Ben stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips and another rubbing vigorously at his damp hair. He felt approximately eighty percent more human than he had ten minutes ago. The layer of stage grime was gone, replaced by the smell of hotel soap and the lingering humidity of the shower.

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he watched her roast his entire wardrobe.

"First of all," he called out, his voice muffled slightly by the towel as he scrubbed his head, "raccoons are resourceful creatures. They are survivors. I take that as a compliment."

He lowered the towel, draping it around his neck, and grinned at her back as she tossed the beanie aside.

"And secondly, that beanie has sentimental value. I wrote three songs in that beanie. It’s full of angst and creative genius. Pigeons need poetry too, Cleo."

He walked over to the bed, reaching for a clean—yes, another black—t-shirt and pulling it on. It stuck slightly to his damp skin, but it felt good. Normal.

Then came the hat.

He watched her hold it up like it was the Holy Grail of bad fashion. He honestly had no idea where that thing had come from. It might have been a gift. It might have been something he bought at a gas station at 3 a.m. in a fugue state.

When she plopped it onto his head, adjusting the brim to a jaunty, catastrophic angle, he turned to look in the mirror.

He blinked.

It was a faded, shapeless bucket hat in a color that could only be described as "beige despair." It looked like something a fisherman would wear if he had given up on ever catching a fish again.

"Wow," he said, staring at his reflection. "You weren't kidding. I look like I’m about to ask someone for directions to the nearest shuffleboard court."

He adjusted it slightly, pulling it lower. It was perfect. No one would look at this hat and think rock star. They would look at this hat and think that man needs assistance.

"I love it," he decided, turning back to her with a wide, boyish grin. "It’s a masterpiece of anti-fashion. If the paparazzi snap a pic of this, my career is over. It’s exactly what we need."

He grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the counter—cheap plastic aviators, not his stage ones—and slid them on.

"Okay," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Agent Wilder is ready for deployment. The objective is fried dough. The stakes are high."

He pulled her in for a quick, energized kiss, tasting her laughter.

"Lead the way, gravity girl. But if anyone asks, my name is Greg, and I'm really looking forward to the retirement seminar tomorrow."

Benjamin.

The name hit him harder than the bass drop at the main stage.

She rarely used it. Usually, he was Ben, or Babe, or—tonight—Greg. "Benjamin" was reserved for moments that had weight. It was the name on his birth certificate, the name his mother used when she was worried, and the name Cleo used when she was stripping away every last layer of bullshit he had left.

And then there were her hands.

Cool, paint-stained fingers sliding up the bare skin of his back, slipping beneath the cotton of his shirt to press against his spine. It sent a jolt through him that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold night air and everything to do with the sudden, desperate need to be nowhere but with her.

He let out a ragged exhale, his hands tightening on her waist, pulling her flush against him for one long, heavy second. He needed to imprint this feeling—her warmth, her bravery, the way she looked at him under the violet light—into his brain forever.

"Okay," he breathed, his voice rough. "Yeah. Trailer. Now."

He didn't make a joke. He didn't ask if she wanted one last look at the lights. He simply accepted the command as the absolute law of the universe.

He took her hand, interlacing their fingers tightly, and turned them away from the glowing orbs.

The walk back was a blur. He moved with purpose now, his "Greg" slouch replaced by a focused, protective stride. He navigated them through the thinning crowd, his body angling instinctively to shield her from a group of stumbling ravers, his eyes scanning the path ahead not for threats, but for the fastest route to the exit.

He felt the shift in the air as they crossed the perimeter back into the Artist Village. The noise dropped. The chaos receded. They were crossing the threshold from the "loud" world she feared back into the quiet one they built together.

When they reached the trailer, he didn't fumble with the key. He unlocked it in one smooth motion, shoved the door open, and practically pulled her inside.

He kicked the door shut behind them, and the silence was instant.

The bass was just a dull thud again. The air conditioner hummed. The smell of dust and citrus soap wrapped around them.

Ben didn't let go of her hand. He reached up with his free hand and snatched the beige bucket hat off his head, tossing it onto the kitchenette counter without looking. It landed with a soft flop next to the half-empty water bottle.

"Greg has left the building," he murmured, the darkness of the trailer feeling less like a cage and more like a cocoon.

He turned to her, backing her gently until her legs hit the edge of the messy bed, his eyes locked on hers—no sunglasses, no hat, no lights.

"You have me," he whispered, stepping into her space, his hands finding her hips. "You have all of me. The loud parts, the quiet parts, the parts that are terrified of losing you. I'm right here."

He leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing still syncing with hers in the quiet dark.

"And for the record," he added, his voice low and thick with emotion, "I like it when you call me Benjamin. It sounds like you're claiming me."

She didn’t hesitate.

Her hands came up to his face, fingers threading into his hair, thumbs brushing his jaw as she pulled him down into her. The kiss wasn’t careful or reverent this time. It was hungry. Claiming. Months of distance, fear, adrenaline, love—all of it poured straight through her mouth into his.

She kissed him like she was grounding them both.

Her body pressed fully into his, no space left for doubt, for noise, for the world outside the thin aluminum walls. The bed bumped the back of her legs, but she didn’t sit yet—she stayed standing, stayed connected, like she needed to feel him upright and real.

Her breath hitched against his lips, a quiet sound she didn’t bother hiding.

“Benjamin,” she murmured again between kisses, softer this time, like a promise instead of a command. Her forehead rested against his for half a second before she kissed him again, slower now but just as intense, her hands sliding from his hair to his shoulders, gripping him there like he might disappear if she didn’t.

When she finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her eyes were dark, bright with emotion, her chest rising fast.

“I am claiming you,” she said quietly, honestly. “Every version. Every name.”

She leaned in once more, brushing her nose against his, lips hovering.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t give him time to think.

Her hands slid from his shoulders to his wrists, firm and sure, and she guided him backward until the couch hit the backs of his knees. She went with him as he fell, the cushions dipping under their combined weight, the trailer giving a soft, familiar creak as if it already knew how this would go.

He landed on his back, breath knocked loose in a quiet laugh that never quite made it out, and she followed immediately—knees bracketing his hips, hands still holding him there like she’d decided this was where he belonged.

“Stay,” she murmured, not as an order but as an invitation she already knew he’d accept.

She leaned down into him, the kiss meeting him halfway this time—still hungry, still charged, but slower now, deeper. His hands came up to her back instinctively, palms warm through the thin fabric of her top, holding her there as if the couch were suddenly the safest place in the world.

The trailer felt smaller like this. The hum of the AC. The distant bass, dulled and harmless. The beige hat abandoned on the counter like evidence of another life.

She shifted just enough to settle her weight more comfortably, one hand sliding into his hair again, fingers curling at the nape of his neck as she kissed him—unrushed, intentional, full of the kind of want that came from choosing each other over and over again.

When she pulled back, it was only far enough to rest her forehead against his, breath warm against his cheek.

“Right here,” she whispered, lips brushing his again. “Just us. No lights. No noise. No versions.”

She kissed him once more, softer this time, anchoring him to the couch, to the trailer, to her—exactly where she wanted him.

Ben went down willingly.

He hit the cushions with a heavy thud, the air leaving his lungs in a rush that was half-impact, half-surrender. The couch was narrow and lumpy—standard-issue touring gear—but with her weight settling over his hips, pinning him to the upholstery, it felt like the only place on earth that wasn’t spinning.

"Stay," she murmured.

A rough, breathless laugh tore out of his throat, vibrating against her lips as she kissed him.

"Try and make me leave," he whispered back, his voice raw. "You’d have to call security. You’d have to get a crowbar."

Her mouth was hungry, demanding in a way that scrambled his brain. This wasn't the gentle, grounding Cleo who had shielded him in the crowd. This was Cleo the artist, Cleo the fire, burning through the last of his defenses.

He needed it. God, he needed it. He needed her to erase the thousands of faces he’d seen tonight and replace them with just one.

His hands, which had been gripping her waist, slid upward, impatient and seeking. He pushed under the hem of her crop top, his palms flattening against the warm, smooth skin of her back. The contact sent a jolt straight to his spine. He groaned low in his throat, his fingers splaying out over her ribs, counting them like he was checking that she was real, that she was solid.

"Benjamin," she’d called him.

The name echoed in his head, stripping away the 'Ben Wilder' neon sign, the 'Greg' disguise, the expectations, the noise. It left him feeling exposed and seen in equal measure.

He arched his back off the cushions to meet her, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her—churros and mint and that indescribable taste that was just her. He kissed her like he was trying to breathe for her.

When she pulled back to rest her forehead against his, he kept his eyes closed for a second, fighting to regulate his breathing. His heart was hammering against his ribs, beating a frantic rhythm against her chest.

He opened his eyes. She was right there. Blurred edges, dark eyes, lips swollen from his own.

"You claimed me a long time ago, Cleo," he rasped, his hands sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, holding her face close to his. "I haven't belonged to anyone else since the day we met. You know that."

He searched her gaze, intense and unblinking.

"No versions," he agreed, his thumb brushing hard over her cheekbone. "Just the guy on the couch. Just Benjamin."

He shifted his hips beneath hers, the friction sending a spark of heat through his veins that threatened to override the exhaustion completely.

"But you have to promise," he murmured, pulling her head down so he could speak directly against her mouth again. "If we stay right here... you don't stop looking at me like that. Like I'm the only thing in the room."

He bit her lower lip, gentle but possessive.

"Because when you look at me like that... I forget I ever have to go back out there."

She smiled against his mouth when he joked about crowbars, her breath shaky but warm. “Good. Because I don’t want to win that fight. I want you right here. With me.”

When he said her name—when he said it meant something—her voice softened, lost its edge. “That’s why I say it,” she admitted. “Because it cuts through everything else. Because it’s you when you’re not performing. Because it reminds you you’re allowed to be held.”

She didn’t pull away from his hands. She leaned into them, honest and open in a way she rarely let herself be. “It’s always been you,” she said simply. “Even when I tried to pretend it wasn’t.”

She let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, the kind that came with confession. “I tried dating in the in-between,” she went on, shrugging slightly even as she stayed over him. “I really did. I wanted it to work. I wanted sparks, or butterflies, or whatever people say is supposed to happen.” She shook her head. “Nothing ever did. It was quiet in the wrong way. Empty.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek, lingering there. “Because I was already in love with you. I just kept carrying it around instead of saying it out loud.”

When he said just Benjamin, her eyes softened completely. “That’s who I want,” she replied. “That’s who I’ve always wanted. Not the noise. Not the crowd. Not the versions.”

She leaned closer, forehead touching his again. “I promise,” she said, steady and sure. “I’m looking at you. I always have. Even when you weren’t in the room.”

Her voice dropped, raw and unguarded. “I love you. I’ve loved you longer than I’ll probably ever admit out loud. And yeah—sometimes it’s scary. Sometimes it hurts. But I’d rather choose you every time than live in a world where I don’t get to.”

She brushed her nose against his, lips hovering close. “You’re not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.”

She leaned in slowly, like she wasn’t sure the moment would hold if she moved too fast. Her forehead brushed his, then her nose, her breath warm and a little unsteady as it mixed with his. One of her hands slid up to his jaw, thumb resting there like she needed the reassurance of bone and warmth and him before she said it.

“One day,” she murmured, soft but certain, “it’s just going to be us.”

She smiled faintly, eyes shining in the low light of the trailer, already somewhere in the future. “Us and our babies. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere normal.” Her voice wavered—not with doubt, but with how much she wanted it. “And all of this—Coachella, the lights, the noise, the beige hat, the chaos—it’s just going to be stories.”

She pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another, lingering. “Stories we tell them when they ask where we met. Or why their dad hates crowds but loves music. Or why their mom still smells like paint half the time.”

Her forehead rested against his again, eyes closing briefly as if she could already see it. “We’ll laugh about how loud everything was. How scary it felt sometimes. How young we were.” A quiet breath escaped her. “And how we still chose each other anyway.”

She opened her eyes, looking at him fully now. “I don’t need it to be perfect,” she whispered. “I just need it to be real. With you.”

Then she kissed him—slow, tender, full of the kind of hope that didn’t ask for guarantees, only time.

The air in the trailer seemed to snap tight, the molecules freezing in place. The cheap AC unit rattled in the corner, and the distant bass from the main stage thumped against the aluminum walls like a heartbeat from a giant he was no longer fighting, but inside Ben’s chest, everything went dead silent.

Us and our babies.

The words hung in the dim light between them, heavier than the humidity, brighter than the strobe lights he’d just spent an hour standing under.

He stared up at her, his hands freezing where they rested on the curve of her waist. He felt his heart skip a beat—a literal, physical stutter, a skipped track—before kicking back in with a heavy, thudding rhythm that echoed in his ears, drowning out the festival.

He had thought about a lot of things with Cleo. He’d thought about next week. He’d thought about how to survive the three months of the European leg without her. He’d even let himself daydream, in his quieter, lonelier moments in sterile hotel rooms, about a house somewhere with a porch that faced a tree line and zero cell reception.

But he had never let himself say the word babies.

It felt too big. Too fragile. Too much like asking the universe for a miracle he didn’t deserve. It was a terrifying, illicit hope—that the guy who lived out of a suitcase and belonged to the public could ever have something that small, that private, that sacred.

Hearing her say it—hearing her paint that picture of the future with the same casual, absolute certainty she used when she mixed colors on a canvas—cracked him wide open. It stripped the last layer of "Ben Wilder" away, leaving only the man beneath.

His throat worked, tight and aching, like he’d swallowed glass. The image of it washed over him: a version of himself who wasn't perpetually exhausted. A version of himself who told stories about the "old days" like they were chapters in a closed book, while holding a kid who had Cleo’s dark eyes and his own stubborn, messy curls.

"You..." His voice cracked, fracturing in the quiet space. He had to stop, swallow hard against the lump in his throat, and try again. "You really see that?"

He slid one hand up her spine, burying it in her hair to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the strands. He needed to feel the reality of her skull, the warmth radiating from her skin, to anchor himself against the vertigo of what she was offering.

"Cleo," he whispered, the name sounding like a prayer in the confessional of the trailer. "That’s not a story. That isn't just some nice idea. That’s... that’s the only thing I want. That’s the finish line."

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, burning intensity. The fatigue that had been dragging at his bones all night was gone, incinerated by a raw, terrifying hope.

"I want the quiet," he rasped, the truth spilling out of him. "I want the stories. I want to be the dad who hates crowds and embarrasses them because he still tries to play acoustic guitar in the living room and gets the lyrics wrong."

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, wiping away a tear she hadn't realized she'd shed—or maybe it was his. The moisture was cool against his thumb, a physical proof of the moment.

"And about the in-between..." He shook his head slightly against the cushion, a shadow passing over his face. "There was no in-between for me. There was just... waiting. It was just noise and gray static until I could get back to where you were."

He pulled her down then, not for a kiss, but to bury his face in the soft, warm crook of her neck. He breathed her in—deep, shuddering inhalations that smelled of vanilla, sweat, and the future she’d just promised him. He held her with a fierce, trembling strength, locking his arms around her like she was the only thing keeping him from floating off the face of the earth and dissolving into the ether.

"Promise me," he mumbled into her skin, the vibration of his voice humming against her collarbone. "Promise me we get there. Even if it takes a while. Even if we have to survive a few more festivals and a few more terrible hats and a thousand miles of highway. Promise me we get to the part where it’s just us."

He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the pulse point of her throat, feeling the steady life beating there.

"Because if I have that..." his voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the trailer, "if I know that's where we're going... I can handle anything. I can walk through fire for that."

Cleo didn’t pull away. She stayed right there, forehead pressed to his, hands steady on his face, thumbs brushing the tension at his jaw like she could smooth it out just by touching him.

“Yes,” she said softly, immediately, like the word had been waiting for him. “I really see that.”

Her voice didn’t waver. If anything, it grew calmer, surer, the way it did when she’d already made up her mind.

“I see all of it,” she continued. “The quiet. The house with the porch. The terrible guitar playing and the wrong lyrics and kids who know exactly when to laugh at you and exactly when to climb into your lap anyway. I see you tired in a different way. A good way. I see you whole.”

She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers threading through it, anchoring him just like he needed.

“And you’re right,” she whispered. “It won’t be easy. There will be noise and distance and bad timing and long stretches where we have to choose each other over and over again. I know that. I’m not pretending it’s simple.”

She leaned in, her nose brushing his, her breath warm and certain.

“But it’s you,” she said, quietly fierce. “It’s only ever been you. I don’t want a version of this life without you in it. I don’t want an easier road if it doesn’t have you standing at the end of it.”

Her arms wrapped around him fully now, pulling him close, her heartbeat steady against his chest.

“So yes,” she murmured into his hair. “I promise. We get there. We take the long way if we have to. We survive the festivals and the miles and the terrible hats. We build something small and real and ours.”

She lifted her head just enough to press a slow kiss to his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to walk through fire alone,” she said softly. “I’m already there with you. I always will be.”

Cleo finally shifted, easing out of his hold just enough to sit up. The vinyl cushion creaked beneath her as she dragged a hand down her face, palms pressing briefly over her eyes like she was steadying herself, like she was catching her breath after saying something that had lived inside her for a long time.

She exhaled slowly, then laughed under her breath—soft, disbelieving, a little overwhelmed.

“Wow,” she murmured, brushing her hands back through her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ears. “Okay.”

She glanced down at her hands for a second, flexing her fingers, grounding herself in the reality of the trailer, the noise, the heat. Then she looked over at him.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t guarded. It was warm and open and a little crooked, the kind of smile that reached her eyes and stayed there.

“Hey,” she said gently, like she was checking in, like she was making sure he was still right there with her. Her knee bumped his as she turned toward him, comfortable, familiar. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

She studied his face for a moment, eyes soft, affectionate, full of that quiet certainty.

“You know,” she added, teasing just enough to lighten the air without breaking it, “I can already picture you with a kid on your hip, pretending you’re not totally in love with it.”

Her words settled over him like a weighted blanket, pressing the frantic energy of the night down until it was still.

I’m already there with you. I always will be.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the relief wash through him. It was a physical sensation, like a knot in the center of his chest finally coming undone.

Because he knew what the alternative felt like.

He remembered the months after they’d called it off the first time. He remembered walking out onto stages in London and Tokyo and New York, the lights blinding and the crowds screaming his name, and feeling absolutely, hollowly alone. That had been the fire. It hadn’t been hot; it had been freezing. It was a cold burn that stripped the skin off his life and left him raw, going through the motions, playing the songs he wrote about her to rooms full of strangers while the person who mattered wasn't answering his texts.

He had walked through that fire alone. And he had come out the other side singed and terrified that he’d never feel safe again.

"I know," he whispered, opening his eyes to look at her, his voice rough with the memory of that coldness. "I tried doing it alone, Cleo. I tried the walking through fire by myself part."
He reached out, his hand finding hers where it rested on her knee, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

"It sucked," he said, a ghost of a self-deprecating smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "Zero stars. Would not recommend. The catering was bad and the silence was... loud."

He squeezed her hand, anchoring himself in the now.

"So, yeah. I'm holding you to that. No more solo missions. If we're walking through fire, we're holding hands. Deal?"

He watched her sit up, watched her drag her hands down her face and steady herself. He loved that about her—the way she needed a second to recalibrate, to pull herself back from the edge of the big emotions they’d just cracked open.

When she smiled—that crooked, real smile that was just for him—he felt his own mouth curve in response, helpless against the gravity of her.

"We're okay," he echoed, testing the words and finding them solid. "Better than okay."
Then she dropped the comment about the kid, and his smile widened, breaking into a genuine, boyish grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Pretending?" he scoffed, shifting so he was propped up on his elbows, looking up at her with lazy affection. "Babe, please. I have met me. There will be no pretending."
He reached out, tapping the toe of his sneaker against her shin playfully.

"I will be a puddle," he admitted shamelessly. "I will be entirely compromised. That kid is going to look at me once and I’m going to hand over my wallet, my car keys, and the rights to my entire discography. I’ll be wearing one of those baby carriers on stage. It’s going to be humiliating for everyone involved, and I’m going to love every second of it."

He laughed, soft and low, shaking his head.

"You're going to have to be the strict one," he told her, his eyes warm. "Because I'm already a pushover for you. If we make a miniature version? I don't stand a chance."

Cleo listened to him without interrupting, really listened—the way she always did when he stopped joking and let the truth show its teeth. She stayed still, perched there with one knee against the couch cushion, her hands folded loosely in her lap at first, like she was giving his words the space they deserved.

When he talked about the fire, her throat tightened.

She shifted closer without thinking, one hand reaching out to cover his where it rested on her knee, her thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over his knuckles.

“I know,” she said softly. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just honest.
“I felt it too. Even when I was the one who stepped back, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like… standing outside in the cold and telling myself I was fine because at least I wasn’t burning anymore.”

She smiled faintly at his joke, but her eyes stayed serious.
“The silence was loud for me too. I kept thinking if I just dated someone normal, someone safe, it would fix it.” She gave a small shrug. “It never did. The sparks were never there. It was like trying to repaint over something that was already etched into the canvas.”

Her fingers tightened around his hand when he said no more solo missions.

“Deal,” she said immediately, without hesitation. “Always holding hands. Even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.”

She watched his grin grow when he talked about kids, about being a puddle, and that was when her expression finally softened all the way—affection, amusement, and something fiercely tender all tangled together.

“Oh, you’d be the worst,” she teased gently, leaning in just enough to tap her forehead against his. “Absolutely useless. You’d let them stay up past bedtime, give them sugar before dinner, and then look at me like, ‘But they smiled.’”

Her hand slid up to his cheek, cupping it there, grounding him the same way he grounded her.
“And yeah,” she added quietly, “I’ll be the strict one. But not the cold kind. The kind that keeps them safe. The kind that makes sure they know they’re loved even when they’re mad at us.”

She smiled again, smaller this time, but deeper.
“And you?” she murmured. “You’ll be the warm place. The music. The dad who sits on the floor and listens like nothing else matters.”

Her thumb brushed under his eye, slow and reverent.
“I don’t want a life where we’re pretending we’re okay without each other,” she said. “I want the messy one. The real one. The one where we come home tired and still choose each other.”

She leaned down then, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth—no rush, no hunger, just certainty.

“I’m already holding your hand,” she whispered against his lips. “I’m not letting go.”

Cleo let the moment linger for a few quiet seconds longer, her forehead still resting against his, their breathing finally synced instead of frantic. Then she huffed out a soft laugh, the tension easing just enough for her humor to slip back in.

“Okay,” she said, pulling back slightly, one hand still cupping his cheek while the other drifted around to press into the small of her back. She rolled her shoulders, wincing just a little. “Not to ruin the cinematic ending of our love story, but I think my back officially feels like yours now.”

She rubbed at it with her palm, slow and absent, like she’d only just realized how long she’d been standing, shielding, holding herself together.

“Turns out crouching, leaning, emotional breakthroughs, and aggressively protecting a rock star in a bucket hat is not great for posture,” she added, smirking at him. “Who knew.”

Her hand slid back to his shoulder, squeezing once before she nodded toward the narrow hallway.

“We should go lie down,” she said gently. “The bed’s not better. At all. It’s honestly just as tragic.” Her mouth curved into a fond smile. “But at least it’s horizontal, and I feel like that’s the dream right now.”

She shifted closer again, brushing a quick kiss to his jaw, then his mouth—soft, familiar.

“Come on, Benjamin,” she murmured, tugging lightly at his hand. “Let’s go be two exhausted people pretending this mattress is luxury.”

Ben let out a soft exhale of a laugh when she described his future parenting style—giving them sugar, letting them stay up late. She wasn’t wrong. He was absolutely going to be the weak link in the discipline chain. But hearing her say she’d be the one to keep them safe, the one to make sure they knew they were loved even when they were mad… that hit him right in the center of his chest.

It was the missing piece. He could provide the music and the warmth, but she would provide the gravity. She always did.

"The warm place," he repeated quietly, savoring the title. "I can do that. I can be the warm place."

He leaned into her touch as she cupped his cheek, his eyes closing for a brief second. Her admission about the time apart—that it felt like repainting a canvas that was already etched, that the "normal" guys felt empty—settled the last of the old ghosts in his head. He hadn't been the only one suffering in the silence. She’d been right there in the cold with him, just on the other side of the wall.

"I'm not letting go either," he promised, turning his face to kiss her palm. "You're stuck with me. Sorry about your luck."

Then she broke the spell with the back complaint, and he snorted, the sound ungraceful and entirely real. He shifted his hips, wincing as his own lower back gave a sympathetic twinge.

"Hey," he said, grabbing her hand and using it as leverage to help himself sit up, groaning theatrically as his spine realigned. "You can't blame the bucket hat. The bucket hat is innocent. It is a symbol of peace and anonymity."

He stood up, his knees cracking—a sound that seemed way too loud in the sudden quiet of the room. He kept hold of her hand, pulling her gently up from where she’d been crouching over him.

"But you are right," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "My posture is currently shaped like a shrimp. We are aging rapidly, Cleo. If we don't get horizontal soon, we're going to calcify in this position."

He followed her toward the hallway, the space so narrow he had to turn sideways to let her lead. It felt domestic in the weirdest, most specific way—shuffling down a tiny corridor in a metal box, exhausted, aching, and happier than he had been in months.

The bedroom was exactly as promised: tragic. The mattress was thin, the sheets were a polyester blend that probably sparked in the dark, and his hoodie was still thrown over the only chair.

"Luxury," he deadpanned, eyeing the bed. "I believe this mattress is actually just a large yoga mat pretending to be furniture."

But he didn't hesitate. He kicked off his sneakers, leaving them in a pile by the door, and climbed in. He pulled her down with him, not waiting for her to ask, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her back until she was spooned perfectly against his chest.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the faint, lingering smoke of the festival. Her back pressed against his front, fitting together like two puzzle pieces that had been separated for too long.

"Better," he murmured into her neck, his legs tangling with hers. "Much better."

He tightened his arm around her, his hand finding hers and interlacing their fingers over her stomach. He could feel the tension still humming in her shoulders, the stiffness she’d complained about earlier.

"Hey," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the vertebrae at the base of her neck. "Your back. Do you want me to work on it? I think I have just enough energy left in my hands to fix whatever damage my tour lifestyle inflicted on you."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, waiting for her answer, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her hip.

"Just say the word," he added softly. "I owe you. For the bodyguarding. And the emotional support."

He let the quiet settle for a second before speaking again, his voice dropping lower, thick with sleep.

"Because you were right. About the fire. Walking through it alone... it sucked. It was cold."
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, settling into the warmth of her.

"But this?" he breathed. "This is good. This is... quiet."