Cleo smiled when he said her name like that—soft, unguarded—and she lifted her head just enough to look at him properly, really look at him, like she was memorizing the version of him that only showed up here.

“I know,” she whispered back, her voice steady, certain. “I remind you every day. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes just by staying.”

Her hand slid up to the back of his neck again, thumb resting at his pulse, feeling it slow under her touch. She leaned into his weight when he let himself sink closer, welcoming it, her arms tightening around him in response.

“You’re not just noise,” she said quietly. “You’re not the mess or the mistakes or the bad hair eras.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “You’re the part that stays when everything else turns off.”

She shifted slightly, comfortable, familiar, and then one of her hands slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, warm fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along his lower back. Nothing rushed. Nothing demanding. Just there.

“I’ll remind you,” she murmured. “As many times as it takes.”

She lifted her face and kissed him—slow, grounding, full—before pulling back just enough to speak against his mouth, her words soft and teasing, wrapped in affection.

“And for the record,” she added gently, almost amused, “you’ve been a very good boy.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her hand still moving in lazy lines along his back.

“Now hush,” she whispered. “You’re home.”

Then she kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t hungry. It was slow and soft and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to settle something rather than start it. Her lips brushed his once, twice, a quiet punctuation mark, before she let herself relax fully beneath him.

“Come here,” she murmured, barely audible.

She shifted just enough to tuck herself closer, one arm snug around his back, the other still warm beneath his shirt. Her fingers stilled, resting flat against him now, no patterns—just contact.

Her voice dropped even lower, thick with sleep already creeping in.

“You don’t have to hold the world tonight,” she whispered. “I’ve got it.”

She pressed one last gentle kiss to his mouth, then another to his cheek, and finally settled her face against his shoulder, breath evening out.

You’ve been a very good boy.

The words hit him low in his chest, bypassing his brain entirely and landing somewhere primal. It wasn't just praise; it was permission. Permission to stop trying so hard. Permission to stop performing. Permission to just be.

He felt his breath hitch, a jagged little intake of air that he buried against her neck. It unspooled the last of the tension in his spine, the final knot he hadn't even realized he was still guarding. He went heavy against her, his weight sinking fully into the mattress, his body finally accepting that he didn't have to hold himself up anymore.

She had him.

"Home," he breathed, the word vibrating against her skin, more a sensation than a sound.
He kept his eyes closed, listening to the shift in her breathing as she settled. I've got it. It was the most ridiculous, impossible thing for her to say—she was one person, small enough that he could wrap his entire body around her, lying in a tin can of a trailer in the middle of a desert. She couldn't possibly hold the world.

But as he lay there, feeling the steady rise and fall of her ribs against his, he realized she was right.

She did have it. Because his world had shrunk down to exactly this size. The radius of her arms. The smell of her shampoo. The warmth of her hand resting flat against his lower back.

He didn't sleep. Not yet. He fought the pull of it for just a minute longer, because he wanted to be conscious for this part. He wanted to feel the exact moment the silence stopped being lonely and started being peaceful.

He moved his hand—slowly, heavy with exhaustion—from her waist to slide up her spine, his palm flat and protective, mirroring her hold on him.

"Okay," he whispered into the dark, his voice rough and barely audible, meant only for the inch of space between them. "You've got it."

He pressed a kiss to the soft skin behind her ear, lingering there, breathing her in.
"But I'm not letting go," he mumbled, his speech slurring slightly as the adrenaline finally, truly crashed. "Just for the record. I'm still holding on. I'm just... resting my eyes."

He tightened his grip on her just a fraction—a reflex, a reminder—and let his head drop heavy onto the pillow next to hers, his nose brushing her cheek.

"Wake me up if you need help holding it," he whispered. "Or if you want another churro. Those are the only two valid reasons."

Cleo shifted slowly, carefully, like she didn’t want to disturb the fragile quiet he’d finally let himself sink into.

She slid just enough out from under him to change the balance, her body still angled toward his, still close, still holding. She tucked herself higher against the pillows, easing him down so his head rested beneath her chin, his weight settling comfortably into the mattress instead of bracing against it.

“There,” she whispered, barely sound at all.

Her arm curved around him instinctively, palm flattening between his shoulder blades, fingers spreading wide in that familiar, grounding way. The other hand drifted to his hair, combing through it slowly, gently, over and over—no rush, no pattern, just reassurance.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured again, softer this time, like a promise she’d already been keeping for years. “You don’t have to hold anything right now.”

She pressed a light kiss to the crown of his head, letting it linger there, her chin resting against him as if that’s exactly where it belonged.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

Her breathing slowed on purpose, deep and steady, inviting his to follow. This was how they did it now—quietly, without ceremony. No grand declarations. No noise. Just choosing each other in the dark.

Cleo closed her eyes, holding him close, signing herself fully into the stillness.

This was it.

And for once, she didn’t need anything else.

Ben let himself be moved.

He let himself be the heavy thing she held. It went against every instinct he had—the ones that told him to stand up, to lead, to be the guy out in front taking the hits—but those instincts were currently offline, dismantled by the slow, rhythmic drag of her fingers through his hair.

He felt her chin rest on the top of his head. He felt the steady, thumping kick of her heart against his ear.

It was the best sound he had ever heard. Better than the crowd. Better than the click track. It was the only rhythm that didn't demand anything from him.

He tried to fight the pull of sleep for one more second. He wanted to tell her that she was stronger than him. He wanted to tell her that she was the only reason the room wasn't spinning. He wanted to make one last joke about the structural integrity of the pillow.
But his mouth wouldn't cooperate. His limbs felt like they were made of lead and warm water.

"You win," he mumbled against her collarbone, the words slurring together into a sleepy, shapeless sound. "I surrender. You got me."

He curled his hand into the fabric of her shirt, a weak, reflexive grip just to make sure she was still there.

"Wake me up..." he whispered, his brain firing its final, nonsensical synapse as the darkness took him. "...if the aliens come. I want to see the ship."

He didn't hear if she answered. The noise was gone. The static was gone.
There was just the smell of vanilla, the weight of her hand in his hair, and the absolute, terrifying safety of being held.

Ben Wilder let go.

Morning came quietly.

Not all at once—no alarm, no panic—but in layers. Pale desert light crept in through the long window above the bed, softened by dust and the thin curtains that never quite closed right. The trailer hummed awake around her: the low whir of the fridge, the distant thud of a bass test from a stage far enough away to feel like weather instead of noise.

Cleo was already up.

She moved through the narrow kitchenette barefoot except for a pair of socks that hit just above her ankles, soft and mismatched, the kind she always stole and never returned. One of his t-shirts hung off her shoulders, washed thin from too many tours, falling to mid-thigh and smelling faintly like him—clean cotton, coffee, something warm underneath she never bothered to name. Her hair was twisted up into a messy bun that had given up halfway through the job, loose pieces framing her face.

The counter space was barely generous enough for a cutting board and a pan, but she worked around it easily, like she’d done this a hundred times. Eggs cracked one-handed into a bowl. A piece of toast popped up a little too dark. A kettle hissed softly, impatient.

She leaned her hip against the counter while the pan heated, watching the sunlight crawl higher along the opposite wall. There was something grounding about it—this small, ordinary task in a place built for motion. No rushing. No scanning exits. Just the quiet choreography of breakfast.

She flipped the eggs carefully, humming under her breath without realizing it. Not a song he’d written. Not one she’d painted to. Just a sound. Content.

Every so often, she glanced down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom, where the bed was still rumpled, sheets twisted from the way they’d fallen asleep tangled together. She smiled to herself and turned back to the stove before the feeling could get too big.

A mug waited by the sink—his favorite, chipped at the rim. She poured hot water over grounds, stirring slowly, steam fogging the small window above the counter. The smell filled the trailer, rich and familiar, settling into the quiet like a promise.

This—this was the part she loved.
Not the after. Not the before.
The in-between.

Cleo slid the eggs onto a plate, buttered the toast, and set everything down neatly, like she belonged there. Like this wasn’t borrowed time or a pause between chaos, but something real.

Something chosen.

She stood there for a moment longer, hands resting on the counter, wrapped in his shirt, wrapped in the quiet, and let herself breathe it in before the day could ask anything of them at all.

Ben woke up fighting the sun.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the dusty beam of light that was drilling directly into his retina, trying to burrow back into the warmth of the pillow. His hand swept out instinctively across the mattress, searching for the solid, warm weight of Cleo.

It hit cool sheets.

For a split second, the old, familiar panic flared—the tour panic. Where am I? What time is it? Did I miss the bus? Did I sleep through check-out?

Then his brain rebooted.

Trailer. Desert. Cleo.

He inhaled sharply and caught the scent. Not the stale air of a hotel room or the chemical smell of a tour bus, but coffee. Rich, dark coffee and… toast?

The panic evaporated, replaced by a slow, heavy contentment that settled deep in his bones.

He groaned, rolling onto his back. The mattress—which, as predicted, had absolutely zero structural integrity—creaked in protest. His lower back felt like it had been fused into a single, solid rod of calcium. His hair was almost certainly standing up in eight different directions. He felt less like a rock star and more like something that had washed up on a beach after a storm.

But he was smiling.

He dragged himself upright, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and shuffled toward the narrow hallway.

He stopped in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the cheap wood frame, and just watched.

She was standing at the counter, bathed in that pale morning light. She was wearing his vintage Fender tee—the one he’d spent three weeks looking for and had accused his drummer of stealing. It hung off her shoulder, soft and gray, hitting her mid-thigh. Her socks didn't match. Her hair was a glorious, tumbling disaster.

She was humming something quiet, flipping eggs with a focus that made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t a music video. It wasn’t a photo shoot. It was just… breakfast.

And it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

This was it. This was the thing he’d been chasing. Not the stadium lights, not the roar of the crowd, not the platinum plaques. Just this. A girl in his stolen shirt making toast in a tin can while the world outside stayed quiet.

He stayed there for a long minute, just breathing her in, letting the image burn itself into his memory so he could pull it out later when the noise got too loud.

Then, inevitably, the floorboard under his foot squeaked.

He didn't wait for her to turn. He crossed the three steps between them and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, burying his face directly into the curve of her neck. He let his full weight lean against her, heavy and sleep-warm.

"I knew it," he mumbled into her skin, his voice rough with sleep. "I blamed the dryer. I blamed the laundry service. I even blamed a very nice lady in Cincinnati. But it was you. You’re the shirt thief."

He squeezed her gently, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade through the thin fabric.
"I’m calling the police," he whispered, tightening his hold. "Right after I get some of that coffee. Prioritizing."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, squinting at the eggs in the pan with drowsy approval.
"Tell me those are for us," he rasped. "If those are for a secret second family, I’m going to be devastated. I’m starving."

Cleo didn’t jump when he wrapped around her—she just laughed, soft and breathy, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a smile. She shifted her weight slightly at the counter so the pan stayed steady, the smell of butter and coffee hanging warm in the small trailer kitchen. Morning light spilled in through the narrow window, dust motes floating lazily in it, catching on the curve of his arms around her waist.

“Mmm,” she said, tilting her head just enough to give him better access to her neck, completely unbothered by the accusation. “Bold of you to assume the shirt didn’t leave willingly.”

The oversized Fender tee slid farther off one shoulder as she moved, the hem brushing mid-thigh when she leaned forward to flick the spatula once, unhurried and practiced. She glanced down at his arms like she was assessing something familiar and beloved—weighty, warm, exactly where they belonged.

“And actually,” she added casually, voice sweet, “this breakfast isn’t for us.”

She didn’t rush the moment. She let the sizzle of eggs and the low hum of the coffee maker fill the space, let the idea land and sit there just long enough to be dangerous.

“It’s for my other boyfriend,” she continued, lips twitching. “And the kids. They’re very demanding. Very loud. Honestly, they never let me sleep in.”

She felt it—the way his body tightened just a fraction behind her, the way his grip changed almost imperceptibly. That was her cue.

She turned in his arms then, careful of the pan, the movement smooth and familiar. Her smirk was already there as she slid her hands up his chest and looped them around his neck, standing up on the balls of her socked feet so she could look him square in the eye.

“Kidding,” she said softly. “Relax.”

Her thumbs brushed along the back of his neck, slow and grounding, the touch deliberate in the way that always anchored him fully back into the room, back into himself.

“It’s for you,” she admitted. “For us. Because you looked like you might actually perish if you didn’t eat in the next ten minutes.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his, smiling up at him with that quiet, intimate warmth that made the tiny trailer feel like a whole world.

“And yes,” she added, voice low and amused, “I stole the shirt. I regret nothing. It’s the perfect breakfast shirt.”

She kissed him quickly—warm, familiar, unhurried—then rested her forehead against his, breathing him in.

“Now sit,” she murmured. “Or at least stay right there and supervise like a grumpy, hungry man who just woke up in a very good life.”

Cleo smiled to herself as she turned back around in his arms, fitting easily into the space she’d already made there, like it had been shaped for him overnight. His chest was warm against her back, solid and familiar, and she leaned into it without thinking, letting him stay exactly where he was.

She reached forward, fingers curling around the chipped ceramic mug she’d poured a minute ago, the steam still rising in lazy spirals. She lifted it carefully, mindful of his sleepy balance, then guided it back toward him.

“Here you go, baby,” she murmured, tilting her head just enough so her cheek brushed his jaw. Her voice was still soft, morning-soft, the kind that didn’t disturb the quiet but lived comfortably inside it.

She placed the mug into his hands, her fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary, thumbs brushing over his knuckles as if to make sure he was really awake, really here.

“You have another big day ahead of you,” she added gently, not heavy, not daunting—just factual. Supportive. Certain.

She rested back against him again once the coffee was secure, one hand absently smoothing over his forearm, grounding both of them.

“But right now,” she said quietly, glancing down at the pan and then back toward the window where the desert light was still soft and forgiving, “you’re allowed to just stand here and drink coffee like a normal person.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“I’ve got breakfast,” she murmured. “You’ve got me. We’re doing great so far.”

Ben accepted the mug with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. He wrapped his hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into his palms, chasing away the last lingering chill of the air conditioning.

"Oh, god," he groaned after the first sip, the caffeine hitting his bloodstream like a jump start. "Okay. You're forgiven. You can steal whatever you want. Take the pants. Take the socks. Just keep the coffee coming."

He didn't move away, though. He stayed draped over her back like a very expensive, very tired cape, his chin resting on her shoulder so he could watch the eggs sizzle.

When she called him baby, he felt a warm, steady thump in his chest that had nothing to do with the caffeine. It was a small word—common, even—but coming from her, in this kitchen, wearing his shirt, it felt like she was locking the door against the rest of the world. It felt like she was talking to him, not the guy on the laminate pass.

"You know," he murmured into her hair, his voice low and vibrating against her back. "Calling me 'baby' while I'm incapacitated by morning brain is a cheap tactic. It makes me compliant. I have zero defenses against domesticity right now."

He took another sip, closing his eyes for a second as the steam wreathed his face.

"And don't remind me about the Big Day," he added, keeping his eyes shut. "Future Ben has a big day. Future Ben has soundcheck and interviews and has to be charming. Present Ben is currently a moss growing on a rock. Present Ben is just here for the eggs."

He opened his eyes, looking at her profile—the messy bun, the soft curve of her jaw, the focused set of her mouth.

"But you're right," he whispered, shifting his weight to press a little firmer against her, grounding himself in the reality of her spine against his chest. "We're doing great. I'd argue we're winning."

He moved one hand from her waist to lightly trace the hem of the stolen t-shirt where it hit her thigh.

"And regarding the shirt," he said, a smile evident in his voice. "I'm officially dropping the charges. It looked okay on me. It looks like a masterpiece on you. I’m retiring it. It’s yours."
He paused, doing a quick mental calculation of his suitcase.

"Although, I have to warn you—at this rate, I’m going to be performing topless by Tuesday. I’m rapidly running out of inventory. If you keep looking better in my clothes than I do, I’m going to be naked in a week. Which..." He paused, considering. "...actually, never mind. I see no downsides to this plan."

He kissed her cheek, right near her ear, lingering there as the smell of toast popped up from the toaster.

"We've got time," he mumbled against her skin, no rush in his voice at all. "Future Ben can wait. The world isn't awake yet. I just want to stand here and watch you cook."

Cleo let out a quiet laugh as he accepted the mug like it was sacred, her shoulder lifting slightly under his chin when he groaned.

“Oh, no,” she said softly, amused. “You don’t get to forgive me that easily. The shirts are non-negotiable. That was part of the agreement.”

She tipped her head just enough to glance at him, eyes warm, mouth curved in something knowingly fond.

“You remember the agreement, right?” she continued, tone light but pointed. “I steal your shirts. You complain about it dramatically. And then”—her smile turned just a little more mischievous—“you get to peel them off me when you get home.”

She shifted the pan, eggs sliding easily, her movements unhurried, domestic in a way that felt intentional.

“Or did Present Ben forget already?” she teased gently. “Because I distinctly remember you being very on board with that clause.”

When he talked about being moss on a rock, she hummed in agreement.

“Present Ben is allowed to be moss,” she murmured. “Present Ben is encouraged to be moss. Future Ben can handle the world. Present Ben’s only job is coffee and eggs and leaning on me.”

She reached back briefly, her hand finding his wrist where it rested at her waist, squeezing once—grounding, affectionate.

“And yes,” she added, glancing down at his hand tracing the hem of the shirt, “we are absolutely winning. But if you end up topless onstage by Tuesday, that’s on you for having such stealable clothes.”

She turned her head enough for his kiss to land, smiling against his mouth when he lingered.

“We do have time,” she said quietly. “And I like you right here. Sleepy. Unarmed. Domestic.”

She flipped the eggs, steam rising, then leaned back into him again.

“So drink your coffee,” she finished softly. “Watch me cook. We’ll let the rest of the world wait its turn.”

Cleo lifted the slice of toast from the counter—the one she’d already buttered earlier, edges a little uneven, the butter melted glossy into the bread from the warmth of the kitchenette—and brought it back toward him without ceremony.

She nudged it lightly against his hand first, then closer to his mouth when he didn’t immediately take the hint.

“Eat this one,” she murmured, voice soft but firm. “This is the part where you don’t forget.”

She leaned back into him again as she did it, letting his weight settle where it always did, familiar and grounding. One shoulder tucked under his chin, the toast hovering patiently between them.

“You can watch,” she added quietly, a smile in her voice. “I don’t mind being observed. Just… multitask. Chew while you admire.”

She glanced sideways at him, eyes warm, unhurried.

“I know today’s big,” she said gently. “Which is exactly why you need to be fed first.”

Then, almost under her breath—more instinct than statement—

“I like doing this for you.”

Ben blinked, the neurons in his brain firing in a slow, domino-like cascade as the words sank in.

You get to peel them off me.

The fog in his head didn't just lift; it was forcefully evicted.

"The Peeling Clause," he repeated, his voice gaining a sudden, newfound reverence. "Right. Yes. It’s coming back to me now. I recall the bylaws."

He tightened his arms around her waist, a spark of heat cutting through the morning haze.
"That is a very strong clause," he murmured into her neck, sounding genuinely impressed by his past self's negotiating skills. "That is top-tier legal work. I would like to formally commend Past Ben for securing that amendment. He was a visionary."

He was about to launch into a further analysis of the benefits of said clause when the toast appeared in his peripheral vision, hovering insistently near his mouth.

He didn't argue. He didn't even try to take it from her. His hands were occupied—one holding the coffee, the other holding her—so he simply leaned forward and took a bite directly from her hand.

The crunch was loud in the quiet kitchen. The butter was salty and warm and tasted like salvation. He chewed slowly, letting his chin rest heavy on her shoulder again, his eyes slipping shut in pure, unadulterated bliss.

"Multitasking," he mumbled around the toast, swallowing with difficulty. "I am doing it. I am efficiency personified. Eating, holding, admiring. I’m basically a Swiss Army Knife."
But when she said, I like doing this for you, the joke died in his throat.

He stopped chewing. He opened his eyes, staring at the side of her face—the way the morning light caught the stray hairs escaping her bun, the curve of her cheek, the utter lack of pretense.

It hit him then, hard. The realization that she wasn't just tolerating his chaotic life; she was actively carving out a space for him to be human inside of it. She wanted to feed him toast. She wanted to stand in a cramped kitchenette and let him drape himself over her like a tired golden retriever.

He swallowed the lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the bread.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice rough and devoid of any humor now, "how much I need you to do this."

He moved his face just enough to press a kiss to the side of her neck, right where her pulse was beating.

"If you weren't doing this," he admitted into her skin, "breakfast would be a lukewarm Red Bull and three panic attacks in a trench coat. You're not just feeding me, Cleo. You're... calibrating me."

He took another bite of the toast when she nudged it closer, chewing thoughtfully this time.

"So, okay. I accept the care. I accept the eggs. And I definitely accept the shirt theft."
He pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against the back of her head.

"But just so we're clear," he added, a sleepy smirk evident in his tone, "tonight? When I get back? I am invoking the Peeling Clause immediately. I'm going to be very litigious about it."