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.”

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 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.

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 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.

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.