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.

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 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.”

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 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.”

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 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.

"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 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.”

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."