Ethan leaned back into the hammock as she crossed the patio, the bottle catching the last streaks of light, her laugh trailing behind like she’d orchestrated the whole damn scene. Of course she had. Maddie never did anything halfway — not when it came to music, not when it came to fights, and definitely not when it came to him.

The ropes swayed under him, but it wasn’t the hammock that had him unsteady. It was the way she moved barefoot across the terracotta like she’d been born to own every space she stepped into. The sunglasses tilted crooked on her nose, the messy curtain of hair falling forward as she set the bottle down — it wasn’t polished, it wasn’t staged. It was just her. And somehow, that wrecked him more than any spotlight ever could.

He thought of the first time he’d really seen her, years back — not on stage, not in front of anyone, but at two in the morning with a half-empty takeout box between them and her humming a melody under her breath like she didn’t even know he was listening. He thought of the way she’d kissed him the first time, impulsive and sharp, like she was daring him to flinch. He thought of the way she’d just bitten his lip seconds ago — a reminder that she could still floor him with a move that simple.

She turned now, holding out the glasses like some triumphant prize, and he caught the flash of her ring in the fairy lights. That was the part that undid him most — not the setlist, not the teasing, but the fact that she wore forever so casually, like it was already second nature. Like it was already his.

Ethan tapped his fingers against the rope, steadying the thrum in his chest, letting his smirk cover what his pulse betrayed. “Careful, Marsh,” he drawled, voice low and threaded with the kind of heat only she could pull out of him. “You keep running this setlist, and I’m never leaving the front row.”

But inside, he knew the truth — he hadn’t wanted to leave for a long time. Not since her laugh had first slipped under his skin, not since her fire had made every other stage look dim. Tonight wasn’t about wine, or stars, or the encore she promised.

It was about her. Maddie Marsh. Maddie Parker. His headliner. His whole damn show.

She liked the way he said it. Careful, Marsh.

God, she loved it. The gravel of his voice dipping low, the warning laced with something else — something that curled heat low in her stomach. To her, it landed like good girl whispered against her skin, only better. Because it was theirs. Because it was his.

Her smile tipped slow, wicked, as she set the glasses down on the table and turned toward him, barefoot and easy in the fading light. “Front row’s right where I want you,” she said, playful, almost sing-song as she sauntered closer. “Good boys don’t leave the front row.”

She leaned over him, palms braced on either side of the hammock, close enough to watch his lashes flicker but far enough that he had to close the space if he wanted more. Her hair slipped forward like a curtain, the fairy lights stringing gold through it.

“You know,” Maddie continued, lowering her voice into a sultry purr, “I thought up this whole setlist with you in mind. A private concert. For two.” She let her mouth hover just shy of his, a playful taunt. “Wine. Stars. Maybe a little dancing if you’re lucky. But the encore?” Her grin widened, bratty and smug. “That’s on you. You’ll have to earn it, Parker.”

She drew back just enough to let the hammock sway, taunting him with the distance, with her control of it. She wanted him to take it. To give her that heat, that edge, the part of him that didn’t let her get away with all her teasing.

And hell, she’d beg for it if she had to — not with words, but with the way she tilted her head, smile curling like a dare.

“Careful, Parker,” she added now, throwing his warning right back at him with a sugary lilt. “Keep looking at me like that, and you might just forget who’s running this show.”

Ethan’s fingers twitched against the hammock rope, a tell he hated but couldn’t hide around her. Because damn if she didn’t know exactly how to play him — the slow tilt of her grin, the way she said good boys like she was testing how far she could push before he snapped, the curtain of hair catching light like she’d rehearsed it.

He angled his chin up, eyes locked on hers, unbothered by the tease of distance she kept between them. She wanted him to take it, to break her rhythm — and God, did he want to. But instead of giving her that win too fast, he let the silence stretch, thick and deliberate, until her breath hitched just enough to tell him she felt it too.

Then he moved. Quick, fluid, the way he always had when the stage demanded it. One hand caught her hip, steadying her sway, the other sliding up her spine until his fingers tangled in the mess of her hair. He tugged her just close enough that their mouths brushed, a ghost of contact, his smirk carved sharp against the tension.

“Careful yourself, Marsh,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked with amusement. “Because if you’re really putting me front row…” His thumb pressed into her hip, slow, deliberate, staking claim. “…then you damn well know I’m not just watching the show. I’m headlining it with you.”

The hammock groaned beneath their weight, ropes straining, but Ethan didn’t care if they both ended up on the patio bricks. She could taunt, tease, throw his words back all she wanted — he’d take every challenge she laid down, and then some.

Because this — her wicked smile, her dare, her heat pressed close and unrelenting — this was the only stage that mattered.

The rope gave another loud creak as Ethan shifted, but he didn’t care if the whole damn hammock snapped in half beneath them. One sharp tug and she was off-balance, her palms slipping against the weave of rope just before he caught her full weight against him.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured, his smirk brushing her mouth before he claimed it in a kiss that was anything but careful. Heat, teeth, the kind of kiss that said he was done letting her dangle strings in front of him.

Her laugh broke against his lips, startled and wicked all at once, and Ethan swallowed it down, tightening his grip at her hip until she settled exactly where he wanted her — straddling him, no space left between them. The hammock rocked violently, threatening to spill them both, but he steadied it with a foot braced against the patio, never breaking the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice was ragged, sharp with heat. “You think you’re running this show? Hate to break it to you, Marsh…” His hand slid lower, fingers splaying with purpose against the small of her back. “…but I’m the encore you’re begging for.”

He gave the hammock another deliberate rock, forcing her to cling tighter to him, a smug grin tugging at his mouth as he watched her fight the sway.

“And just so we’re clear,” Ethan added, his tone dropping into something dark, intimate, meant only for her, “I don’t forget my place.” He tilted her chin up with a finger, eyes burning into hers. “I take it.”

She squealed when he yanked her fully into his lap, laughter spilling out even as the hammock pitched dangerously to one side. “You’re insane,” she gasped between giggles, clutching his shoulders for balance, “and if this thing snaps, I’m making you buy the cabin a new one.”

But she didn’t climb off. Not even close. Instead, she settled across him, hair falling loose over her face as she brushed it back with a crooked grin. Her chest was still heaving with laughter, but her eyes sparkled in the low glow of the fairy lights.

“Fine,” she said, her voice dipping playful, coy, her thumb dragging slow across his jaw. “You can take the encore if you want it so bad. But don’t get cocky, Parker. We’re not there yet.” She leaned in close, lips grazing his cheek, her breath warm against his ear. “We’re still early in the set. You’ve got a few songs left before you even get to try for the big finish.”

Pulling back just enough to catch his smirk, Maddie tipped her head and gave him that look — the one that meant she was daring him to prove her wrong, daring him to skip ahead when she knew he wouldn’t. She liked making him work for it, liked hearing that low warning in his voice when she pushed too far.

“You wanna headline with me?” she teased, tracing idle patterns down his chest with the tips of her nails. “Then you’d better play the whole show. I don’t hand out encores for free.”

Her grin softened, bratty edges smoothed by the glow in her eyes as she tucked herself a little closer against him. “But for the record,” she murmured, sweet but sure, “you’re still my favorite part of the setlist.”

The hammock rocked again, crickets buzzing, wine still waiting on the table — and Maddie thought, with a little laugh against his neck, that if this was just the first act, neither of them was making it to the end of the weekend without being completely wrecked.

Ethan’s grin tugged slow, crooked, as he let her words settle — the tease, the dare, the softness that slipped through when she thought he wouldn’t notice. His hand smoothed down her back, firm at the curve of her waist, keeping her steady when the hammock swayed like it was seconds from tossing them both.

“Favorite part of the setlist, huh?” he murmured, voice low, warm against her hair. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you, Marsh.”

He angled his head, catching her eyes in the glow of the fairy lights, letting the quiet hum of the night fill the pause. Then his smile deepened, lazy but sure, dimples flashing. “But don’t mistake me, sweetheart. I’m not planning on skipping any tracks. You wanted the whole show? You’ve got it. Beginning to end. Encore included.”

His thumb brushed her hip, slow and certain, before he leaned closer, lips just grazing hers without fully giving in. “Only thing is…” he added, his smirk sharpening, “you’re the only one who ever gets backstage passes.”

The space between them charged, tight as a held note. He let it hang for a beat longer than necessary, just to watch her squirm, before pressing his mouth to hers — slow, claiming, the kind of kiss that promised he wasn’t going anywhere.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, his voice dropped again, rough with everything he wasn’t saying. “So go ahead, Marsh. Call the setlist. But don’t forget who you’re sharing the stage with. Because I’m not letting you close this show without me.”

The hammock creaked under their weight, the wine sat untouched on the table, and still Ethan couldn’t make himself move. Not when she was curled over him like that — hair slipping wild around her face, laughter still clinging to her breath, eyes lit up like she’d stolen every star in the sky and tucked them behind her lashes.

He’d had her before. In green rooms, in stolen hotel hallways, in memory after memory that came back at the worst possible times. But this? This felt different. Maddie wasn’t just teasing him for sport — though she was damn good at it. No, this was her letting him in. Letting him see the part of her that didn’t vanish when the crowd did.

Her “favorite part of the setlist” still echoed in his head, soft and sure, and God, if she only knew what it did to him. He’d spent years pretending she was just a chapter, a verse he could skip when the song got too heavy. But looking at her now — perched in his lap, smirk playing at her mouth like she had all the power in the world — Ethan knew he’d been lying to himself all along. Maddie Marsh had always been the chorus. The hook. The part of the song you couldn’t forget no matter how many times you tried.

He dragged his hand down her back again, fingers pressing into the warm curve of her hip just to remind himself she was real. That this was real. She teased him about the encore, about the big finish, about making him work for it — and hell, he’d play every song twice over if that’s what it took.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want the shortcut anymore. Didn’t want the half-version, the stolen lines between sets, the almosts. He wanted the whole damn thing. Her laughter, her bite, her slow-burning sweetness that slipped through when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Ethan tucked his face into the curve of her neck for a moment, breathing her in, letting the faint mix of wine, skin, and summer air ground him. The hammock rocked steady beneath them, the night folding quiet around the edges, and he thought — for the first time in a long time — that he could stay here. That maybe staying wasn’t so impossible after all.

Because Maddie wasn’t just the favorite part of the setlist. She was the reason the music made sense in the first place.

Maddie let herself sink against him for a minute, chest pressed to his, nose brushing the sharp line of his jaw. His words still echoed in her head, all velvet and fire, and she let herself smile into the space between them. He didn’t have to know that he was right — that he was the only one she’d ever wanted to share a stage with. Not a duet, not a cameo. Just him. Always him.

Her hand rested lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, until the hammock gave another loud creak. Maddie laughed, tipping her head back. “Okay, rockstar, before we end up in a tragic tangle of rope burn and broken bones, maybe we should relocate before the encore gets cut short.”

Reluctantly, she shifted, sliding off his lap and stretching her legs before settling beside him on the edge of the hammock. It dipped and wobbled but steadied when they sat side by side, shoulders brushing.

The patio table wasn’t far, the bottle of wine and two waiting glasses catching the glow of the fairy lights. Maddie reached over, pulled them close, and uncorked the bottle with a little flourish. “See?” she teased, carefully pouring. “I didn’t just bring wine, I brought the whole vibe. Admit it — I nailed the opener.”

She handed him a glass, then lifted her own, clinking lightly against his. Her grin softened as she took a sip, the night air warm around them, the quiet hum of crickets like background music. This was her favorite part of any setlist — the shift from wild and loud to soft and close. The part where the song slowed and everyone leaned in to listen.

Her thumb drifted to the ring on her finger, tilting it so the stone caught the light. She let her gaze linger on it for a beat before lifting her eyes to his. “You know,” she said, voice gentler now, “I’ve been keeping a little notebook. Ideas for when the time comes.”

She gave a small shrug, eyes sparking. “Half of it’s ridiculous — neon signs, late-night taco trucks, the kind of stuff I’d never admit out loud if it wasn’t you. But the other half…” Her fingers brushed over the ring again, softer. “…the other half looks a lot like this. Just us. Summer air. Something that feels like home.”

A laugh slipped out of her, quiet but sure, before she tipped her glass toward him. “And don’t get that smug look, Parker. You haven’t seen half my ideas yet. Trust me — I plan on keeping you busy.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers, eyes bright but steady, like she knew exactly what she was saying — and exactly who she wanted it with.

Ethan didn’t move right away after the clink. He let the sound linger in the warm night air, let it settle between them like another chord in a song he never wanted to end. She had that look again — the one that made his chest ache in the best way, like she’d cracked him wide open without even trying.

“Truth is,” he said, thumb still tracing slow patterns over her hand, “I don’t just want to keep you busy. I want to make sure there’s never a version of this life that doesn’t have you in it. I want the late nights and the early mornings, the sold-out shows and the quiet back porches. I want every encore, every bridge, every verse.”

His grin tugged wider, softer now, almost boyish. “Hell, I even want the fights. Because if it’s with you, it means we’ve got something worth swinging for. Something real.”

He shifted, setting his glass aside for good this time so he could cup her jaw, tilting her face toward him. The fairy lights caught in her hair, in her eyes, and he swore he’d never get used to it — never want to.

“You once told me I was too cocky for my own good,” he murmured, brushing his thumb against her cheek. “But here’s me being honest — I can already see us old and gray, sitting on some porch somewhere, telling our grandkids how their Nan used to light up every damn arena she stepped into. And you know what I’ll say when they ask me what I did?” His smirk flickered into something softer, truer. “I’ll tell them I got the best seat in the house. Always.”

He leaned in then, catching her lips in a kiss that was slow, deliberate — the kind of kiss that said forever without needing the word.

Maddie kissed him back like the world had slowed down just for them — like every note, every lyric, every damn encore he promised was right there on his mouth. When she finally pulled away, her forehead rested against his, the taste of wine and forever still clinging to her lips.

For a second she just let herself breathe him in. The picture he painted — late nights, early mornings, porches and arenas — it wasn’t just some pretty daydream. It was exactly the life she wanted, down to the smallest detail. Him and her, a thousand stages and just as many quiet mornings, all wrapped up in the same song.

Her laugh slipped out soft, shaking her head like he’d knocked the wind out of her without even trying. “You know,” she murmured, voice catching just a little, “that porch swing life you’re talking about? It sounds pretty damn perfect to me.”

She lifted her hand, brushing her thumb over the back of his neck, eyes warm but still bright with mischief. “And fine, I’ll tell our grandkids about how I lit up those stages. But don’t think you’re getting off easy.” Her grin curved wider, wicked-sweet. “I’ll have to tell them about how their Nan had to stop herself from clawing the eyes out of every girlie screaming for their grandpa.”

She tipped her head back, laughing, the sound bright against the hum of the night. Then she looked at him again, softer this time, her thumb still tracing him like a promise. “And maybe I’ll tell them the real secret too,” she added, her voice low, steady. “That every song hit different when you were the one standing next to me.”

She kissed him again, slow and sure, like a closing note that refused to fade — the kind you carried with you long after the lights went down.