The world outside of the bed ceased to exist. There was only the darkness behind Cleo's eyelids and the overwhelming, electric reality of Ben everywhere—inside her, on top of her, surrounding her.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, shutting out the light to focus entirely on the friction. The sensation of him—raw, bare, and scorching hot—was so intense it felt like he was touching nerves she didn't know she had. Every time he withdrew, she felt the empty ache, and every time he drove back in, it was a collision of pleasure that made her head spin.

She licked her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them, tasting the salt of her own sweat. As he shifted gears, abandoning the slow torture for a hard, demanding rhythm, her breath hitched.

Thud.

He slammed into her, and her teeth instantly sank into her bottom lip, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

Thud.

She bit down again, a sharp inhale hissing through her teeth. The force of his thrusts sent shockwaves through her soft body. Her breasts bounced and swayed with the impact, jiggling in time with the feral, heavy rhythm he was setting. The sensation of his mouth latching onto her nipple sent a bolt of lightning straight to her core, and she couldn't hold it back.

"Oh god, Ben... yes," she moaned, the sound turning into a ragged groan as he hit that deep, sweet spot again.

Her hands, which had been clutching his face, slid down the damp, straining muscles of his neck and out to his shoulders. She needed to anchor herself. She needed to hold on while he took her apart. Her fingers curled, nails digging fiercely into the skin of his shoulders and dragging down his back, marking him just as deeply as he was marking her.

She loved the weight of him. She loved the burn. She loved that there was nothing between them but heat and promise. She threw her head back into the pillow, her hips rising to meet his slaps, surrendering completely to the pounding.

"Harder," she breathed, her voice wrecked, her legs tightening their lock around his waist. "Give me... everything."

The rhythm became too much to process, a blur of friction and heat that consumed her entire world. Every heavy thrust pushed her closer to the edge of a cliff she was desperate to fall off. The pressure inside her was building to an unbearable peak, a tight, hot coil winding tighter with every second.

"Ben, Ben," she gasped, the name tearing out of her throat as a broken sob.
She couldn't keep her hips still anymore; she began to grind back against him, meeting his fury with a desperate, chaotic need of her own. Her fingernails scored down his back, digging in hard enough to leave white lines that would surely turn red, anchoring herself to him as the room began to spin behind her closed eyelids.

"Please... right there... don't stop!"

And then the dam broke.

It started as a spark deep inside, right where he was grinding against her, and exploded into a blinding white light. Her back arched violently off the mattress, her heels digging into the sheets, and a high, keen cry ripped from her lips, drowning out the wet slap of their bodies.

Oh god.

Her body seized, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic, powerful spasms, milking him, trying to wring every drop of pleasure from him. She felt herself shattering, piece by piece, dissolving into pure sensation. The pleasure came in rolling, crushing waves, crashing down so hard her toes curled and her vision went static behind her eyelids.

She was drowning in it, in him. She shook uncontrollably, her head thrashing side to side on the damp pillow, her mouth falling open in a silent scream of ecstasy. She held him there, wrapped tight around him, riding out the aftershocks until she collapsed back down, limp and gasping, her heart fluttering.

The sound of her cry—high, desperate, and completely wrecked—shattered whatever control Ben had left.

He felt her clamp down on him, her inner muscles squeezing him in a rhythmic, pulsing vice that was pure, white-hot oblivion. It was the best thing he had ever felt in his life. The sensation of her falling apart around him triggered a primitive, undeniable instinct to pour himself into the cracks.

"Fuck... that's it," he groaned, the words rough and fractured, tearing out of his throat.
He didn't slow down. He couldn't. He drove into her harder, his hips snapping with a frantic, desperate rhythm, chasing the release she was already riding. He needed to be with her. He needed to be in her.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of muscle there as he gave one final, devastating thrust.

He bottomed out deep inside her, holding himself there as the release hit him like a freight train. It started at the base of his spine and exploded outward, blinding and absolute. He spilled himself into her, pulsing hot and heavy, giving her everything she asked for—the future, the promise, the "us."

He groaned into her skin, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he emptied himself completely. It felt like he was pouring his soul into her, leaving nothing behind. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a sharp, exquisite ringing in his ears that drowned out everything else.

He held on for a long time, riding out the aftershocks, his breathing ragged and harsh in the quiet room. His heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break through to beat against hers.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the world started to come back into focus. The hum of the trailer. The smell of sex and expensive sheets. The feeling of her nails still digging into his back.

He collapsed onto her, his arms giving out, but he was careful to take most of his weight on his elbows so he didn't crush her. He was heavy, slick with sweat, and utterly spent.
He didn't pull out. He couldn't bring himself to sever the connection yet. He just lay there, buried deep, his forehead resting against hers, listening to the frantic, syncopated rhythm of their breathing as it tried to sync up.

He turned his head slightly, pressing a soft, wet kiss to her temple, then her cheek.

"Stay right here," he whispered, his voice a wrecked rasp, barely audible. "Don't move. Don't go anywhere."

He moved his hand to her hair, stroking the damp strands back from her forehead with a trembling hand, needing to see her face. He needed to see the aftermath. He needed to know she was still with him.

"Hey," he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, tasting salt. "Come back to me, Cleo. Breathe."

Cleo let out a long, trembling exhale, her chest rising and falling against his as she fought to slow her racing heart. She didn't pull away; instead, she lifted her heavy arms, wrapping them tighter around his shoulders to anchor him to her.

She pressed her forehead firmly against his, closing the tiny distance he’d left between them, mingling their breath in the small, heated space.

"I'm here," she breathed out, her voice a soft, airy whisper against his lips. She turned her head just enough to brush a kiss over his nose, reassuring him instantly. "I'm right here, Ben. I'm okay. I promise."

Her fingers drifted up from his shoulders, her palms cupping his face gently. She used her thumbs to trace the sharp line of his jaw, wiping away a bead of sweat near his temple, her touch feather-light and adoring against the roughness of his skin. She needed him to feel how present she was, how safe they were.

"Come here," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum.

She shifted slightly beneath him, guiding him down with a gentle pressure on the back of his neck. She didn't want him holding his own weight anymore; she wanted to take it all. She guided him until he slumped forward, tucking his head down so his cheek rested heavily against the soft swell of her breast, using her body as his pillow.

Once he was settled, heavy and warm against her, she began to weave her fingers through his damp hair. She scratched lightly at his scalp, a slow, hypnotic rhythm meant to lull him into the quiet. She stared up at the ceiling of the trailer, her chest rising and falling beneath his cheek, holding him close as the world outside the room slowly ceased to exist.

Her hand continued its steady, soothing path through his hair, twisting the damp strands around her fingers before smoothing them back down. The silence in the trailer was heavy and comfortable, broken only by their breathing finally finding a matching cadence.

She bit her lip, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as reality—and a very specific physical need—started to intrude on the bliss.

"Ben?" she whispered into the top of his head, her voice vibrating slightly against his ear where he lay pressed to her chest. She paused, waiting a beat to make sure he wasn't already asleep. "You hungry? I’m starving."

Ben was floating.

He was pretty sure his bones had liquefied. He was currently existing as a heavy, sweaty puddle of organic matter draped over the only solid thing in the universe. Her heartbeat was thumping against his ear—thud-thud, thud-thud—a steady, percussive rhythm that was infinitely more calming than the click track he’d been living with for months.

He felt her fingers scratching his scalp, and he let out a long, ragged sigh that deflated his lungs completely. It was the kind of touch that usually put him to sleep in under thirty seconds. He was drifting, hovering somewhere between consciousness and a coma, wrapped in the scent of her skin and the lingering static of what they’d just done.

Then she dropped the bomb.

You hungry? I’m starving.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, vibrating against her ribs before escaping as a low, raspy huff. Of course. Of course she was starving. They had just burned enough calories to power a small generator, and Cleo’s priority setting had immediately switched from "soul-bonding" to "sustenance."

God, he loved her.

"I could eat a house," he mumbled into her skin, his voice muffled and thick with sleep. "I could eat this trailer. I could eat the drywall."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her breast, right over her heart, thanking it for doing the heavy lifting, then groaned as the reality of physics set in. To eat, he had to move. To move, he had to separate himself from the warmth, and that sounded like a terrible administrative decision.

"But I can't move," he complained, his words slurring slightly. "My limbs have been deactivated. You broke me. You have to feed me like a baby bird."

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with her scent one last time, and forced his muscles to cooperate. He pushed himself up slowly, his arms trembling as they took his weight again. The slide of pulling out of her felt like losing a limb—a sudden, cold absence that made him hiss softly through his teeth.

He collapsed onto his side next to her, immediately throwing an arm over her waist and hooking his leg over hers to re-establish the perimeter. He wasn't letting her get too far.

He blinked his eyes open, the room swimming into focus. He looked at her—hair a beautiful, tangled disaster, lips swollen and bitten, eyes bright in the dim light. She looked like rock and roll. She looked like trouble.

"Okay," he said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek. "What are we thinking? I saw a pizza box in the kitchenette earlier. Please tell me it wasn't a prop. Please tell me it has contents."

He paused, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

"Also," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, serious and soft. "I meant it. Everything I said. Future. Us. All of it."

He smirked, a faint echo of his usual charm breaking through the exhaustion.

"But mostly the pizza right now. If there's pepperoni, I might cry."

Cleo didn’t rush to answer. She just watched him for a second—really looked at him—like she was taking inventory now that the adrenaline had finally drained out of him. The way his arm stayed locked around her waist. The way his thumb kept tracing her mouth like he was grounding himself there.

Her hand came up to his face, slow and familiar, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, fingers sliding into his hair at his temple. She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didn’t need an audience.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “There’s pizza.”

She leaned in closer as she said it, her forehead brushing his, her voice dropping like it was a secret meant just for him.

“And yes,” she added, lips hovering near his ear now, “it’s your favorite. The real one. Not the ‘we’re desperate and it’s 1 a.m.’ version.”

Her thumb traced his jaw, then tipped his chin up just enough so he had to look at her.

“I brought it,” she said simply, like that explained everything—which it kind of did.

She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for half a beat before pulling back just enough to see his reaction, her eyes warm and amused.

“You play a set like that,” she murmured, still stroking his face, “you don’t get fed drywall. You get fed properly.”

Her hand slid back to his chest, keeping him close.

“But we’re not moving yet,” she added, teasing, steady. “You need about thirty more seconds of pretending you’re not going to cry over pepperoni.”

Cleo adjusted beneath him without asking him to move, shifting just enough so his weight settled more comfortably along her body instead of fighting gravity. She liked the heaviness of him there. The way it pressed her into the mattress, real and warm and unmistakably him.

Her hands slid up his back, slow and deliberate, palms flattening between his shoulder blades as if she was smoothing him down, coaxing him out of the static. One hand drifted into his hair, fingers combing through the damp curls at the back of his head, scratching lightly at his scalp until she felt his breath change.

Ben let out a sound that was half-groan, half-purr as her fingernails scraped lightly against his scalp. It was a tactical strike. She knew exactly where the buttons were to shut down his operating system, and she was pressing them with ruthless efficiency.

"Thirty seconds," he mumbled into the curve of her neck, his voice muffled and vibrating against her skin. "I can do thirty seconds. I can do a minute. Honestly, if you keep scratching my head like that, I might just live here. You'll have to build the pizza box around me."

He closed his eyes, soaking in the sensation. The scalp scratch was top-tier, but the information she’d just dropped was vital.

The real one.

His brain, currently swimming in a haze of endorphins and exhaustion, tried to process the logistics. She must have had a runner go get it. Or she smuggled it in herself, hiding a grease-stained box under a blanket like it was nuclear launch codes.

"You are a wizard," he whispered, turning his head just enough to press a kiss to her collarbone. "You anticipated the crash. You pre-gamed the hunger. That is... that is unparalleled management, Cleo. I am putting you in charge of the entire tour. Everyone else is fired."

He felt the heavy, comfortable weight of his own body settling onto hers, and for once, he didn't feel the urge to pull away or check his phone or worry about the time. The silence in the trailer wasn't demanding. It was just... pause.

He opened his eyes, looking up at her from his position on her chest. The view—her chin, the curve of her throat, the messy hair framing her face—was better than any skyline he’d seen from a hotel window.

"And for the record," he said, shifting his hand to rest flat on her stomach, his thumb brushing back and forth over her skin. "I reserve the right to be emotional about the pepperoni. It’s been a long day. I have had a lot of feelings. The pepperoni is just the straw that breaks the camel's back."

He smirked, soft and lazy, but his eyes were serious as he watched her.
"But you're right," he murmured, the humor fading into something warmer, deeper. "I'm not moving yet."

He squeezed her waist gently, anchoring himself.

"Because the pizza is great, and I am going to destroy it," he admitted quietly. "But this? Being right here? This is the actual fuel."

He rested his cheek back against her breast, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart, feeling the way her breath hitched and slowed. He closed his eyes again, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

"So take your time," he whispered into the quiet. "I'm not going anywhere."

Cleo kept her fingers moving through his hair, slow and unhurried, nails grazing just enough to make him melt without ever breaking the quiet spell they’d fallen into. She felt the sound he made against her skin more than she heard it, and it pulled a soft laugh out of her chest.

“Thirty seconds,” she echoed gently, amused. “You say that like you’ve ever respected a time limit in your life.”

Her thumb traced small circles at the base of his skull while her other hand stayed steady at his shoulder, grounding him there. When he started talking about firing everyone, she chuckled again, the sound warm and low.

“Absolutely not,” she said, smiling to herself. “I am not managing a tour. That’s a nightmare with spreadsheets.”

Her hand slid back into his hair, affectionate, sure.

“But,” she added, tilting her head slightly so her cheek brushed his curls, “I can definitely manage you, Benjamin. When you need it. Which is… more often than you think.”

When he lifted his head to look at her, she met his eyes easily. No deflection. No jokes to dodge it. Just honesty, sitting right there between them.

“I am scared,” she admitted softly, nodding once. “Terrified? Yeah. Absolutely.”

Her fingers didn’t stop moving, though. If anything, they became steadier, more certain.

“But I’m not running,” she went on, shaking her head slightly. “Not ahead. Not away. I’m right here.”

She brushed her thumb along his temple, then down to his cheek, her touch gentle but deliberate.

“And if pepperoni is what tips you over the edge tonight,” she added with a faint smile, “then we’ll let it. You’ve earned at least one emotional breakdown over pizza.”

Her arms tightened around him just a little, enough to make it clear she was holding him exactly where he was.

“Fuel works both ways,” she murmured. “You can stay as long as you need.”

"Terrified is good," Ben murmured into the hollow of her throat, his voice vibrating against her pulse. "Terrified is sane. Terrified means you read the fine print."

He turned his face just enough to press a kiss to her skin, lingering there.

"I'm terrified too, Cleo. All the time. I wake up scared I'm going to mess this up. Scared the noise is going to get too loud and scare you off."

He lifted his head then, propping his chin on her chest so he could look her dead in the eye. His hair was falling into his eyes, messy and unstyled, and he didn't bother to fix it.

"But you're not running," he repeated, testing the weight of the words. He smiled, a slow, tired, genuine thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "That’s the headline. You can be scared. You can be managing spreadsheets in your nightmares. As long as you’re here."

He moved his hand from her waist to capture the hand that was playing with his hair, interlocking their fingers and bringing her knuckles to his lips.

"And yes," he admitted, letting out a long, dramatic sigh that deflated his whole body back onto hers. "I need management. I am a chaos engine. Without you, I’d probably be eating a granola bar in a ditch right now. You are critical infrastructure."

He stayed there for another beat, soaking in the quiet, the safety, the absolute miracle that she was real and she was his.

Then, his stomach growled. Loudly. It was a roar that vibrated through both of them.
Ben groaned, dropping his forehead against her sternum.

"Okay," he mumbled, defeated by his own biology. "The machine requires fuel. The emotional breakdown over pepperoni has been scheduled."

He squeezed her hand one last time, then summoned every ounce of willpower he possessed to roll off her. The loss of warmth was immediate and tragic, but the promise of carbohydrates was a strong motivator.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his chaotic hair, his back to her. He looked over his shoulder, a grin flashing in the dim light—boyish, hungry, and completely in love.

"Don't move," he commanded playfully, pointing a finger at her. "I am going to hunt and gather. I will return with the spoils. If there is garlic sauce, I might propose."

He stood up, naked and unashamed, and padded out toward the kitchenette to retrieve the holy grail.

Cleo smiled as he talked, the kind of smile that lived more in her eyes than her mouth. She listened to him without interrupting, her thumb still brushing slow, familiar paths through his hair until he finally shifted his weight and rolled away.

When the warmth left, she felt it immediately—but she didn’t chase it. She just watched him go, still smiling, still soft.

As soon as he disappeared toward the kitchenette, she pushed herself upright, the mattress creaking quietly beneath her. She gathered the sheet up with both hands and pulled it over her chest, tucking it securely under her arms the way she always did, instinctive and comfortable rather than shy. The fabric pooled around her waist as she settled back against the headboard.

She reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering there for a second, smoothing it back into place. Her face felt warm—not flushed, not overwhelmed—just content in that deep, settled way she hadn’t known she was capable of until recently.

“Terrified’s fine,” she murmured to herself, mostly fond, mostly amused.

She glanced toward the kitchenette, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving around, the trailer alive in that small, domestic way. Her smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew steadier—less dazzled, more sure.

She waited there, wrapped in the covers, relaxed and happy, like she belonged exactly where she was.

Cleo heard him before she saw him—the soft shuffle of bare feet, the quiet rustle of cardboard, the unmistakable sound of someone trying very hard not to drop food on the floor. She looked up, still tucked into the bed, sheet snug under her arms, and her smile came easily, unguarded.

He came back into view like a prize he’d wrestled from the wild, pizza box held triumphantly in one hand and two cold Coronas hooked by the necks in the other, lime wedges already jammed in like he’d planned ahead. Shoulders loose now, posture lighter. The moment he caught her eye, something in his face shifted—relief, joy, that boyish glow that only showed up when he felt safe landing somewhere.

“There you are,” she said softly, not accusatory, not urgent. Just pleased.

She shifted a little higher against the headboard, knees drawing up under the covers, making room for him without moving from where she was. Her gaze tracked him openly as he crossed back toward the bed, steam and garlic and comfort filling the small trailer, the bottles clinking quietly with each step.

“You look very successful,” she added, amusement warming her voice. “Like a man who conquered his quest.”

When he set the pizza box down and lifted the beers slightly in a wordless see?, she laughed under her breath. As he turned back to her, she reached out, fingers catching lightly at his wrist—not to stop him, just to touch. Just to remind him she was still here.

Her thumb brushed over his skin, slow and familiar.

“I’m happy,” she said simply, like it was an observation rather than a confession. She didn’t overthink it. Didn’t dress it up. “I was just… waiting.”

She leaned forward enough to press a soft kiss to his shoulder, content, unhurried, the moment stretching comfortably around them.

“Come here,” she murmured, smiling, eyes flicking to the beers and then back to him. “Eat with me.”

Ben climbed back onto the mattress, balancing the pizza box on his knees like it was a sacred text and gripping the sweating beers in his left hand.

"Quest complete," he announced, his voice regaining some of that playful, stage-ready cadence, though it was softer now. Roughened by the last twenty minutes. "Although, full disclosure: the cargo has sustained some thermal damage. It is no longer molten lava hot. It is now... aggressively lukewarm."

He set the beers on the small nightstand—carefully, avoiding the perilous tilt—and placed the box between them on the duvet. He flipped the lid open. The smell of pepperoni, garlic, and slightly congealed cheese wafted up, and to Ben, it smelled like five-star dining.

"But considering the specific nature of the delay," he added, flashing a grin that was all boyish charm and no regret, "I think we can accept the compromise. I’d trade hot cheese for the Peeling Clause any day of the week."

He looked at her then—really looked at her.

She was wrapped in the white sheet, hair messy, shoulders bare, looking like some kind of indie-movie angel that had decided to crash in his trailer. When she said I’m happy, the words hit him harder than the adrenaline crash.

He paused, a slice of pepperoni pizza halfway to his mouth. He set it back down.

"Happy," he repeated, testing the word. He liked the sound of it in this room. He liked the weight of it.

He shifted his hips, sliding closer until his bare leg pressed against her sheet-covered one, re-establishing the contact he couldn't seem to live without for more than thirty seconds.

"You know," he murmured, leaning in to press a quick, greasy-fingered kiss to her cheek, right where she’d kissed his shoulder. "That’s the best review I’ve gotten all night. Better than the encore. Better than the paycheck."

He picked the slice back up, folding it in half with the expertise of a man who had eaten 90% of his meals standing up or in a moving vehicle.

"And for the record," he said, taking a bite and closing his eyes for a second in pure, unadulterated bliss as the flavor hit him. He swallowed, pointing the crust at her. "I am also happy. I am ecstatic. I am a man with a naked girlfriend, a cold beer, and lukewarm pepperoni. I have peaked, Cleo. It’s all downhill from here."

He nudged the box toward her, offering the bounty.

"Eat," he commanded gently, watching her with a gaze that was soft, heavy, and completely unguarded. "Before I lose my manners and inhale the whole thing. I’m a growing boy, remember?"

Cleo smiled when he climbed back onto the bed, the pizza box wobbling on his knees like it was something precious and precarious. She watched the careful way he set the beers down, the exaggerated focus, the tiny domestic rituals that still felt new enough to notice.

“Lukewarm is fine,” she said easily, voice soft, unbothered. “It’s earned a little rest. So have you.”

When he opened the box and the smell filled the trailer, she laughed quietly, the sound warm and real. She shifted closer, the sheet slipping just enough to show a bare shoulder before she tugged it back up, more habit than modesty. His leg pressed against hers and she leaned into it without thinking, like her body had already decided where it belonged.

“Happy,” she echoed when he said it again, nodding once. “Yeah. That one sticks.”

She tilted her head when he kissed her cheek, smiling into it, eyes closing for half a second like she was cataloging the feeling for later. When he declared his peak, she snorted softly.

“Downhill from here, huh?” she said, amused. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

She reached for a slice when he nudged the box toward her, fingers brushing his as she took it. She didn’t rush. She took a bite, chewed slowly, eyes on him the whole time like she was studying something familiar and still surprising.

“Mm,” she murmured. “Still perfect. You chose well.”

She leaned back against the headboard, one knee bumping his thigh under the covers, comfortable, full in that quiet way that had nothing to do with food.

“And don’t worry,” she added gently, glancing at the pizza and then back at him. “I’m eating. You’re safe. Your manners are intact.”

She lifted her slice slightly toward him, a small toast.

“To peaks,” she said softly. “And not rushing past them.”

Cleo shifted a little closer after that, settling into the pillows with the sheet still tucked under her arms, pizza balanced carefully in one hand. She took another bite, slower this time, then reached out with her free hand to rest it on his knee—just there, not asking for anything, not pulling, just anchoring.

She watched him chew, watched the way his shoulders finally dropped now that the night was behind him, the performance already turning into memory. The hum in the trailer felt softer, like even the walls were exhaling.

“You did amazing today,” she said quietly, not loud enough to carry past the thin aluminum. It wasn’t praise the way fans gave it. It was steadier than that. “I know you always wonder if it landed. It did. I thought the girl next to me was going to have a panic attack, she was crying so hard.”

She leaned her head back, eyes flicking up to the ceiling for a second, then back to him, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

“I like this version of the after,” she added. “No noise. No rush. Just… us decompressing with yummy pizza choices.”

Her thumb brushed once, absent-minded, against his knee.

She lifted her slice again, taking another bite, contentment settling in her chest like something earned rather than accidental.

Ben chewed slowly, savoring the collision of garlic, grease, and lukewarm cheese. It wasn't just sustenance; it was a religious experience. He washed it down with a sip of cold Corona, feeling the carbonation bite pleasantly at the back of his throat.

When Cleo spoke, her voice low and steady against the hum of the trailer, Ben stopped chewing.

You did amazing today.

The tension he hadn’t even realized he was still carrying in his jaw finally let go. He swallowed, looking at her with an intensity that had nothing to do with the stage lights. Hearing it from the label was fine. Hearing it from the fans was a rush. But hearing it from Cleo? That was the only rubric he actually graded himself on.

"Panic attack crying?" he asked, a small, crooked smile touching his lips. "Good. That's the demographic I'm aiming for. Emotional devastation."

He chuckled, but it was soft, self-deprecating. He shifted his leg under the sheet, pressing closer to her warmth.

"Honestly, though?" He looked down at his half-eaten slice, then back up at her, his expression sobering. "I couldn't tell. From up there, it's just a wall of noise and light. I spend half the set terrified I'm losing them. But if you say it landed... then I believe it."

He reached out, covering her hand on his knee with his own, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

"Your opinion is the only one that actually scares me, Cleo. You see the cracks. If you say it was good, then I can finally turn my brain off."

He looked around the cramped trailer—the wood paneling, the messy bed, the pile of clothes on the floor, the woman in the sheet holding a slice of pepperoni pizza like a scepter.

A year ago, he would have been at some sponsored after-party right now. He would be standing in a VIP tent, wearing sunglasses at night, nursing a drink he didn't want, talking to people who didn't know his middle name, waiting for permission to leave.

"And you're right," he murmured, his gaze coming back to her, heavy with affection. "This version of the after? Unbeatable. I've done the tents. I've done the Neon Carnival. It’s loud, it’s sweaty, and nobody actually eats."

He raised his beer bottle, clinking it gently against the crust of her pizza slice.
"To the quiet," he whispered, his voice rough and sincere. "To lukewarm pepperoni. And to the fact that I am currently in bed with the prettiest girl at Coachella, and I didn't even have to wear a wristband to get here."

He took another bite of his pizza, chewing with a contented hum, feeling the bone-deep exhaustion finally starting to feel like rest instead of a crash.

"We are absolutely staying in," he decided, pointing his slice at the door. "If anyone knocks, we're dead. Or contagious. You pick the lie."

Cleo smiled at the way he lifted his beer, at the way he tried to wrap something sacred in humor before letting himself actually feel it.

She shifted closer, the sheet sliding slightly as she leaned her shoulder into his side, grounding herself in the familiar weight of him. The trailer hummed softly around them—generator noise in the distance, muted footsteps passing outside, a world still moving even though theirs had paused. The smell of pepperoni, dust, and sweat lingered in the air, unmistakably real.

Earlier, she’d been in the crowd—right side, a little back from the barricade, exactly where she could see him without being seen too much herself. It was different out there. No buffer. No quiet. Just bodies pressed together, heat, sound. She’d felt the bass in her ribs before she ever saw him, the lights sweeping over the desert like something unreal. And when he came out, the noise had hit her full force—thousands of girls screaming his name, hands in the air, voices cracking with something between joy and possession.

It still startled her, that sound. Not jealousy—she knew the difference now—but the sheer scale of it. The way loving him meant sharing him with a thousand strangers who felt something real and unearned all at once. She’d stood there with her beer sweating through her fingers, watching girls cry when he smiled, scream when he stepped closer to the edge of the stage. It was overwhelming in a quiet, private way. Like standing near the ocean and realizing it could take something from you if it wanted to.

There had been a time—years ago—when she hadn’t understood how lonely it could feel to love someone whose life existed in public. Back then, dating meant inside jokes, late dinners, anonymity. Now it meant standing in a crowd where no one knew her name, listening to people shout his like a prayer. Sometimes that scared her. Sometimes it made her feel small. And sometimes—tonight included—it made her feel steady. Because she knew where he was looking when the lights dipped. She knew exactly which side of the stage he checked between songs.

“You always do that,” she said softly now, her voice calm, unhurried. “You act like you’re aiming for chaos, when really you just want it to feel honest.”

She glanced down at their hands, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, and let herself stay there for a moment. This was the part no one photographed. No wristbands. No noise. Just pizza grease, quiet breathing, and the aftermath.

“You didn’t lose them,” she added gently, certain. “I was right there. I watched their faces. You had them the whole time.”

When he joked about lying if someone knocked, she shook her head, a small laugh slipping out—easy, unbraced.

“No,” she said simply. “We don’t need to lie.”

She leaned back just enough to really look at him—not the headliner, not the guy on posters, but the one sitting barefoot on a mattress with pizza on his knee.

“We’ll just tell them the truth,” she continued, grounded and sure. “That we’re in happy domestic bliss. That we’re unavailable. That we’d prefer to remain completely unbothered.”

The words felt good in her mouth. Chosen. Intentional.

She leaned in then, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—affectionate, unhidden, unafraid. Not rushed. Not performed. Just theirs.

When she pulled back, she stayed close, her shoulder still against his chest.

“I know I can’t stay invisible forever,” she added quietly, not heavy—just honest. “And I know I share you. I always will.”

Her gaze softened as she looked at him.

“But right now? Right here?”
She smiled, small and sure.
“This part is ours.”

Then, gently, she nudged the pizza box toward him with the back of her hand.

“Now eat,” she murmured. “Before you turn into a headline for entirely the wrong reason.”

Ben stopped chewing.

The bite of pizza sat heavy in his mouth for a second before he swallowed it down, the flavor forgotten. He set the slice back in the box, wiping his hands on a napkin with slow, deliberate movements. The playful energy that had been buzzing in the room dampened, replaced by something thicker. Heavier.

I know I share you.

The words landed softly, without malice, but they hit him like a physical weight in the center of his chest.

He looked at her—sitting there with the sheet tucked under her arms, hair messy, looking at him with that steady, accepting gaze that always made him feel like he could stop running. She wasn't complaining. She was just stating a fact of their life, a term of the contract she’d signed when she fell in love with him.

But he hated it.

He hated that she had to stand in the dark while he stood in the light. He hated that she had to watch strangers scream his name and feel like she had to carve out a little corner of him just to keep for herself.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and rough.

He shifted on the mattress, turning fully toward her, ignoring the pizza, ignoring the beer. He reached out, his hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse.

"You don't share me, Cleo."

He waited until her eyes locked on his, until he was sure she was really listening.
"You share the noise," he corrected gently, intense and quiet. "You share the guy who runs around on that stage and sweats and makes faces and sings the songs. That guy? Yeah. He belongs to the crowd for ninety minutes. They can have him."

He leaned in closer, his forehead resting against hers, his hand sliding into her hair to hold her there.

"But this guy?" He bumped his nose against hers. "The one who eats cold pizza in the nude? The one who’s scared he’s going to forget the lyrics? The one who needs you to scratch his head just to fall asleep?"

He kissed her softly, a seal on the promise.

"Nobody else gets him. Nobody else even knows he exists. He’s not shared property. He’s exclusively yours. I checked the deed. It’s in your name."

He pulled back just enough to see her face, his expression softening into that lopsided, tired smile.

"So let them have the headline. Let them have the photos. I don't care about any of that. I only care about the part where I get to come back here and hide with you."

He ran his thumb over her lower lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth and then back up.
"Happy domestic bliss," he echoed, liking the sound of it more than he should. "Unavailable. Unbothered. I like that policy. I’m going to have security print it on the laminates for the next tour."

He picked up his pizza slice again, the mood shifting back from intense to comfortable, but the weight of the promise still hanging in the air.

"Now," he said, taking a bite and chewing with renewed purpose. "I am going to eat this. And if anyone knocks, I will personally bark like a dog until they go away. I’m very committed to the bit."

Cleo didn’t interrupt him. She let the quiet stretch while he spoke, let the seriousness land the way it needed to. Her expression softened—not wounded, not defensive—just steady. When his hand came to her neck, she leaned into it instinctively, her pulse calm under his thumb, her breathing even.

“I know,” she said gently when he finished, her voice low and sure. “I hear what you’re saying. And I believe you.”

She reached up, brushing her thumb along his wrist, grounding him the same way he was grounding her.

“And I’m not saying it like it’s a loss,” she added. “It’s just… the shape of it. I share the noise, like you said. I share the schedule and the waiting and the screaming and the nights where you come back hoarse and vibrating. That part doesn’t scare me the way it used to.”

She smiled faintly when he talked about barking at people, the tension easing out of her shoulders.

“But,” she continued, shifting a little closer, “unfortunately for you… you do have to share me.”

She reached into the pizza box and took a bite from the slice her sister had already abandoned earlier—cheese stretching, pepperoni sliding just a little before snapping free. She chewed slowly, unapologetic, then washed it down with a long drink of her beer, the bottle cool against her palm.

“You have to share me with my sister,” she said simply. “That part isn’t negotiable.”

She set the bottle down and looked back at him, eyes warm, teasing but sincere.

“And someday,” she added, quieter now, “other little people might get me too.”

She nudged his knee lightly with hers, a small smile pulling at her mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about names,” she admitted, like she was talking about something ordinary and safe. “Unisex ones. Ones that don’t feel boxed in.”

She paused just long enough to make sure he was really listening.

“Sage,” she said first, fond and certain. “And Briar.”

Her smile widened just a touch, softer at the edges.

“They feel grounded,” she said. “Like people who know how to grow without asking permission.”

She leaned in then, pressing a quiet kiss to the corner of his mouth—affectionate, familiar—before settling back against him again.

“So yes,” she finished lightly, her forehead resting against his. “You’re exclusively mine. No confusion there.”

Then, with a soft exhale and another sip of beer—

“But I come with layers. You’ll figure it out.”

Ben took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, letting the cold glass rest against his bottom lip as he processed the terms and conditions she was laying out.

"Phoebe," he said, nodding slowly as he lowered the bottle. "I accept the terms. I will share you with Phoebe."

He pointed a finger at her, his expression serious but his eyes dancing with a laid-back, calculated amusement.

"But you need to understand the economics of that deal. That is a win-win for me. Because if Phoebe has you, that means she’s distracted. And if Phoebe is distracted, that means I get custody of Jax."

He grinned then, the thought of his best friend—who was currently enduring Phoebe’s terrifyingly competent management style—making him feel a lot better about the arrangement.

"I haven't had quality time with that guy in months. We need to go stand near a grill and talk about nothing. If sharing you means I get my best friend back in the rotation, I am signing that contract immediately."

But then she dropped the other names.

Sage. Briar.

A year ago, those words would have sounded like a siren. A year ago, if Cleo had started listing off baby names in the afterglow of a hookup, Ben would have been looking for the exit sign. He would have felt the walls of the trailer closing in, the crushing weight of expectation choking out the fun.

But he looked at her now—messy hair, pizza in hand, that calm, surfer-girl confidence radiating off her like heat—and he didn't feel the panic.

He felt... grounded.

Especially considering what they’d just done. He’d spent the last twenty minutes making sure that those names weren't just hypothetical concepts anymore. He hadn't pulled out. He hadn't hesitated. He had doubled down on "us."

"Sage and Briar," he repeated, testing the syllables in the quiet air.

He tilted his head, considering it.

"I like 'em," he decided, his voice low and raspy. "They sound cool. Like... half rock star, half surfer. Like kids who are going to steal my vinyl collection and your surfboard and be cooler than both of us by the time they're ten."

He set his pizza crust back in the box and wiped his hands, shifting his weight so he could lean back into the pillows, pulling her with him until she was tucked into his side again.

"But here's the thing about those 'little people,'" he murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head, his hand finding hers under the sheet.

"They're going to be half me, Cleo. Which means you're not just sharing yourself with them."

He squeezed her hand, a solid, possessive pressure.

"You're sharing them with me. We're splitting the equity. 50/50."

He closed his eyes, visualizing it for a second—a chaotic, loud, messy future with little versions of them running around, named Sage and Briar, causing trouble. It didn't look scary. It looked like the only thing that made sense.

"I can do 50/50," he whispered into her hair. "As long as they get your patience. If they get my attention span, we’re doomed."

Cleo listened to him over the rim of her bottle, eyes warm, mouth tipped into that half-smile she got when he was being serious but trying to hide it behind charm. She shifted closer on the mattress, the sheet rustling as she tucked her leg against his, her fingers sliding along his wrist, grounding herself in the familiar feel of him.

“Sharing me with Phoebe is non-negotiable,” she said lightly, amused. “She came first. I don’t make the rules, I just live under her jurisdiction.” Her thumb traced the inside of his forearm as she looked up at him. “But—” her tone softened, more thoughtful now, “are you going on a break anytime soon?”

She tilted her head, searching his face. “Because if you are… I want us to go somewhere. All four of us. I haven’t really seen my sister.” A small shrug. “Not the way I want to. I love being out here with you, I really do—but I miss her. A vacation that doesn’t involve wristbands or itineraries sounds kind of perfect.”

When he said the names out loud, tested them like chords, she laughed quietly, a little embarrassed and a little delighted.

“They’re so L.A.,” she admitted, chuckling. “I know. I hear it when I say them. But I like that they sound like sunlight and scraped knees and barefoot kids.” She nodded as he talked about vinyls and surfboards, eyes lighting up. “Oh, they’re absolutely stealing both. And breaking them. And somehow making it look cooler than we ever could.”

“I can’t wait,” she said softly, and meant it in a way that wasn’t rushed or reckless—just open. She leaned in, tapping his nose with her index finger, smiling. “I hope they get your puppy-dog eyes and that big stupid smile you do when you’re pretending not to care.”

Her expression softened when he talked about sharing, about equity, about halves. She squeezed his hand back, steady and sure.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Half you. Half me. I know.” Her voice warmed with the truth of it. “And I can’t wait for that either.”

She shifted closer until her shoulder fit perfectly beneath his chin, her fingers slipping up into his hair, slow and familiar. “I don’t need it to be neat,” she added. “I just want it to be real. Loud sometimes. Quiet when it needs to be. Ours.”

She smiled into him, content, already picturing it—not as a fantasy, but as something possible.

"A vacation," Ben repeated, the word tasting sweeter than the beer.

He shifted his weight, pulling his arm tighter around her to bring her fully onto his chest. He rested his chin on the top of her head, staring up at the dark wood paneling of the trailer ceiling as he did the mental math of his Google Calendar.

"I have three weeks," he said, the realization hitting him with a wave of relief. "After San Diego. Three weeks where I don't have to be Ben Wilder. I don't have to do soundcheck. I don't have to smile at radio DJs."

He looked down at her, a grin spreading across his face—the exact 'stupid smile' she had just accused him of having.

"If you're telling me I can spend those three weeks on a beach with you, watching Jax try to surf and fail miserably while Phoebe yells at him? That’s not a vacation, Cleo. That’s paradise. Book it. Tell Phoebe to pack her sunscreen. I’m paying."

He kissed her forehead, lingering there for a second, breathing her in. The idea of disappearing with her—really disappearing, not just hiding in a trailer for an hour—felt like the only thing that mattered.

But then she brought up the eyes. And the smile.

He huffed a laugh, vibrating against her ribs.

"First of all," he murmured, his hand sliding down her back to rest possessively on her hip. "My smile is a precision instrument. It’s industry standard. Calling it 'stupid' is a direct attack on my brand."

He rolled his eyes, but his hand tightened on her, gentle and grounding.

"But if we’re putting in orders with the universe..." He paused, his voice dropping, losing the joke. "I hope they get your calm. I hope they get that thing you do where you just sit in a room and the whole world slows down to match you. Because if they get my energy and your face? We’re in trouble. They’re going to run the world."

He thought about Sage and Briar. He thought about scraped knees and sunlight. He thought about the fact that ten minutes ago, he might have just started the process of meeting them.

The terror was still there, buzzing in the back of his mind, but it was quieter now. It was drowned out by the feeling of her hand in his hair and the absolute certainty that he didn't want to do any of this—the loud parts or the quiet parts—with anyone else.

"Real," he echoed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Loud, quiet, messy. I’m in. I’m all the way in."

He reached for his beer again, taking a long sip, then rested the cold bottle against her bare arm, making her squirm just to hear her laugh.

"But seriously," he whispered, grinning against her skin. "We need to get Jax to a beach. I need to see him sunburned. It’s good for my soul."

Cleo smiled into his chest when he said it out loud, the word settling between them like something already half-real. Vacation. She shifted so her cheek rested over his heart, listening to it thud—steady, present—while his arm tightened around her.

“Three weeks,” she echoed softly, letting the number stretch. “That sounds… unreal.” Her fingers traced slow lines along his ribs, grounding herself in the fact that this wasn’t hypothetical. “No schedules. No wristbands. No pretending to care about green rooms.”

When he painted the picture—Jax flailing in the water, Phoebe yelling from the sand—she laughed, the sound warm and easy. “I would pay money to see that,” she said. “Phoebe with a whistle? Jax absolutely convinced he’s a natural athlete? I’m already relaxed.”

She tipped her head back enough to look at him, her expression fond and certain. “Paradise sounds right,” she agreed. “And I love that you’re already paying. Very generous of you. Very on brand.”

At his protest about the smile, she scoffed quietly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “Please,” she murmured. “Your brand will survive. I promise.”

When his voice dropped and he talked about what he hoped they’d inherit, she went still in that way she did when something landed exactly where it needed to. She nodded, slow and thoughtful. “I hope so too,” she said. “Calm is a learned skill. I can teach that.” A small smile curved. “Energy, though? That’s all you. We’ll just… redirect.”

She kissed his temple, lingering, then hummed when the cold bottle touched her arm, squirming despite herself. “You’re evil,” she laughed, nudging him with her knee. “Put that thing away.”

Then, when he mentioned booking it—really booking it—she shifted again, reaching out to the night table. Her phone was there, still plugged in, screen lighting up the dim trailer as she unplugged it. She propped herself on one elbow against him, thumb already scrolling, comfortable and decisive.

“Okay,” she said, practical but excited, eyes flicking between the screen and his face. “Where do you want to go?” A grin tugged at her mouth. “There are a ton of beaches.”

Cleo’s thumb slowed as she scrolled, the glow of the screen lighting up her face in soft flashes of blues and whites. She made a little thinking sound under her breath, brows knitting, then relaxing again as she flicked past beaches like she was flipping through postcards.

“Okay, so—classic tropical,” she murmured, half to herself. “Warm water, palm trees, very predictable.” Another scroll. “Pretty, but predictable.”

She shifted slightly on his chest, getting more comfortable, one leg hooking lazily over his. Her finger paused. Then stopped.

“Oh,” she said, eyes widening just a touch. A smile spread, slow and delighted, like she’d found a secret.
“Ooooh.”

She turned the phone so he could see, angling it between them, excitement creeping into her voice.

“Wait. What if we go to the Blue Lagoon.”

She laughed softly, already sold. “Like—hot water, cold air. Steam everywhere. You in a robe pretending you’re not freezing. Me refusing to get out because it feels like a bath built by gods.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, bright. “It’s not loud. It’s not party energy. It’s quiet and weird and kind of dreamy.” She tapped the screen once, decisive. “Very us hiding-from-the-world coded.”

She leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

“And,” she added lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice, “I think watching Jax attempt to relax in geothermal water while Phoebe reads the rules out loud might actually heal me.”

She grinned, settling back against him. “Tell me you don’t love it.”

Ben blinked at the screen, his brain doing a rapid tactical recalibration from "white sand and coconuts" to "volcanic rocks and steam."

He leaned in closer, squinting at the glowing blue water on her phone, then looked up at her with a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face.

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "That is a pivot. We just went from 'Surfin' USA' to 'Björk music video.' I respect the boldness. I respect the vibe shift."

He took the phone from her hand, holding it up to inspect the photo of the misty, ethereal lagoon, then handed it back, dropping his head back onto her shoulder.

"I don't love it," he corrected, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I am obsessed with it. It’s perfect. It looks like an alien planet where the only inhabitants are people in robes who are aggressively relaxed. That is my dream aesthetic."

He closed his eyes, already picturing the scene.

"Phoebe reading the rules is a given," he mused, a laugh vibrating in his chest. "But you're forgetting the silica mud. Phoebe is going to make us all wear those white mud masks. We’re going to look like a family of ghosts. And Jax..."

He snorted.

"Jax is going to try to drink the water. I guarantee it. He’s going to think it gives him superpowers. We’re going to have to physically restrain him."

He opened his eyes and turned his head to kiss the side of her neck, right below her ear.
"And me in a robe?" he murmured against her skin. "I look fantastic in a robe. I have the hair for it. I look like a retired wizard on his day off. You’re going to love it."

He shifted his hand on her waist, pulling her tighter. The idea of the cold air and the hot water, the steam hiding them from everything—it sounded infinitely better than a crowded beach.

"Iceland," he decided firmly. "Book it. Let's go freeze and then boil. It sounds like a metaphor for my entire career, but in a spa way."

He paused, his expression softening as he looked at her.

"Plus," he added quietly, "if we're starting a family... might as well start them off with good skin. That silica is supposed to be magic, right?"

He grinned, boyish and charmed.

"Do it. Send the invite. Tell Phoebe to pack her parka. We're going to the moon."

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.