Cleo let out a quiet laugh at his reverent tone, the sound soft and close, like she didn’t want it to travel farther than the walls.

“The Peeling Clause,” she murmured back. “You agreed to it very enthusiastically, actually. No objections on record. I believe you said something like, ‘That feels fair and spiritually correct.’”

When he leaned in to take the bite of toast straight from her hand, she shook her head fondly, angling it a little closer so he didn’t miss it.

“See?” she said gently. “This is why I do things this way. If I put it down, you’ll forget it exists. If I hand it to you, you eat. Very simple system.”

She stayed still while he chewed, letting him rest against her, letting the quiet do its work. When his humor faded and his voice went rough, her expression softened immediately.

“I know,” she said quietly, without hesitation. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned then, fully, carefully within the small space of his arms, setting the toast down just long enough to bring both hands up to his face. Her palms were warm from the kitchenette, thumbs brushing his cheeks as she looked at him—really looked at him.

“You don’t have to earn this,” she said softly. “You don’t have to be calibrated or fixed or ready. You just get to be.”

She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth—slow, grounding, familiar—before resting her forehead against his.

“And yes,” she added, a faint smile curving her lips, affectionate and sure, “the care and the eggs and the shirt theft are all included.”

Her thumbs brushed along his jaw one last time as she held his gaze.

“Welcome to your new life, Benjamin.”

Cleo held his face for one more beat—just long enough to let the words land—then her mouth tipped into a quick, almost bashful smile, like she’d suddenly remembered herself.

“Anyway,” she said lightly, the softness snapping back into motion.

She dropped her hands from his cheeks and turned away before he could say anything else, pivoting back toward the tiny counter like she hadn’t just rewritten the architecture of his life.

She slid the eggs from the pan onto a plate with practiced ease, toast joining them in a slightly crooked stack. She adjusted it once, then twice—because of course she did—before setting the plate aside.

Then she reached for the coffee pot, poured herself a mug of plain black coffee, no sugar, no fuss, steam curling up into the narrow space. She carried it across the trailer and set it down on the small table beside the kitchenette, the sound of ceramic meeting wood quiet and domestic.

“All right,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Food exists. Coffee exists.”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, just briefly, eyes warm and amused.

“Sit,” she added. “Or hover dramatically. Either way.”

Cleo lifted the mug to her lips, took a slow sip, the kind that was more about ritual than caffeine. She leaned her hip lightly against the counter, eyes drifting toward him like this was just another quiet morning detail she was filing away.

“Yes,” she said casually, almost absent-minded, lowering the mug again. “You can peel your shirt off me tonight.”

She said it the way someone might say yes, we’re out of milk or don’t forget to lock the door—easy, unceremonious, like it was already decided and didn’t need fanfare.

She took another sip, eyes flicking briefly to the window, then back to him.

“You earned it,” she added, tone mild, lips ghosting into the smallest smile. “Good behavior. Proper nourishment. Very domestic.”

She set the mug down on the counter and turned fully toward him then, crossing her arms loosely—not defensive, just comfortable.

“But not yet,” she said, lifting a brow. “Right now you’re supposed to eat and pretend you’re a functional adult with responsibilities.”

A beat.

“Tonight,” she repeated, like it was nothing at all.

Ben set his mug down on the wobbly table with a deliberate, decisive clink.

He didn't look tired anymore. The fog of sleep had been burned off instantly by the sheer, casual audacity of her delivery. She had dropped the promise of tonight with the same tone she used to announce the coffee was ready, and it was, without a doubt, the most effective management strategy anyone had ever used on him.

He pulled the flimsy trailer chair out and sat down, dragging the plate of eggs closer, but his eyes never left her face. A slow, confident grin spread across his mouth—the kind that usually didn’t make an appearance until at least 9 PM.

"You know," he said, picking up his fork and pointing it at her accusatorily. "That was cold. That was calculated. And it was... incredibly hot."

He shook his head, looking down at the plate with feigned disbelief before stabbing a piece of egg.

"You just weaponized my own shirt against me to ensure I adhere to a nutritional plan," he noted, impressed. "That is Machiavellian, Cleo. I am dating a supervillain. I respect it."

He ate the egg. It was perfect. Of course it was. He took a bite of the toast, chewing with the sudden, vigorous energy of a man who had a very specific goal to work toward.

"Terms accepted," he announced, swallowing. "I will be a functional adult. I will eat the protein. I will go out there and do the soundcheck and smile at the people and pretend I am not counting down the minutes until I get back to this tin can."

He leaned back in the chair, balancing on the back legs for a second—a move that tested the structural integrity of the furniture significantly—and looked her up and down. He took in the messy bun, the mismatched socks, and the vintage Fender tee that draped over her frame like a flag he had planted.

"Tonight," he echoed, his voice dropping the joke, turning low and steady.

He let the chair legs thud back onto the floor, grounding himself.

"I’m going to hold you to that, by the way. So find a way to keep wearing it. Tie it up, tuck it in, throw a jacket over it—I don't care. Just make it part of the outfit."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on hers.

"Because I want to look over from the stage today and see you wearing that shirt. And I want to know exactly where it's ending up later."

He winked, a flash of the rock star charm finally breaking through the domestic morning haze, sharp and bright.

"Now stop looking at me like that or I’m going to skip soundcheck and we’re going to get in trouble." He shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth, pointing at his plate with his free hand. "See? Eating. Behaving. I am a model citizen."

Cleo didn’t rise to the bait right away. She just watched him with that look—the one that made him feel simultaneously ten feet tall and completely transparent—arms loosely crossed, weight settled into one hip, steam from her coffee curling up between them like a quiet boundary she had no intention of breaking. The trailer was filled with soft morning sounds now: the faint hum of electricity, the ticking of the stovetop cooling, the desert light creeping higher along the wall.

“Calculated?” she repeated mildly. “Please. If I were calculating, you’d already be halfway through breakfast and late for soundcheck.”

She lifted her mug for a small sip, eyes never leaving him, and when he called her a supervillain, the corner of her mouth tipped just enough to show she was amused—pleased, even—by the accuracy.

“I prefer competent partner with foresight,” she said. “But sure. Supervillain works. Capes are impractical, though.”

She let him eat.

Really let him eat.

She didn’t hover, didn’t rush him, didn’t comment on the way he attacked the eggs like they were a task to complete. She just leaned there, occasionally shifting her weight, watching the subtle changes she’d already learned to recognize—the way his shoulders dropped once the caffeine and food hit, the way his jaw unclenched, the way the sharp edge of performance slowly dulled into something more human.

Every so often her eyes flicked back to him, checking, confirming. Fed. Grounded. Still here.

When his plate was finally empty and he leaned back with that satisfied, slightly smug look, she moved at last.

“Okay,” she said gently, reaching past him to reclaim a bit of counter space. “Now I’m allowed to eat.”

She picked up her own plate and settled onto the edge of the kitchenette counter, the chipped laminate cool against the backs of her thighs. She didn’t bother with a fork at first. Instead, she peeled a piece of egg apart with her fingers, slow and unhurried, like she wasn’t in a rush anymore. She popped it into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then did the same with another piece.

Mid-bite, she glanced over at him.

“And before you get too comfortable,” she added, calm but unmistakably directive, “you’re going to go take a real shower. Not the three-in-one body-wash-shampoo-engine-degreaser situation you always buy.”

She peeled another piece of egg apart, still watching him now, eyes sharp but fond.

“Use something that smells like an adult who expects to be hugged later,” she said. “Then get dressed. Properly. No mystery stains.”

She licked her thumb without thinking, wiped it on a paper towel, and took another sip of her coffee, the bitterness grounding.

“And before soundcheck,” she continued, like she was simply checking items off a list she’d already committed to memory, “we’re meeting my sister and Jax in the courtyard. I already told her we’d be there.”

She looked at him again—really looked this time. The man who’d been noise and lights and adrenaline the night before. The man who was now barefoot, fed, slightly rumpled, and entirely hers in this quiet moment.

“So don’t disappear,” she said. “Eat, shower, dress, exist. In that order.”

She took another bite of egg, utterly at ease, like this version of them had always existed.

“I’ll still be here when you’re done,” she added, almost offhand. “Go.”

Ben watched her eat the egg with her fingers. It was such a small, tactile thing—sitting on the counter, unbothered, commanding the room while dismantling breakfast—but it made his brain short-circuit slightly. She was telling him to wash his ass while looking like the coolest person he had ever met.

Dream girl behavior. Absolute dream girl behavior.

"Engine degreaser?" he repeated, standing up and feigning deep, personal offense as he carried his empty plate to the tiny sink. "I will have you know that 'Turbo Clean: Arctic Blast' is a staple of the touring industry. It exfoliates, it cleans, and in a pinch, it can probably jump-start the bus. It is versatility in a bottle, Cleo. It is efficiency."

He rinsed the plate and leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at her.

"But fine. I hear you. Message received." He nodded solemnly. "I will locate something with 'sandalwood' or 'bergamot' or whatever fancy lumber you prefer your boyfriend to smell like. I will scrub until I smell like a sentient candle. For you."

When she mentioned Phoebe and Jax, he didn't flinch. Actually, he brightened. Jax wasn't just "Cleo's sister's boyfriend"—he was Ben's best friend. He was the guy who knew Ben before the laminate passes and the pyro. And Phoebe... well, Phoebe was terrifying, but she was family.

"Courtyard. Phoebe and Jax. Got it," he confirmed, nodding. "I'll be happy to see Jax's ugly mug. It's been too long since I had a conversation about drum fills that didn't end in an argument."

He pushed off the sink, walking over to where she was perched on the counter. He stepped into her space, crowding her just a little, effectively trapping her between his body and the laminate. He rested his hands on the counter on either side of her thighs, leaning in until they were eye-level.

"I’ll bring my best behavior," he promised, a smile playing on his lips. "I’ll even wear a clean shirt—assuming I have any left that you haven't requisitioned for your own wardrobe."

He let his gaze drop to her mouth, then back up to her eyes, his expression sobering.

"And hey," he said, his voice dropping the humor, turning low and sincere.

He waited until her eyes locked on his.

"I'm not disappearing. I'm done with the disappearing act. You tell me to show up, I show up. That's the new rule. I'm right here."

He leaned forward, stealing a quick, lingering kiss—tasting coffee and salt and quiet morning.

"Shower. Dress. Exist. On it," he murmured against her mouth. Then he pulled back, flashing that boyish, lopsided grin.

He turned and headed for the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the hook, already mentally cataloging his toiletries bag to see if he had anything that didn't smell like a locker room in a blizzard.

Cleo didn’t even look up right away when he went on his dramatic tirade. She just lifted a brow, calmly finished the bite of egg between her fingers, and wiped them on a napkin with deliberate slowness—like she was letting him get it out of his system.

When she did finally meet his eyes, there was a lazy glint of amusement there.

“That explains a lot,” she said lightly. “I always wondered why you smell like a snowstorm that got into a fight with a locker room.”

She hopped down from the counter as he moved toward the sink, leaning her hip against the edge and watching him with a fond, knowing smile as he rinsed the plate. When he made his exaggerated concession, she nodded once, approving.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t need lumber. I just need you to smell… touchable.”

At the mention of the courtyard, her mouth curved upward again—soft this time, familiar.

“Good,” she said. “They’ll like seeing you. And Phoebe will pretend she’s not assessing you for weaknesses.”

When he crowded her space, she didn’t move away. She stayed exactly where she was, chin tipped up, eyes steady on his. Her hands rested behind her on the counter, grounding herself as much as him.

“I know,” she said quietly when his tone shifted. “That’s why I’m here.”

The kiss landed warm and grounding, and she leaned into it without hesitation, fingers brushing briefly over his ribs before she let him pull back.

“Go,” she murmured, nudging him lightly. “Be clean. Be human. Try not to dissolve the pipes.”

Once the bathroom door closed and the shower started, Cleo let out a quiet breath and finished the rest of her breakfast, slower now. She rinsed her plate, set it neatly in the sink, wiped the counter like it mattered—because it did—and then moved into the bedroom.

She changed her underwear, tugged on a pair of high-waisted denim shorts, fastening them with practiced ease. She shook her hair out fully, leaving it down the way it naturally fell, then sprayed dry shampoo at the roots, working it through with her fingers until it looked soft and lived-in instead of slept-in.

She wiped her face clean with a makeup remover, then reapplied just enough to look awake—concealer where she needed it, mascara, a light wash of color across her cheeks. Nothing dramatic. Just alive.

Deodorant. Fresh socks.

She clipped one side of her hair back, a simple barrette catching the section near her temple so it hung loose but revealed her ear, the rest of her hair falling freely over her shoulders.

The shirt stayed.

She tied it in the back, folded the excess fabric inward, and tucked it neatly so it sat right—intentional, casual, unmistakably his.

She stepped back into the kitchenette just as the water shut off, timing so exact it made her smile to herself.

Ben stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a white towel knotted low on his hips and a smaller hand towel occupied with aggressively drying his hair. He felt scrubbed raw, smelling faintly of something woodsy and expensive that he’d dug out from the bottom of his toiletry bag.

"Okay," he announced, his voice muffled slightly by the towel as he rubbed at his wet curls. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice. I smell like a lumberjack who went to therapy. I smell like a very expensive piece of driftwood. The 'Arctic Blast' is weeping in the shower drain right now."

He lowered the hand towel, shaking his hair out—it was damp and dark, sticking up in chaotic waves—and looked up.

He stopped dead.

"Whoa," he said, the towel in his hand forgotten. "Hold on."

He narrowed his eyes, walking closer, scanning her from the socks up to the denim shorts and the shirt. Especially the shirt.

"Explain the physics," he demanded, gesturing at her with the hand towel. "I was in there for ten minutes. Ten minutes ago, that was a dress. It was a tent. I come out, and suddenly it fits? It has structure?"

He stopped right in front of her, his bare chest damp, the towel around his waist slipping just an inch as he leaned in to inspect the knot at her back.

"That is literal witchcraft, Cleo," he murmured, impressed. "You put a hex on the cotton. Admit it."

He straightened up, his eyes traveling over her face—the fresh makeup, the hair clip, the way she looked effortlessly cool in his stolen laundry. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face, the kind that was usually reserved for a really good hook in a new song.

"You look..." He shook his head, letting out a short exhale. "You look incredible. Dangerous, actually. If I look out at the crowd today and see you wearing that, I’m going to forget all the lyrics to my own songs."

He dropped the hand towel onto the nearest chair and stepped into her space, resting his hands on her waist, his thumbs brushing the skin just above the denim of her shorts.

"It’s a good thing we have a schedule," he said, his voice dropping low, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Because if we didn't have to go meet your terrifying sister and my idiot best friend right now..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He just kissed her.

It wasn't a "good morning" kiss. It was a "you look hot and I'm halfway naked" kiss. He pressed her back against the counter for just a second, tasting the coffee on her tongue, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt against his bare chest.

He pulled back with a groan, resting his forehead against hers.

"Okay. Schedule. Right. Jax. Phoebe. Soundcheck. Focusing."

He stepped back, reluctantly letting her go.

"Turn around," he instructed playfully, grabbing his boxers from the small pile of clean clothes he’d set out. "Or don't. I'm not shy. But we're on the clock."

He moved fast, the efficiency of a guy who had changed in airport bathrooms and backstage closets for half his life. The towel dropped. Boxers on. Then the black jeans—slim fit, worn at the knees—pulled up and buttoned.

He grabbed a plain white tee from his bag, pulling it over his head. It settled over his damp skin, clean and crisp. No logos, no branding. Just Ben.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing the curls back from his forehead, and turned back to her, spreading his arms.

"Clean shirt. Adult soap smell. Pants." He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of that confident charm lighting up his eyes. "Acceptable?"

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just watched him for half a beat—steam still clinging to his skin, hair damp and darker, that clean, woodsy scent filling the tiny space—then she crossed the distance between them without ceremony. Her arms slid around his waist, pressing her cheek briefly to his chest, grounding herself in the warmth that was already so familiar.

“Mm,” she murmured, amused and approving. “You smell… alarmingly put together.”

She tipped her face up and kissed him quickly—soft, decisive, the kind that said yes, hi, you’re mine—then pulled back before it could turn into something else. Her hands lingered at his sides for just a second longer than necessary.

“Oh—” she said, already half-turning away, a little laugh in her voice as reality caught up. “I have to brush my teeth.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes bright, casual, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“You should too,” she added lightly. “If we’re about to be in public pretending to be functioning adults.”

When he kept looking at her like that—half-awed, half-distracted—she shook her head fondly, smoothing the front of the shirt down as if that might help.

“And before you say anything else,” she said, stepping toward the sink, “yes, it’s witchcraft. I will not be explaining it. Some things are better left mysterious.”

She reached for her toothbrush, already mentally shifting gears, but still smiling to herself—because he was clean, dressed, right there, and they were about to walk back into the day together.

Cleo rinsed her toothbrush and set it back in its crooked cup, watching the foam disappear down the tiny sink like it always did—too fast, too loud, too real. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then turned, leaning her hip against the counter.

She looked at him again, really looked this time. Clean shirt. Damp hair. Awake. Present. Still there.

“Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “Now I feel like we can face people.”

She crossed the space between them again, slower this time, slipping her fingers through his for just a second—an anchor, not a grab.

“You ready?” she asked, voice gentle, practical. “Phoebe’s going to scan you like airport security, and Jax is going to pretend he didn’t miss you even though he absolutely did.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckle, an unconscious habit.

“And then you’re going to go do the loud, shiny part,” she added, eyes lifting to his. “And I’ll be right there. Same shirt. Same place.”

She squeezed his hand once more, then let go, already reaching for her bag.

“Come on,” she said, tipping her head toward the door. “Let’s go be responsible for a few hours. We can come back and disappear later.”

"Functioning adults," Ben repeated, nodding as he moved to the sink she vacated. "Right. Oral hygiene. The cornerstone of a civilized society. I’m on it."

He brushed his teeth with the speed and efficiency of a man who knew he was on a countdown, splashing water on his face one last time to wake up the parts of his brain that were still dreaming about the eggs. He wiped his face with the towel, checking the mirror.

The guy staring back looked... better. Less like a ghost, more like a person. The dark circles were still there—faint purple bruises under his eyes—but the frantic edge was gone.
He stepped back out, feeling minty and significantly more human.

"I accept the mystery," he said, eyeing the shirt on her again as she gathered her things. "If I ask too many questions about the physics of the knot, the spell might break, and I can't risk that. It’s a great look."

When she took his hand, that anchor dropped again.

You ready?

He took a breath. Was he? The second he stepped out that door, he was Ben Wilder again. He was a commodity. He was a schedule. He was a setlist.

But then she broke it down: Phoebe, Jax, the loud part, and her.

"Phoebe is absolutely going to scan me," he agreed, lacing his fingers through hers and giving a squeeze back. "She’s going to look at my soul, find it wanting, and then hug me anyway because she loves you. And Jax..." He snorted softly. "Jax is going to act like he’s too cool to care, and then he’s going to try to tackle me. I’m prepared for physical violence. It’s his love language."

He watched her thumb brush his knuckle.

Same shirt. Same place.

That was the line that did it. That was the armor. He didn't need the leather jacket or the stage lights to feel invincible. He just needed to know where she was standing.

"Okay," he exhaled, the last of the hesitation leaving his chest. "Loud part, then back to the quiet part. I can do that."

He let go of her hand just long enough to grab his sunglasses from the table—the black wayfarers that served as his shield against the world—and his laminate pass. He looped the pass over his head, the familiar weight of it settling against his chest, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like a leash.

He slid the sunglasses on, the world tinting a cool, manageable dark.

"Let's go," he said, a grin touching the corner of his mouth as he reached for the door handle, pushing it open to let the blinding desert light flood in. "Let's go convince your sister I'm good enough for you. Should take about five minutes. I'm very charming when I'm caffeinated."

He held the door for her, stepping out into the heat, ready to face the noise because he knew exactly who was walking beside him.

Cleo waited where she always did—off to the side of the trailer, just far enough from the traffic to feel invisible, just close enough that he’d find her without thinking.

She was still in the same clothes from earlier: his tee knotted and tucked in the back so it hugged instead of swallowed her, high-waisted jean shorts worn soft and lived-in, Vans dusty at the soles. Her hair was down, one side clipped back so her ear caught the breeze and the distant echo of the crowd. She leaned her shoulder into the cool metal of the trailer, weight settled, relaxed in a way that only came after the set was over.

The joint was already halfway gone, ember steady between her fingers. She took her time with it—slow inhale, slower exhale—smoke drifting up and dissolving into the Coachella night. In her other hand, a Corona bottle beaded with condensation, lime wedged just right at the lip. Cold. Simple. Familiar.

The day replayed itself softly in her mind, not in sharp details but in warm impressions.

The private courtyard that morning—quiet, shaded, tucked away from everything loud. Phoebe perched on the edge of a low wall, sunglasses on, immediately clocking Cleo in Ben’s shirt and lifting a brow like she’d won something. Jax grinning like an idiot the second he saw Ben, pulling him into a one-armed hug and immediately launching into some half-serious, half-ridiculous argument about gear and timing.

Phoebe and Ben had gone at each other almost instantly. Not mean. Never mean. Just that playful, sharp banter that only happened when everyone felt safe.

“So you’re the one feeding him now?” Phoebe had said dryly, eyeing Cleo over the rim of her coffee.

Ben hadn’t missed a beat. “Keeping me alive, actually. It’s a full-time position. Union benefits.”

Cleo had laughed, standing between them, letting it happen. Letting herself be the thing they joked around instead of worried over. It felt easy. Familiar. Like being folded into a circle instead of standing outside it.

That had been the whole day, really—easy. No rush. No vigilance. No bracing for impact.

Now, leaning against the trailer, Cleo felt the same calm settle in her chest.

Artist Village hummed softly around her, but it wasn’t intrusive. No fans pressing in. No eyes searching. Just crew voices in the distance, golf carts rolling by, the muted glow of lights strung too high to feel harsh. This place wasn’t about spectacle. It was about pause.

A pocket carved out of chaos.

She’d stood in this exact spot during his set too—off to the side, easy to spot if you knew where to look. She knew he did. She’d felt it when his eyes flicked over, quick and sure, like muscle memory. Like reassurance.

Now the bass had faded. The lights had shifted. The roar was breaking down into pockets of noise and laughter and aftermath.

Cleo tipped the bottle back for a small sip, wiped her thumb across the glass, and let herself smile—soft, private.

She wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. Or crowds. Or headlines. Or what it meant to love someone whose life existed at this volume.

Right now, she was just happy.

Waiting.

Ready for him to come home from the noise.

The ringing in his ears was fading, dialing down from a scream to a dull, manageable hum.
Ben walked the last stretch of the path back to the Artist Village alone. He’d sent the security detail ahead, waved off the golf cart, needing the walk to bleed off the last of the stage adrenaline. His shirt—a fresh one he’d changed into post-show—was already sticking to his back, and his hair was a disaster of sweat and desert dust, but he felt lighter than he had in years.

Usually, this was the hardest part. The drop. The moment the lights cut out and the noise stopped and you were left standing in the dark with your own brain, wondering if you’d done enough.

But tonight, the silence didn't feel empty. It felt like a destination.

He rounded the corner of the trailer row, his boots crunching softly on the gravel, and his eyes went to her spot automatically. He didn't even have to scan. He knew exactly where she’d be.

And there she was.

Leaning against the aluminum siding like she was holding the whole structure up, one leg bent, the ember of a joint glowing soft orange near her face. She was still wearing his shirt. Seeing it from the stage had nearly made him miss a chord change in the second verse of "Static"—a flash of gray cotton and familiar hair in the wings that grounded him so hard he almost forgot to sing.

Now, seeing it up close in the dim ambient light, it just looked like... home.

He slowed his pace, letting the sight of her wash over him. The Corona in her hand. The relaxed slope of her shoulders. The way she was looking at nothing and everything all at once.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, tired but genuine.

The day replayed in his head as he closed the distance. The courtyard. He’d expected an interrogation from Phoebe; instead, he’d gotten roasted about his tour rider within five minutes. Union benefits. He chuckled softly to himself, remembering Cleo’s laugh, the way she’d stood between them not as a shield, but as a bridge. And Jax—God, he’d missed Jax. The way his best friend had dragged him into a headlock before he could even say hello, treating him like Ben from the garage days, not Ben from the billboards.

It had felt normal. It had felt real.

He stopped a few feet away from her, not wanting to startle her, though he suspected she already knew he was there. She had that radar.

"You know," he said, his voice raspy from ninety minutes of singing, low and intimate in the quiet air. "I've played this festival three times. I've been to the after-parties. I've stood on the VIP risers."

He stepped into her space, the smell of her smoke mixing with the sweat and dust on his skin. He reached out, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her gently away from the trailer and into him.

"But this?" He looked down at her, his eyes tracing the line of the shirt, the messy hair, the beer bottle. "Walking back to this? Best headliner experience I've ever had."

He leaned down, stealing a sip from her Corona without asking, the lime hitting his tongue sharp and cold. He swallowed, letting out a satisfied sigh, and rested his forehead against hers.

"You stayed," he whispered, the relief heavy in his voice. "Same shirt. Same place."