The sound she made when he bottomed out—that broken, breathless gasp—was the best sound he had heard in years. Better than a crowd screaming, better than a perfect chord progression. It was the sound of Cleo coming undone, and he was the one unspooling her.

He felt her ankles lock behind his back, her heels digging into his kidneys, trapping him inside. Good. He didn't want to leave.

The friction was different with the latex, slicker and less raw, but the pressure? The pressure was insane. Every time he slammed into her, he felt her tight, wet heat clamping around him, milking him through the barrier, dragging a groan out of his own throat that sounded dangerously close to a roar.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw working as he tried to keep his pace steady, but the sight of her was destroying his control.

He looked down, sweat stinging his eyes.

She was right. There was no hiding this.

With every heavy, punishing thrust he drove into her, her body jolted upward. He watched, mesmerizing, as her breasts swayed with the violence of his rhythm—soft, pale flesh trembling, moving in a chaotic, beautiful counterpoint to the rigid line of his hips. The flush spreading across her chest was like watercolor bleeding onto canvas, deepening with every second.

It was hypnotic. It was raw. It was the most honest thing he’d ever seen.
He couldn't just watch. He needed to own the movement.

"Fuck, look at you," he growled, the words vibrating against her ear as he leaned down.

He released his hold on the floor and grabbed her. His large hands engulfed her breasts, his fingers digging into the soft yielding flesh, holding the weight of her. He squeezed hard, matching the brutality of his hips, kneading her as he fucked her.

He loved the way she filled his hands. He loved the way her nipples hardened against his palms, sensitive and peaked.

"You’re so responsive," he murmured, biting at the sensitive cord of her neck. "You feel everything I do to you, don’t you?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled back slightly, just enough to get leverage, and then snapped his hips forward again, harder this time.

He saw her eyes roll back, saw her mouth fall open in a silent scream, and it fueled him.
He felt the papers shifting beneath them—the sketches of his face, the memories she’d tried to capture—tearing under the friction of her back sliding against the rug. He didn't care. Let them tear. Let the past get ruined.

He was rewriting it right now.

He moved his hands from her breasts to her waist, gripping her hips to anchor her, to keep her from sliding away from the force of him. He drove into her with a rhythmic, pounding cadence—thud, thud, thud—a bass line that vibrated through the floorboards.

"I’m not a drawing, Cleo," he panted, the words harsh and low. He wanted to drive the point home. He wanted to be the only thing in her head. "I’m right here. Feel me? I’m right fucking here."

He adjusted his angle, grinding down as he thrust, hitting that deep, sweet spot inside her that he knew by heart. He felt her inner muscles spasm around him, felt the way her breath hitched into a high, keening whine.

She was close again. He could feel the tension ratcheting up in her body, the way she was straining against him, seeking the release.

And this time, he wasn't going to stop her.

"Come on," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dark, guttural command. He sped up, his hips a blur of motion, sweating and desperate and completely focused on her. "Fall apart for me, baby. Do it."

The roughness was exactly what she needed. She didn't want gentle; gentle was for memories, for the careful shading of a pencil. She wanted this—the bruising grip of his hands on her hips, anchoring her to the floor, the relentless, punishing rhythm that was jarring her teeth and stealing her breath.

She was crying out, a continuous, broken litany of his name mixed with shapeless, high-pitched whimpers. Her head thrashed against the rug, her hair fanning out over the torn sketches, the sound of the paper ripping beneath her lost under the wet, heavy slap of his skin against hers.

"I feel you," she sobbed, her hands scrambling over his sweat-slicked shoulders. Her nails dug in, dragging down the muscles of his back, needing to mark him, needing to make sure he felt this as intensely as she did. She clawed at him, desperate and feral. "Ben—Ben—"

He was hitting that spot deep inside her, over and over, winding the tension in her belly so tight it felt like a physical pain. She was right on the edge, teetering, her whole body trembling like a fever.

Then he said it.

Baby.

That single word, rasped in that dark, possessive growl, shattered the last of her defenses. It was a claim she hadn't heard in so long, a word that belonged to a past she thought she’d lost. Hearing it now, while he was buried to the hilt inside her, broke her.

"Oh my God!"

The scream tore from her throat as she let go completely.

Her hips arched violently upward, seeking him, grinding hard against his pelvis as the orgasm crashed through her. It was blinding, a white-hot explosion that started in her core and radiated out to her fingertips.

Her hands flew blindly from his shoulders to his head, fingers tangling deep into his hair, gripping the dark strands like a lifeline. She pulled him down to her, holding on for dear life as the waves of pleasure convulsed through her, milking him, her inner muscles clamping down on him in wildly fluttering spasms. She was sobbing through it, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the feeling, her body bowing off the floor as she unraveled beneath him.

The aftershocks were still rolling through her, little tremors that made her thighs quake against his hips. She felt boneless, utterly drained in the best possible way, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs that she was sure he could feel.

She didn't let go of his hair. She couldn't. It was the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor as the room slowly stopped spinning.

She felt him pause for a second, riding out her climax with her, and the sensation of him staying deep inside her while she pulsed around him was almost too intimate to bear. But then he moved again—a short, sharp thrust that reminded her he wasn't done.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wet. She pulled his head down, seeking his mouth blindly.

"Ben," she whispered, her voice wrecked, a jagged exhale against his lips. She kissed him—messy, grateful, tasting her own salt on his skin. She shifted her hips, tilting up to take him deeper, wanting to give back everything he’d just given her. "You... please... don't stop. I want you with me."

She dragged her nails down the back of his neck, her legs squeezing tight around his waist, locking him against her. She ground her pelvis upward, using the lingering sensitivity to push him over the edge.

"Finish," she breathed into his mouth, desperate to feel him break the way she just had.

Her release was the trigger, but her voice was the bullet.

Finish.

The word, breathless and wrecked against his mouth, snapped the final thread of his control.

He had been holding on by sheer will, gritting his teeth through the pleasure of feeling her clamp down on him, waiting until he was sure she had taken everything she needed. But now, feeling her nails dragging down his neck, feeling her hips snapping up to meet him with that frantic, greedy rhythm, he was done.
"I’m with you," he groaned, the sound tearing out of his chest like a growl. "I’m right there, Cleo."
He abandoned all finesse. He stopped trying to pace himself.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and the salt on her skin, and he drove into her. Hard. Fast. Desperate.

He wasn't fucking her anymore; he was pouring himself into her.

His hands gripped her waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises, holding her in place as he hammered into her, chasing the friction. Every thrust was a plea, a promise, a way to silence the noise in his head that had been deafening him for months. Here, inside her, there was no noise. There was only this—the wet slide of latex, the heat of her body, the sound of her breath hitching with every impact.

He felt the pressure building at the base of his spine, a tight, coiling heat that demanded release.
"Cleo," he choked out, his hips blurring with speed.

She squeezed him again—one last, involuntary spasm of her aftershocks—and his vision white-out.
He stiffened, his head flinging back, the cords of his neck straining as he bottomed out one final time and held it there.

A ragged shout left his throat, muffled against the damp hair at her temple. He emptied himself, shuddering violently, every muscle in his body seizing as the orgasm ripped through him. It went on and on, a complete and total evacuation of stress and longing and fear, leaving him light-headed and trembling.

He stayed there for a long moment, pinned deep inside her, his chest heaving against hers, trying to remember how to breathe.

Slowly, gravity took over.

His arms gave out. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows at the last second to keep from crushing her, but laying his heavy frame over hers like a blanket. His forehead dropped to the rug next to her ear, the rough weave scratching his skin.

The room was silent, save for the harsh, synchronized sound of their breathing.

He cracked one eye open. Beneath his hand, crushed against the floor, was a charcoal sketch of his own hand holding a microphone. It was smeared now, ruined by the sweat on his palm and the violence of their movement.

He didn't care.

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the damp hair sticking to Cleo’s cheek.

"Real," he whispered, the word exhausted and slurred, echoing what she’d said earlier.

He closed his eyes, his heart rate finally slowing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest beneath his. For the first time in years, the world stopped spinning. He was just Ben. And he was home.

She lay there for a long minute, just feeling the rise and fall of his breathing against her own, absorbing the heavy, wonderful weight of him. Her hands drifted over his back, tracing the damp dip of his spine, the hard muscles of his shoulders that were finally, finally relaxing.

She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, tasting the salt of his sweat. With a gentle hand, she brushed the dark, matted hair off his forehead, just needing to see his face—unobscured, peaceful, and hers.

"I’ve got you," she whispered into the quiet room. "I’ve got you."

Reluctantly, she nudged his shoulder, signaling she needed to move. He groaned a low, protesting sound but shifted just enough to let her slide out from under him. The air felt cool against her skin instantly, and she reached for the nearest source of warmth.
His shirt.

She grabbed the fabric from the floor, shaking off a few flecks of eraser shavings, and slipped it on. It swallowed her whole, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her hands. It smelled like him—cedar, sweat, and the faint, stale scent of tour bus air conditioning. It was perfect.

She crawled across the rug to the side of her bed, reaching underneath the frame. Her fingers brushed against canvas stretchers and old sketchbooks before finding the smooth surface of the small wooden box. She slid it out, popping the latch.

Inside was her sanctuary kit: a baggie of pre-ground herb that smelled like lemon and pine, a fresh package of blunt wraps, and her lighter.

She moved back to him. Ben hadn’t moved an inch. He was still lying on his stomach, face turned toward her, resting on his crossed arms like a pillow. His eyes were heavy, half-lidded, watching her with a lazy, satisfied affection that made her chest ache.

She sat cross-legged near his head, the box in her lap. She cracked the blunt wrap open with practiced thumbnails, splitting the leaf down the middle. She went to dump the tobacco guts, but realized the rug was already a disaster zone.

She reached out and grabbed the nearest piece of paper from the floor.

It was a sketch of his eyes—brooding, shadowed, intense. She didn't hesitate. She set the paper on her knee and dumped the cheap tobacco right onto the charcoal drawing of his face. It felt poetic, somehow. The idol was gone; the man was here. She didn't need the drawing anymore.

Working quickly, she sprinkled the green into the leaf, her fingers nimble and sure. She rolled it, tucked it, and ran her tongue along the edge to seal it, all while feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

She flicked the lighter. The flame flared, illuminating the dark space between them. She brought the blunt to her lips, inhaling deeply, getting it cherry-red. The thick, sweet smoke filled her lungs, instantly softening the edges of the adrenaline that was still humming in her blood. She exhaled a long, thin stream toward the ceiling.

Then, she leaned down. "Open," she murmured softy.

She held the blunt to his lips so he didn't even have to lift his head. He parted his lips, and she steadied it for him, letting him take a long, slow drag.

As he inhaled, she brought her other hand to his head. She scratched her nails gently against his scalp, massaging the tension there, then trailed her hand down to the nape of his neck, rubbing the spot where his hair met his skin.

"Good?" she asked softly, watching the smoke drift from his lips, her hand moving to stroke down his back in long, soothing sweeps. This was it. The quiet after the storm. The best part.

He felt like he’d been dismantled. Taken apart, piece by piece, and put back together in an arrangement that finally made sense.

He lay heavy on the rug, his limbs feeling like they were filled with lead, but his mind was floaty. Light. For the first time in months, the static in his head—that constant, low-level buzz of tour dates, interviews, and the crushing expectation of strangers—was gone. Silence. Finally.

He watched her through half-lidded eyes as she pulled his shirt on. It swamped her, the hem hitting her thighs, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. Seeing her in his clothes did something to his chest that the sex hadn't even touched. It was a claim. A flag planted. It said she belonged to him just as much as he belonged to her.

He watched her deft fingers working over the wooden box, splitting the leaf.

He’d been celibate for months, and not for lack of options. God, the options were there. Girls backstage with laminate passes and wide, hungry eyes; women at after-parties who looked at him like he was a meal ticket or a trophy. He’d been tempted, sure—he was a guy, and the loneliness on the road was a physical weight—but every time he got close, the nausea would hit.

It was the realization that he could fuck them, but they wouldn't see him. They wanted the poster. They wanted the guy on the album cover.

Cleo just dumped gut tobacco onto a sketch of his face without blinking.

A lazy, tired smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched her. She didn't give a damn about the icon. She just wanted the man on her floor. That was the difference. That was why no one else had stood a chance.

He smelled the strike of the lighter, the sharp tang of sulfur followed immediately by the sweet, piney scent of the weed.

When she leaned down, murmuring for him to open, he felt a rush of affection so strong it almost hurt. This. This was what he’d been starving for. Not just the friction of sex, but the care. The way she anticipated his need to just... not be in charge for five minutes.

He parted his lips, letting her bring the blunt to him. He took a drag, his eyes fluttering shut as the smoke filled his lungs, coating his throat. He held it, letting the THC soak into his bloodstream, softening the last of his edges.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift up to mingle with her hair.

Then he felt her nails on his scalp.

A low, vibrating groan rumbled in his chest. He leaned into her hand instinctively, like a cat, the sensation of her scratching gently at the roots of his hair sending shivers down his spine that rivaled the orgasm he’d just had.

"Good?" she asked.

"Better than good," he rasped, his voice fried. "You’re ruining me, Cleo. I’m never gonna be able to leave this room."

He reached out, his hand heavy and slow, and wrapped his fingers around her ankle where she sat crossed-legged next to his head. He squeezed gently, grounding himself.

"Pass it here again," he murmured, his eyes tracking the cherry of the blunt. "Get me right."

He took another hit from her hand, his gaze locking onto hers, dark and promising. The exhaustion was there, heavy and sweet, but beneath it, the battery was recharging.

"Give me twenty minutes," he whispered, smoke curling from his lips as he smirked at her. "Maybe thirty. Just let me catch my breath."

He brushed his thumb over the bone of her ankle, his grin widening, boyish and wicked.

"Then I’m coming for you again. And I promise... next time, I’m gonna last a hell of a lot longer."

Cleo huffed out a soft laugh, the sound warm and unguarded, and shifted a little closer to him. She kept one hand in his hair, slow and deliberate, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp the way she knew grounded him. The other hand stayed easy on his ankle, thumb tracing absent-minded circles like she had nowhere else to be.

She looked down at him when he said twenty minutes, one brow lifting immediately—pure instinct, pure her.

“Twenty minutes?” she echoed, teasing, disbelief threaded through the smile tugging at her mouth. “Twice in one night?”

She tilted her head, studying him with mock seriousness, eyes bright despite the softness settling over her.

“Wow,” she added, dragging the word out just a little. “I must be super special, huh?”

The grin that followed was gentle, not challenging. Fond. Like she was amused but also… touched. Like the joke carried something quieter underneath it.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his hairline, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in.

“Take your time,” she murmured again, softer now. “I like you like this. All slowed down. No armor.”

Her thumb brushed once over his ankle in reassurance, then she shifted so she could sit more comfortably beside him, still close, still clearly not going anywhere.

“I’ll keep you right,” she added lightly, the humor back in her voice. “You just… stay put and let me.”

And with that, she settled in—content to take care of him, to let the moment stretch instead of rushing it, smiling to herself like this was exactly where she wanted to be.

Cleo let the moment stretch first.

She stroked his hair a few more times—slow, unhurried passes, fingertips gliding from his crown to the nape of his neck until his breathing evened out again. She liked the weight of him like this. Grounded. Quiet. Still enough that she could feel every small shift of his body under her hand.

Only when she felt him fully settle did she start to move.

Carefully, she slipped her hand free and leaned forward, gathering the papers scattered across the floor. She didn’t rush. Each page felt like something fragile, something earned. Charcoal smudges marked the edges, fingerprints darkened where she’d held them too tightly, and more than a few were wrinkled or creased from being dropped in a hurry.

She stacked them slowly, pausing every so often when a drawing caught her breath.

His profile, half-finished but unmistakable.
His hands—always his hands—sketched over and over, from different angles, veins and knuckles memorized.
A quick study of his shoulders from behind.
Another of his face, softer this time, eyes tired but gentle.

She swallowed and kept going.

Every version of him she’d ever carried showed up somewhere in those pages. Some careful. Some rushed. Some barely more than lines chasing a feeling before it disappeared. She didn’t judge any of them. She never did. Drawing him had never been about perfection—it was about getting the ache out of her chest when it threatened to crowd everything else.

She slid the papers into a neater pile beside the bed, smoothing the top page with her palm like she was tucking something in.

Then she gathered the rest—random sketches, smudged studies, loose sheets she’d used when the memories came on too fast. Arms. Jawlines. The curve of a neck she knew by heart. If there was space on a page, she’d filled it. If there wasn’t, she’d found another.

When she was done, she sat back beside him again, folding one leg under herself, careful not to disturb him. Her hand found his hair once more, gentler now, thumb brushing just above his temple.

“You’re everywhere,” she murmured quietly—not to accuse, not to explain. Just stating a fact she’d long since made peace with.

She leaned down and kissed his temple, then rested her cheek lightly against his head, eyes drifting closed for a second.

Ben didn’t move at first.

Didn’t open his eyes, didn’t shift his weight, didn’t try to fill the silence.

He just breathed.

Slow and steady, cheek pressed to the floor, the scent of paper and charcoal and her skin wrapping around him like gravity. Her words—you’re everywhere—settled in his chest like the last note of a song he hadn’t realized he was still holding. Something in him unknotted.

A slow, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, visible only in profile.

Then, without lifting his head, voice low and hoarse from the night they'd just had:

“Should I be insulted,” he murmured, “or flattered that I’m not naked in a single one?”

His hand shifted from her ankle to the floor, fingers splaying out like he was grounding himself against the moment—or maybe just trying to keep from rolling over and pulling her on top of him again.

“You know,” he went on, a little raspier now, a little more mischievous, “if you need a model for future reference…”

He finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye—her, cross-legged in his shirt, swimming in it, sleeves too long, collar loose enough to slip off one shoulder. She looked unfairly soft for someone who’d just wrecked him.

“…I am already lying here like one of your French girls.”

He lifted an eyebrow with a crooked sort of boyish charm that had absolutely no right to be as effective as it was. But there was something else in it too. Beneath the teasing. Beneath the heat still lingering in the space between them.

Something reverent.

Like she’d undone him, and he was grateful.

Not just for the sex—though damn—but for the way she saw him.

Still.

Even now.

Maybe especially now.

He shifted, rolling onto his side finally, propping himself up on one elbow with the lazy sprawl of a man who had no shame left to give and no intention of hiding from her. His free hand reached for the edge of her shirt—his shirt—tugging lightly at the hem like he couldn’t help himself.

“Not gonna lie,” he said, eyes skimming her legs, then flicking back up to her face, slower this time. “I’ve fantasized about you in this shirt for… too long to admit out loud.”

He paused, his thumb brushing against the inside of her knee before settling on her thigh.

“But I never imagined this part.”

He gestured vaguely toward the scattered drawings, now stacked neatly, the echo of her touch still clinging to the pages. His gaze lingered there for a second, something quieter overtaking his expression.

Then he looked back at her.

Softer now.

“Didn’t know you were carrying all that,” he said, voice dipping into something rougher. “All those versions of me.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together without asking. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was grateful. Anchoring. Like she’d given him back pieces of himself he hadn’t realized had gone missing.

“You ever wanna disappear again,” he said, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb, “you don’t have to go far.”

His smile softened at the edges.

“You can do it right here. I’ll keep the noise out.”

A beat.

Then—

“You might have to draw me more, though,” he added, grinning again. “For science. For balance. Definitely for posterity.”

He leaned forward then, slow and unhurried, pressing a kiss to her shoulder where the collar had slipped down. Not rushed. Not trying to start anything.

Just because he could.

Just because he meant it.

Then, still close, voice half against her skin—

“You’re everywhere in me too, Cleo.”

And somehow, it didn’t sound like a burden.

It sounded like home.

Cleo let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-shudder as his lips moved against her skin. It was unfair, really, how easily he could toggle between making her laugh and making her melt.

She reached out, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching lightly.

“You have a very high opinion of your aesthetic appeal, don’t you?” she teased, though the softness in her eyes betrayed her. She glanced down at the papers scattered around them—some crinkled, some pushed haphazardly aside in their earlier urgency.

“For the record,” she said, her voice dry but fond, “you were never supposed to find those. Not a single one. And we sure as hell were never supposed to…” She waved a hand vaguely at the floor, then at their entangled limbs. “…make love on top of them. I’m pretty sure that counts as defacing fine art, Benjamin.”

She poked him in the ribs, just hard enough to make him twitch, before her expression turned a little more contemplative. She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb.

“And if you really want… I suppose I could draw you like one of my French girls. Though I suspect you’d wiggle too much.” She offered him a small, crooked smile, but then she shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But these… they weren't sexual. Not really. They weren’t fantasies.”

She looked past him for a second, at a charcoal sketch of his hands holding a microphone.

“They were just… triage,” she admitted honestly. “It was just my brain trying to process the ache. Trying to get the ghost of you onto paper so I didn't have to carry the weight of missing you in my chest every single second. It wasn't about wanting you here—well, it was—but mostly, it was just trying to survive the silence.”

The mention of the silence made her smile falter. His promise—I’ll keep the noise out—hung in the air, sweet and heavy.

She shifted, pulling his shirt tighter around her frame, suddenly feeling the need for the extra layer.

“That’s the part that scares me, though,” she confessed, her eyes finding his again, wide and open. “Not this. Not us. But… when the bubble pops. When the bus engine starts up and you have to go back on the road.”

She hurried to clarify, seeing the look on his face. “And no, don’t give me that look. I trust you. I trust us. It’s not about wondering where you are or who you’re talking to. I know you.” She pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. “It’s just… the physical act of being apart. The drop. Going from having you everywhere, to having you nowhere but on a screen.”

She bit her lip, hesitating, then pushed the thought forward before she could lose her nerve.

“The cabin,” she said suddenly. “You said you had days off coming up. A gap in the schedule.”

She looked at him, a hopeful, slightly shy question in her gaze.

“Take me with you? We go up there. We turn off the phones.” She traced the line of his collarbone. “You can bring your guitar, lock yourself in a room, and wrestle with melodies until your fingers bleed if you have to. And I…” She smiled, a genuine, warm thing. “I’ll just be outside. On the porch. Painting the trees instead of you for once. Just… existing in the same space. What do you think?”

"I know, I know," she murmured quickly, catching herself before he could even answer. She dropped her gaze to their joined hands, her thumb tracing the knuckles she’d memorized a thousand times over. "I shouldn't get my hopes up. I shouldn't be mentally packing a bag and planning road trip playlists five minutes after..."

She gestured helplessly to the messy floor, a faint, self-deprecating flush rising on her cheeks.

"...after that."

She took a breath, the humor fading into something more fragile. She looked up at him, her expression open, stripped of the defenses she’d spent so long building up.

"But... what if?" she asked, her voice quiet. "What if we were to try again? Properly? Only this time..."

She paused, chewing on her lip, searching for the way to articulate the compromise she’d been terrified to voice before.

"This time, I just don’t come around the scary parts."

She squeezed his hand, an earnest, almost desperate emphasis.

"The machine. The noise. The parts that chewed me up last time." She offered a small, tentative shrug. "You go be the rockstar. You do the interviews and the red carpets and the arenas where the bass shakes your teeth. I won't ask you to shrink that for me. But I won't try to stand in the middle of the fire with you, either."

She moved her hand up to cup his cheek, her touch feather-light.

"I’ll just be the quiet. I’ll be the place where the noise stops. I'll stay on the porch painting the trees while you work. I'll be the exhale." Her eyes searched his, terrified and hopeful all at once. "Is that... would that be enough?"

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He couldn’t.

There was something about the way she said it—the exhale—that landed in his chest like a chord so perfect it hurt. It didn’t just echo, it resonated. Like her voice had threaded itself through his ribcage and was holding him together from the inside out.

His fingers curled reflexively around hers, grounding himself in the contact as his breath caught. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because he felt too much of it all at once.

And hell, wasn’t that always the problem with her? With them?

Every version of her knocked him sideways in a different way. The fierce one. The funny one. The girl in the oversized t-shirt sitting cross-legged on the floor like a living ache. The one who used to haunt his dreams and now haunted his artwork. The one who could hand him silence and make it feel like a gift.

He turned into her touch, eyes closed for half a second, like her palm could anchor the mess inside his head.

Then he opened them again. And smiled.

“Babe,” he said, voice low and warm, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, “I would follow you to a cabin in the woods right now if you said the word. Pants optional. Guitar definitely included.”

He saw her trying not to smile at that—caught the way her lips twitched—and leaned in to nuzzle lightly at her jaw, letting the scrape of his stubble prove he was still here. Still real. Still hers.

“I like the idea of you painting trees,” he murmured, softer now. “But I’m warning you—if you wear this shirt on the porch, I’m gonna get zero songwriting done. I’ll be out there every ten minutes pretending I need ‘creative inspiration’ just to stare at you.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking up toward hers with boyish mischief.

“And if I do end up posing nude on a bearskin rug by the fireplace… just know that’s on you.”

But the teasing melted just as fast as it came.

Because then he really looked at her again.

At the fear she hadn’t masked, at the hope she was holding out like a lit match in the wind.

And damn, if he didn’t feel it too.

The drop.

The ache.

The weight of trying to make something sacred stay solid when the world around them was made of spotlights and static.

He reached up, catching her hand where it rested on his cheek, and pressed a kiss into her palm—slow and deliberate.

“You know something?” he said, voice quieter now. “I never wanted you in the fire. I just didn’t know how to keep you out of it back then. I didn’t know how to split myself in two.”

He traced her fingers with his lips, one by one.

“But this?” he nodded toward the mess of drawings and limbs and truths spilled between them. “This is you being the exhale. This is you letting me come home.”

A breath.

“I want the cabin,” he said. “I want the porch. I want you painting something that isn’t my stupid jawline for once.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, affectionate and reverent.

“I want a life where I get to be loud out there and quiet in here,” he added, tapping gently at the space between them. “With you. Always with you.”

He leaned in and kissed her—not urgent, not possessive. Just tender and full of knowing. A thank-you. A promise. A yes.

Then he pulled back slightly, eyes still on hers, mischief curling at the corners of his mouth again.

“Also, for the record,” he added, voice dropping to a whisper, “if defacing fine art feels like that… I’m gonna need to do it more often.”

He grinned, kissed her again, and let the floor hold them.

Not just for now.

But maybe for what if.

Maybe for always.

Cleo stayed close, forehead still brushing his, letting the quiet stretch. His words sank in slowly, not like a rush, but like something warm settling under her ribs. Cabin. Porch. Guitar. Quiet. It all sounded impossibly simple in a way that almost hurt.

She smiled, small and soft, when he teased about following her anywhere. Not because it was funny—though it was—but because she believed him. He’d always been like that with her. All-in. Big feelings. Big promises. Even when the world around him got loud and glittering and crowded with strangers who thought they knew him.

She remembered the first time she’d watched him on stage after they were together. The way the lights swallowed him, the way thousands of people screamed his name like it belonged to them. She’d stood in the back, half-proud, half-terrified. Because she loved that version of him—the one who came alive with a guitar in his hands—but she also knew how easily the world tried to claim him. How fans blurred lines. How people felt entitled to him. And somehow… to her, too.

Being with a rockstar hadn’t been glamorous. It was long nights alone. It was scrolling past photos of him on stage while she sat in sweatpants with paint under her nails. It was loving someone who belonged to everyone and trying not to disappear inside that.

So when he talked about keeping her out of the fire, she understood. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He just hadn’t known how to protect her from a world that didn’t respect soft things.

Cleo shifted, brushing her thumb across his jaw, grounding herself in the very real man in front of her—not the poster, not the stage version. Just Ben. Warm. Breathing. Human.

She thought about that year they’d spent together. How it hadn’t been perfect. How it had been messy and beautiful and full of moments that still lived inside her bones. Late-night drives. Takeout on the floor. Him writing lyrics while she sketched his hands. Loving him hadn’t been quiet. But it had been real.

And now… this felt like a compromise between their worlds.

She didn’t need to be on his arm at every event. Didn’t need to stand in the wings while fans screamed. She didn’t want to fight the noise anymore.

What she wanted was this.

A place where he could be loud out there—chasing the thing that made his soul burn bright—and quiet in here, where he didn’t have to perform. Where she didn’t have to be brave. Where they could exist without explanation.

Cleo swallowed, emotion pressing up into her throat.

She rested her forehead against his again, eyes closed, breathing him in.

“I don’t need the spotlight,” she murmured. “I just need you like this.”

Her smile turned wistful.

“You go be everything out there,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here. Painting. Waiting. Loving you from a distance that doesn’t hurt.”

It wasn’t resignation. It was choice.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, then his temple—slow, deliberate. Not urgent. Just affection.

Because this was the deal they were making without saying it out loud:

They could love each other
without losing themselves.
They could meet in the quiet.
They could stay real.

And somehow, that felt stronger than standing beside him under the lights ever had.

Cleo stayed there with him, hands warm in his hair, heart steady.

This wasn’t less.

It was just… theirs.

The silence that followed was heavy, but good. It was the kind of silence that usually came after a storm broke, leaving the air clear and sharp.

Her eyes drifted down to his hand, resting loosely near his knee. The blunt she’d lit earlier—or maybe a lifetime ago—had burned itself out completely. A long, curved finger of gray ash was hanging precariously off the end, cold and forgotten between his knuckles.

It was almost funny. It was proof of how completely the world had narrowed down to just the two of them. They hadn’t even smoked it. The conversation, the confession, the sheer relief of being honest had been enough to eclipse everything else.

With a small, affectionate shake of her head, Cleo reached out and plucked the dead roach from his fingers.

He didn’t protest, his hand just flexing empty in the air for a second as she leaned over to drop the remnants into the glass ashtray on the low table. She dusted a speck of gray ash from her fingertips, the motion finalizing the moment. The heavy, emotional part was done. They had their plan. They had their compromise.

But as she shifted her weight, she felt the bite of the hardwood floor against her knees and the faint sting of friction on her skin. The floor had been urgent, necessary, and exactly what they’d needed in the heat of the moment—but she wasn’t interested in more rug burn.

She stood up, the oversized hem of his t-shirt slipping down her thighs, covering and uncovering her as she moved. She didn't say a word, just turned and walked the few steps to the bed. It was a tangle of unmade sheets.

She crawled onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under her weight, a stark contrast to the unforgiving floor. She didn’t pull the covers up. She didn't try to hide. She just lay back against the pillows, sinking into the softness, and watched him from across the room.

Slowly, deliberately, she bent her knees, letting her legs fall open. The shirt rode up, leaving her exposed, a silent, undeniable invitation that cut right through the sentimental atmosphere.

A playful, challenging light sparked in her eyes. She tilted her head, checking the invisible watch on her wrist before letting her gaze drop back to him, heavy and wanting.

"By my count," she said, her voice a low, smoky tease, "it’s been about twenty minutes."

She arched a brow, her lips curving into a wicked little smile.

"Clock’s ticking, rockstar. And this mattress is a hell of a lot softer than the floor."