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

Then came the offering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A small, private smile curved her mouth.

“And to remind you that I love you.”

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

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

Product. Streams. Tickets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thumb brushed slow circles into his back.

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

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

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

A small smile curved her lips.

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

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

“Come on,” she said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleo smiled to herself, eyes fluttering closed.

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

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

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

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

He didn't close his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she smiled.

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

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

She grinned wider.

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

She laughed softly.

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

She tapped his chest playfully.

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

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

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

But then he looked at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next came a corduroy cap.

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

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

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

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

“…I found it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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