating in his chest. "But you're forgetting the silica mud. Phoebe is going to make us all wear those white mud masks. We’re going to look like a family of ghosts. And Jax..."

He snorted.

"Jax is going to try to drink the water. I guarantee it. He’s going to think it gives him superpowers. We’re going to have to physically restrain him."

He opened his eyes and turned his head to kiss the side of her neck, right below her ear.
"And me in a robe?" he murmured against her skin. "I look fantastic in a robe. I have the hair for it. I look like a retired wizard on his day off. You’re going to love it."

He shifted his hand on her waist, pulling her tighter. The idea of the cold air and the hot water, the steam hiding them from everything—it sounded infinitely better than a crowded beach.

"Iceland," he decided firmly. "Book it. Let's go freeze and then boil. It sounds like a metaphor for my entire career, but in a spa way."

He paused, his expression softening as he looked at her.

"Plus," he added quietly, "if we're starting a family... might as well start them off with good skin. That silica is supposed to be magic, right?"

He grinned, boyish and charmed.

"Do it. Send the invite. Tell Phoebe to pack her parka. We're going to the moon."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo laughed, the sound warm and loose as it spilled out of her, and she tipped her forehead into his jaw for a second before lifting her head again. She loved this part—watching him pivot, watching his brain light up when something unexpected clicked into place.

“Björk music video is exactly the energy,” she said, pleased. “Moody. Otherworldly. Slightly confusing to outsiders.”

She took the phone back when he handed it to her, her thumb already moving with purpose now, confidence settling in. “See? You get it. Steam does half the work for us. No crowds, no sand in places sand should never be. Just… quiet and warm and weird.”

At the robe comment, she smiled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss there before speaking. “Retired wizard is a very specific look, Benjamin. And yes, unfortunately for you, I will love it. I will take mental photos. Possibly real ones.”

She shifted again, tucking herself closer, her hand sliding idly over his ribs as he talked about Phoebe and Jax. She could already picture it so clearly it made her chest ache in a good way—the four of them bundled up, laughing, Phoebe pretending she wasn’t having fun while absolutely having fun, Jax doing something reckless and immediately regretting it.

“The silica mud is non-negotiable,” she said seriously, then cracked a grin. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it fully unhinged. Ghost family photos included.”

When he said Iceland, decided and certain, something in her softened completely. Not the adrenaline kind of excitement—something steadier. Chosen.

“Okay,” she said quietly, nodding once like she was sealing something important. “Iceland.”

She tapped a few more times, then paused, glancing up at him from under her lashes. “You realize this means cold air, red noses, and me stealing your robe at least once.”

She leaned in, brushing her mouth against his cheek, then his lips—slow, affectionate, unhurried.

“And starting a family with good skin?” she added, amused. “That might be the most you thing you’ve ever said.”

Her thumb hovered over the screen, then pressed decisively.

“Booked,” she murmured, satisfied. “Or at least… emotionally booked. I’ll make it real in the morning.”

She set the phone back on the nightstand and curled into him again, her palm flattening over his chest, feeling the steady beat there.

“The moon sounds nice,” she said softly. “But I think I like this better.”

She smiled to herself, already there in her head—steam rising, the world quiet, all of them together, unbothered.

Cleo stayed there for a moment, listening to the sound of him eating again, the quiet rustle of the pizza box, the small, human noises that meant the night was winding down instead of revving back up. She liked that he didn’t rush it. That he let himself exist between bites, between plans, between futures.

She shifted closer, the sheet loosening just enough to let her knee brush his thigh. Her fingers traced lazy, absent patterns over his chest—nothing demanding, just familiar. A grounding touch. A reminder.

“You know what I like about this?” she said softly, not looking at him at first. Her eyes were on the ceiling now, on the faint shadows cast by the dim light. “We’re making plans like normal people. Not escape plans. Not contingency plans. Just… where do you want to go when you’re allowed to breathe.”

She turned her head then, meeting his eyes, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

Her thumb pressed lightly over his sternum, right where his heartbeat lived. Steady. Present.

“And for the record,” she said, mock-serious now, “if we’re doing Iceland, that means walks where nobody recognizes you, mornings that smell like coffee instead of stage fog, and nights where the biggest decision is whether we’re soaking again or ordering soup.”

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben swallowed the last bite of his slice, the crust disappearing with a finality that signaled the end of the hunger crisis and the beginning of the "philosophizing in bed" portion of the evening.

He wiped his hands on a napkin, balling it up and tossing it accurately into the open box with a soft thud.

"Soup," he repeated, turning the word over like it was a complex lyric. "You are underestimating the gravity of the soup decision, Cleo. Is it a chowder night? Is it a broth situation? These are the questions that keep me up at night. That is high-stakes negotiation."

He shifted, sliding his arm out from under her just to stretch it for a second before wrapping it right back around her, pulling her in even tighter than before. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where a small strip of light from a passing golf cart cut across the wall.

"But you're right," he murmured, his voice dropping the joke, the timber of it low and rough in his chest.

He thought about the last five years of his life. Every trip had been an escape. A frantic flight to a rented house in Joshua Tree with blacked-out windows. A hotel room in Tokyo where he couldn't leave the floor. Plans made in whispers, itineraries labeled with fake names, security details briefed on exit routes.

"I don't think I've made a plan that wasn't an escape plan since I was twenty-two," he admitted, the realization hitting him with a dull thud. "Everything has been about avoiding. Avoiding cameras. Avoiding burnout. Avoiding people."

He looked down at her, seeing only the curve of her cheek and the fan of her lashes against her skin.

"This?" He gestured vaguely with his free hand, encompassing the bed, the pizza box, the phone on the nightstand with the Blue Lagoon tab open. "This isn't avoiding. This feels like... arriving."

He smiled, a small, crooked thing that she couldn't see but could probably feel against her hair.

"And the idea of walking around a country where everyone is too cold to care who I am? That is the dream. I want to be so bundled up that I am indistinguishable from a pile of laundry. I want to be a sentient scarf. If anyone asks for an autograph, I will simply dissolve into the mist."

He squeezed her shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle into her skin.
"But we need to address the robe theft," he said, shifting gears back to the important stuff. "Because while I am a generous lover and a supportive partner, I am territorial about my terry cloth. If you steal my robe, I will be forced to retaliate."

He nudged her, waiting for her to look up so he could flash that grin—the one that was half-trouble, half-promise.

"I will wear your clothes," he threatened playfully. "I will wear that floral sundress you packed. I have the legs for it. I will ruin your aesthetic completely. Don't test me."

He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a quick, salt-and-pepperoni-flavored kiss, keeping the energy alive, keeping the sleep at bay. He wasn't ready to close his eyes yet. The reality was too good to miss.

"So," he whispered against her lips. "Iceland. Soup. Robe wars. Is that the itinerary? Because I think I can clear my schedule."

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She shifted first—quiet, deliberate—drawing her knees underneath her as she rose, the sheet slipping down without ceremony and gathering at her waist. The movement wasn’t a performance; it was instinctive, excited, like she couldn’t stay still with everything he’d just said hanging in the air. She settled astride his legs, hands resting on his shoulders for balance, her face lit with that unmistakable spark she got when a future stopped feeling theoretical and started feeling real.

“Okay,” she said, breathless but bright, laughing softly. “First of all—soup absolutely matters. This is not a casual choice. This is weather-based. Mood-based. Possibly even soul-based.”

She leaned forward slightly, forehead brushing his, her excitement spilling out in a rush now.

“I’m thinking rich broths. Things you eat slowly while it’s dark at four in the afternoon. Bread you tear apart with your hands. No rush. No escape routes.” Her smile softened. “Just… being somewhere because we want to be there.”

When he talked about avoiding—cameras, burnout, people—her hands slid up into his hair, thumbs brushing gently at his temples. She nodded as if she’d been waiting for him to say it.

“That’s what I feel too,” she said quietly. “Like for once we’re not running from anything. We’re actually choosing something. Together.”

She sat back just enough to look at him fully, eyes warm, a little awed.

“And you as a sentient scarf?” she added, amused. “Iceland is not ready for that energy.”

At the robe threat, she laughed outright, head tipping back for a second.

“You would absolutely wear my clothes,” she said. “And you’d somehow make it everyone else’s problem. I’d never recover.”

She leaned in again, closer now, her voice dropping—not secretive, just intimate.

“And yes,” she added, brushing her nose against his, excitement humming through her words, “hotel time is absolutely part of the itinerary. Long baths. Steam on the windows. Nowhere to be. Doors locked because we want them locked, not because we’re hiding.”

Her hands slid down his arms, grounding, affectionate.

“Lots of moments where time just… disappears,” she finished softly.

She smiled at him then—wide, sure, glowing.

“So yeah,” she said, utterly convinced. “Iceland. Soup debates. Robe wars. And a whole lot of us-time in between.”

She leaned in and kissed him again, slow and lingering, sealing it—not as a fantasy, but as a plan.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben rested his hands on her waist, his thumbs pressing lightly into the soft skin there, anchoring her exactly where she was.

He looked up at her—straddling his legs, the sheet pooled around her hips, hair wild, eyes bright with the prospect of soup and darkness—and he had the distinct, overwhelming thought that he had somehow tricked the universe into giving him the winning lottery ticket.

"Soul-based soup," he repeated, his voice low and appreciative. "I like that. It sounds like a menu item at a restaurant run by witches. I’m into it."

He ran his hands slowly up her sides, just to the curve of her ribs, then back down, memorizing the shape of her. The friction of her bare legs against his was distracting in the best possible way—a constant, low-level hum of electricity that kept him wide awake—but he didn't push for more. He was too busy enjoying the fact that she was sitting on top of him, passionately advocating for carbohydrates.

"And tearing bread apart with our hands?" He nodded solemnly. "That is primal. That is essential. I want to eat like a medieval king who has gone into hiding. I want crumbs everywhere. I want zero cutlery involved."

He listened to her describe the hotel room—the steam, the locked doors, the absence of time.

A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

"You had me at 'nowhere to be,'" he murmured. "That is my love language, Cleo. 'Nowhere to be' is the most romantic sentence in the English language."

He leaned forward, sitting up just enough so he could wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck for a second, inhaling the scent of her, before pulling back to look her in the eye.

"And you're right," he said, his voice dropping into that sincere, quiet register that he saved just for her. "We're choosing it. We're not reacting. We're not doing damage control. We're just... going."

He shifted one hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her jaw.

"I think I've spent so much time worrying about who I'm supposed to be when the door is open," he admitted softly. "That I forgot the best part is closing it."

He kissed her then—not hungry, not desperate, just full of a warm, steady affection that felt heavier than lust. He kissed her like they had all the time in the world, because for the next few hours, they did.

"So, Iceland," he whispered against her lips, sealing the deal. "Hotel time. Soul soup. And me, terrorizing the locals with my robe fashion."

He pulled back, flashing a grin that was all charm.

"But just so we're clear," he added, looking down at the way the sheet was draped over her, then back up to her eyes with a darkening gaze. "If we're going to be locked in a room with steam on the windows... I am definitely going to be staring at you. A lot. Probably exactly like this."

He squeezed her hips gently, playful but undeniable.

"You realize I'm going to be insufferable, right? I'm going to be so relaxed it'll be annoying. I might take up poetry. I might start journaling. You need to be prepared for 'Zen Ben.'"

[Cleo Ashcroft]

Cleo watched him as he spoke, really watched him—like she was committing the moment to memory instead of just listening. The way his voice shifted when he wasn’t joking. The way his hands stayed sure at her waist, not pulling, not asking, just keeping her there because that’s where she belonged.

When he talked about soup, about witches and crumbs and hiding like a medieval king, a quiet laugh slipped out of her, warm and unguarded. Her forehead tipped briefly into his, her smile lingering there.

“That’s exactly it,” she murmured. “No forks. No rules. Just… warmth and bread and time dissolving.”

She softened further when he talked about closing doors, about choosing instead of reacting. That landed deep—right in the place she didn’t always have language for. Her fingers slid up his chest, slow and familiar, resting there like punctuation.

“I like who you are when the door’s closed,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to explain anything. You just… exist. And it feels like permission.”

When he mentioned staring at her—really staring—she felt heat rise up her neck before she could stop it. A real blush, not performative, not coy. She ducked her head for half a second, then looked back up at him through her lashes, unapologetic.

“I will stare at you too,” she admitted, her voice low and honest.

She shifted slightly in his lap as she said it, settling more fully against him, the movement instinctive, comfortable. A small smirk curved her mouth.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Her hand lifted, thumb brushing along his jaw before her fingers found his earlobe, stroking it absently the way she always did when she was calm, when she felt safe enough to drift.

She leaned in then and kissed him—soft at first, affectionate and lingering, like she was agreeing with everything he’d said without needing more words.

When she pulled back, she stayed close, forehead resting against his.

“Zen Ben,” she murmured, amused and fond. “I think I’m going to like him.”

Cleo felt the last of the adrenaline finally drain out of her, like her body had been waiting for permission to stop holding itself upright.

A small yawn slipped out of her before she could catch it—soft, unguarded, the kind that came from comfort instead of exhaustion. She laughed quietly at herself, blinking a little as her eyes watered.

“Okay,” she murmured, voice warm and drowsy. “Zen Ben might actually put me to sleep.”

She shifted again, this time not playful, just settling. Her head tipped naturally to his shoulder, fitting there like muscle memory. One arm curled loosely around his middle, her cheek resting against his chest where she could feel his breathing slow to match hers.

Outside, the night hummed—distant footsteps, a golf cart passing, the festival still alive somewhere far away—but inside the trailer it felt muted, held at bay.

She yawned once more, smaller this time, her fingers still idly tracing the edge of his ear.

“Wake me if the soup plan changes,” she murmured, half-smiling into his shirt. “Otherwise… I’m good right here.”

Her body relaxed fully against his, trust complete, the kind that didn’t need words or promises—just the steady presence of him beneath her cheek.

[Benjamin Wilder]

Ben felt the yawn ripple through her body before he heard it, a physical surrender that signaled the end of the night’s negotiations.

He smiled into her hair, his hand coming up to rub long, soothing strokes down her back, right over the sheet she was wrapped in.

"Zen Ben is very effective," he whispered, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "He’s a sedative. He bores people into a coma with talk of broth and geothermal energy. It’s his superpower."

When she settled against him, her head finding the groove in his shoulder that seemed to have been carved specifically for her, Ben stopped moving completely. He barely breathed, terrified of disturbing the peace treaty she’d just signed with gravity.

"Soup plan remains unchanged," he murmured into the quiet, though he knew she was probably already drifting. "Bread tearing is still on the docket. No amendments."

He carefully shifted his legs, just an inch, allowing her weight to distribute more comfortably across him. He pulled the duvet up higher with his free hand, tucking it around her shoulders to ward off the aggressive trailer AC.

He lay there in the semi-darkness, one arm wrapped securely around the girl who had just promised him a future involving silica mud and shared custody of his best friend.

He looked at the ceiling again.

Outside, he could still hear the faint, thumping bass of the Sahara tent, a heartbeat that never really stopped at Coachella. A few hours ago, that sound had been his whole world. It had been the adrenaline, the pressure, the job.

But now, with Cleo asleep on his chest, her breath tickling his neck, that noise felt like it was happening on a different planet.

He thought about Sage. He thought about Briar. He thought about a little version of Cleo running around a beach with a surfboard that was too big for her.

The terror was still there, buzzing faintly in the background like white noise, but it didn't feel like a cage anymore. It felt like... stakes. It felt like he finally had something worth losing, which meant he had something worth keeping.

He turned his head slowly, pressing his lips to her forehead—soft, lingering, grateful.
"Goodnight, Cleo," he whispered into the dark, closing his eyes and letting the weight of her anchor him to the mattress.

He wasn't running. He wasn't escaping. For the first time in a long time, Ben Wilder was just... staying.