Blue Lagoon, Iceland
 

Welcome to the Blue Lagoon

A visit to the Blue Lagoon is an invitation to slow down and immerse yourself in one of Iceland’s most iconic natural experiences.

Set within a dramatic lava field, the Blue Lagoon offers a rare contrast of elements: black volcanic rock, open sky, drifting steam, and milky-blue geothermal water that remains warm year-round. From the moment you arrive, the world feels quieter, softer, and unhurried.

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The Geothermal Lagoon

At the heart of the experience is the expansive outdoor lagoon. Naturally heated geothermal seawater surrounds you, rich in minerals and known for its soothing properties. As you move through the water, you’ll find varying temperatures and depths, allowing you to relax, float, or lean comfortably against the lava rock edges.

The lagoon is designed for lingering. There is no set path—only space to unwind at your own pace.

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Silica Mud Masks

Included with your visit is access to the iconic silica mud masks. Available directly within the lagoon, these mineral-rich masks are applied to the face, left to set briefly, and then rinsed away in the warm water. It’s a signature Blue Lagoon ritual that blends skincare with play.

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In-Water Lagoon Bar

Enjoy refreshments without leaving the water at the in-lagoon bar. Guests can order beer, wine, sparkling wine, cocktails, and non-alcoholic beverages using a wristband system. The experience is relaxed and social, designed to enhance—not interrupt—your time in the lagoon.

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Sauna & Steam Rooms

Step out of the water and into modern sauna and steam facilities, where heat and relaxation continue. The sauna offers a dry, intense warmth, often paired with views of the surrounding lava fields, while the steam rooms provide a deeply enveloping experience.

Alternating between heat and water is part of the Blue Lagoon tradition.

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Relaxation Areas

Quiet indoor and outdoor lounge spaces are available throughout the complex. These areas are ideal for cooling down, resting, and enjoying the minimalist surroundings between soaks.

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Spa Treatments

For a more personalized experience, guests may book additional spa treatments, including in-water massages and specialized skincare services. These treatments are offered in private or semi-private settings and are designed to complement the natural environment.

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Dining & Refreshments

On-site dining options range from casual café fare to refined meals with lagoon views. Menus highlight fresh ingredients and Icelandic influences, offering the perfect way to extend your visit beyond the water.

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The Atmosphere

The Blue Lagoon is calm, modern, and immersive. Steam drifts gently across the water, sounds are softened, and the landscape feels otherworldly. Whether you visit in the quiet morning light, beneath shifting clouds, or as evening settles in, the experience remains uniquely restorative.

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A Place to Unwind

The Blue Lagoon is not about rushing through activities. It’s about warmth, stillness, and giving yourself the time to simply be present.



At The Retreat at Blue Lagoon Iceland

Staying at The Retreat at Blue Lagoon Iceland transforms a visit to Blue Lagoon Iceland into a fully immersive retreat experience. Designed for quiet, privacy, and restoration, the hotel offers exclusive spaces and experiences reserved only for guests.

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Private Lagoon Access

Guests of The Retreat enjoy access to a private lagoon, separate from the main Blue Lagoon. This area is calmer and more secluded, allowing for uninterrupted soaking in geothermal water surrounded by lava rock and open sky.

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The Retreat Spa

The on-site spa is an exclusive sanctuary offering a range of treatments inspired by the lagoon’s natural elements. Guests can book private or guided rituals, in-water therapies, and specialized skincare experiences designed to promote deep relaxation and renewal.

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Relaxation & Meditation Spaces

Quiet rooms throughout the hotel are dedicated to rest and reflection. These minimalist spaces encourage guests to disconnect, offering comfortable seating, soft lighting, and views of the surrounding lava fields.

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Dining at Moss Restaurant

Fine dining is available at Moss Restaurant, located within the hotel. The restaurant offers a seasonal tasting menu inspired by Icelandic ingredients, served in an elegant setting overlooking the lava landscape. Reservations are recommended.

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Casual Dining & Lounge Areas

Additional dining and lounge spaces provide lighter meals, drinks, and relaxed seating. These areas are ideal for unwinding after the lagoon or enjoying a quiet evening without leaving the property.

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In-Room Comfort & Views

Each room at The Retreat is designed as a private refuge, featuring modern interiors, natural textures, and views of the lava fields or lagoon. Many rooms include balconies or terraces, offering a peaceful space to enjoy the changing Icelandic light.

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Guided Experiences & Walking Paths

Guests can explore the surrounding lava fields via designated walking paths that wind through the landscape. These paths offer quiet opportunities for reflection, photography, and gentle exploration of the area’s volcanic terrain.

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Atmosphere

The Retreat is intentionally quiet and intimate. There is no nightlife, no crowds, and no urgency. The focus is on stillness, comfort, and allowing guests to move slowly through their stay.

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A Complete Escape

Staying at The Retreat allows guests to experience Blue Lagoon Iceland beyond a single visit — turning it into a destination defined by privacy, balance, and a deep sense of calm.

The Blue Lagoon hotel room felt cocooned from the rest of the world—thick walls, muted lighting, the faint mineral-clean scent still clinging to the air from earlier. Outside, the Icelandic night pressed cool and quiet against the windows, but inside everything was warm, hushed, deliberately slowed.

It was their first night here. That fact sat gently in Cleo’s chest, like something she didn’t want to rush past.

The evening had unfolded exactly the way she’d hoped. She’d met Phoebe at the hotel bar—soft lighting, low music, the kind of place where even the VIP section felt calm instead of performative. They’d laughed too loudly at nothing, leaned close over the table, talked about the water and the cold and how unreal it felt to be here. Cleo had had a few drinks at dinner. Maybe more than a few. Enough that warmth lingered in her cheeks and her limbs felt pleasantly floaty. Enough that time had started to stretch in friendly, forgiving ways.

Meanwhile, Ben had disappeared with Jax—off somewhere else in the hotel, exactly as planned. Grill talk. Nothing talk. Ben-without-a-stage talk. Knowing he was nearby, relaxed, not “on,” had let Cleo lean fully into the night.

She’d headed back first.

Now, alone in the room, she closed the door behind her with a soft click and leaned back against it for a beat longer than necessary, blinking slowly as if the room needed a second to catch up to her. She smiled to herself—loose, unguarded—then pushed off the door and padded farther inside, toes sinking into the carpet.

Her jacket slid off one shoulder and stayed there, forgotten. Her hair was down, slightly wild, framing her face in a way that made her look younger somehow. Her movements were careful but buoyant, like she was concentrating just enough to stay graceful.

Her eyes landed on the small table by the lamp.

The wine.

“Oh,” she murmured, delighted, like it had personally surprised her.

She picked up the bottle, turning it slowly, squinting at the label with exaggerated seriousness. She nodded once, decisively, as if she’d come to an important conclusion.

“Yes,” she told it. “You seem… correct.”

Finding the corkscrew took longer than it should have. She opened one drawer, then another, then the same drawer again, laughing softly at herself when she realized what she’d just done. When she finally located it in the amenities box, she held it up triumphantly.

“Okay,” she said to the empty room. “We’re professionals.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her, and braced the bottle between her thighs with great care. Her tongue poked out slightly as she lined up the corkscrew, brows knit in concentration. She twisted. Nothing happened.

She paused, frowned at the bottle, then tried again—slower this time, as if kindness might help.

“Don’t be rude,” she whispered to it.

The cork creaked faintly but didn’t give. Cleo sighed, then laughed—an airy, helpless little sound—and shook her head, hair falling into her face.

“I am absolutely capable,” she told the bottle, gently defensive. “I just… need cooperation.”

That was when the door opened.

Ben stepped inside, jacket halfway off—and stopped.

He didn’t announce himself. He just watched.

Cleo, perched on the bed, slightly flushed, hair everywhere, holding court with a bottle of wine like it had personally offended her. Her coat was sliding down her arms, her posture upright but soft, eyes bright and unmistakably drunk in the gentlest way—happy, unfiltered, a little delayed.

She sensed him before she fully registered him.

“Oh,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Her face lit up instantly. “Hi.”

She lifted the bottle toward him, proud and a little wobbly, like she’d accomplished something monumental already.

“They left us this,” she explained, earnest. “Because you’re famous. But I think it’s also… for me.”

She tried the cork again. It refused.

Cleo sighed dramatically, then looked back at him, eyes crinkling with a grin that made it impossible to be annoyed.

“Don’t judge me,” she said sweetly. “Dinner wine turned into ‘first night in Iceland’ wine and then suddenly I was emotionally invested in this bottle.”

She looked down at it, then back up at him, head tilting, expression hopeful and conspiratorial.

“So,” she said, voice warm and just a little slow,
“do you want to be a hero—
or should I keep negotiating?”

Ben hadn't realized how much he needed an hour of absolutely nothing until he was standing on a freezing cold terrace with a lukewarm beer and Jax.

It was the kind of reset button he couldn’t buy. There were no managers hovering, no fans trying to be cool while filming him from across the room, no setlists to debate. Just Jax, leaning against a railing in the pitch-black Icelandic night, roasting Ben relentlessly about his "retired wizard" aesthetic and asking if the silica mud was going to make him too pretty to be friends with anymore.

They’d talked about the tour for maybe two minutes before Jax got bored and switched to complaining about the rental car’s seat warmers. It was grounding. It was real. It was exactly the kind of noise Ben needed to clear out the static in his head.

He walked back to the room feeling lighter than he had in months. The hallway was quiet, the carpet thick enough to swallow his footsteps, and he found himself humming a melody that didn't exist yet—something slow and atmospheric, just like this place.

He keyed into the room, expecting to find Cleo maybe reading, or unpacking, or staring out at the steam rising from the lagoon.

He didn't expect to walk into a high-stakes hostage negotiation between his girlfriend and a bottle of Cabernet.

Ben stopped in the entryway, shrugging his jacket the rest of the way off his shoulders as he took in the scene. She was perched on the edge of the bed, coat half-off like she’d gotten distracted mid-striptease, hair a glorious, wind-blown disaster, clamping a bottle between her thighs with a level of concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs.
She looked soft. She looked happy. She looked delightfully, undeniably tipsy.

A slow, affectionate grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, perfectly content to just watch the show for a second.

When she finally spotted him and her face lit up—Oh. Hi.—Ben felt a warm, heavy thud in his chest. That look. The way she beamed at him like he was the best part of the night, even better than the wine. It was a hell of a drug.

"Hi," he replied, his voice low and amused, pushing off the wall to walk toward her.
He listened to her explain the provenance of the wine—because you’re famous—and her very valid emotional investment in it, his grin widening with every word. She was slurring just the tiniest bit, her movements loose and fluid, and it made him want to wrap her up in the duvet and keep her there forever.

"Negotiating?" Ben repeated, stopping right in front of her. He stood between her knees, looking down at her with pure adoration. "Baby, from where I’m standing, it looks like the bottle is winning. It’s putting up a hell of a fight."

He reached down, his large hands covering hers where they clutched the neck of the bottle and the corkscrew. His fingers were warm from his pockets, steady against her fumbling ones.

"I think being a hero is in my contract," he teased gently. "Clause 4, Section B: 'Ben must intervene when wine bottles become hostile.'"

He gently pried her fingers loose, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles before taking the bottle from her thighs. He didn't step away. He stayed right there in her space, the bottle in one hand. With practiced ease—the muscle memory of a thousand backstage riders—he twisted the corkscrew the rest of the way in and pulled.

Pop.

"There," he said, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. "Negotiation concluded. The hostage is free."

He set the open bottle on the nightstand and immediately turned his attention back to her. He rested his hands on her waist, sliding them under the open coat to find the warmth of her sweater, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her sides.

"You look..." He shook his head, looking at her wild hair and her bright, hazy eyes. "You look incredibly happy. And maybe like you’ve had a head start on the relaxation."

He leaned down, bumping his nose affectionately against hers.

"Did you have a good time with Phoebe?" he murmured, smiling against her lips. "Did you solve all the world's problems over dinner wine?"

Cleo blinked up at him, the concentration she’d been pouring into the bottle dissolving instantly into a smile that was all warmth and relief and a little bit of mischief. The tension left her shoulders the second she saw him there, solid and familiar in the doorway, like the room had finally settled into the right shape.

“Hi,” she echoed, softer than she meant to, like the word had weight.

She laughed at his assessment of the situation, the sound loose and unguarded, and glanced down at the bottle as if it had personally betrayed her. “Hey, I had it for a second,” she protested lightly. “It’s just… very determined. And it kept looking at me like that.”

When his hands covered hers, warm and steady, she let go immediately, like she’d been waiting for permission. Her fingers lingered against his for half a beat longer than necessary before retreating, her shoulders tipping forward as she watched him take over. The pop of the cork made her gasp and then laugh again, delighted and impressed.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning up at him. “You really are a hero. I was about to start negotiating terms. Like… I’ll open you tomorrow, I promise.”

She shifted slightly on the bed when he moved closer, his hands finding her waist, sliding beneath the coat. The contact grounded her instantly. She leaned into it without thinking, her knees angling inward just enough to bracket his hips, like muscle memory had kicked in before her brain caught up.

“Happy is accurate,” she said, nodding once, emphatic. “Very accurate. Possibly the happiest version of me. Also—yes—I absolutely had a head start. I forgot Icelandic pours are… generous.”

She reached up, fingers catching lightly in the front of his jacket before drifting to his collar, her thumb brushing the edge of it in a small, absent-minded motion. Her eyes were bright, a little hazy, but focused entirely on him.

“Phoebe was in rare form,” she went on, smiling at the memory. “Very passionate about the spa rules. Very convinced we’re all going to die if we don’t hydrate properly. We solved nothing, but we laughed a lot, which I think counts.”

She tilted her head when he bumped his nose against hers, smiling so close their mouths almost brushed. “And I kept thinking about you,” she added honestly, quieter now. “About how weird it is that this is real. That we’re actually here.”

Her forehead rested against his for a second, the room warm and hushed around them.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured. “From the bottle. And from myself.”

Then, with a small, conspiratorial smile, she glanced toward the nightstand where the open wine waited.

“Now,” she added gently, “you should probably pour it. Before it decides to attack again.”

Cleo smiled, the edge of her coat slipping farther down her arms as she relaxed fully now that he was there. She watched him for a second—really watched him—the way his shoulders had dropped, the way his energy felt quieter, steadier than when he’d left. It made something warm bloom in her chest.

She reached up, smoothing her thumb along his jaw, affectionate and slow, her touch a little uncoordinated but sincere.

“So,” she said softly, tilting her head. “Did you have a good time with Jax?”

Ben leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a second as her thumb brushed his jaw. Her coordination was maybe operating at eighty percent efficiency, but her aim was perfect. She felt warm and real, and looking at her—cheeks flushed, coat falling off her shoulders—he felt a surge of affection so strong it almost knocked the wind out of him.

"Jax," Ben said, opening his eyes and flashing a crooked, easy grin. "Jax is currently formulating a theory that the Northern Lights are just a government projection to sell more wool sweaters. He’s in rare form too."

He turned slightly, keeping one hand on her waist as he reached for the glasses on the nightstand.

"We stood on a balcony until my fingers went numb and talked about absolutely nothing," he admitted, his voice dropping into that low, content register. "We argued about the best track on Abbey Road for twenty minutes. It was spiritual. It was exactly what I needed."

He poured the wine—a generous Icelandic pour, matching her earlier assessment—and the rich red liquid swirled in the glass, dark and velvety against the dim light. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing hers, lingering on the connection.

"But I prefer this view," he murmured, his gaze flicking over her face. "Much warmer. Significantly prettier."

He set his own glass down for a second and moved his hands to her shoulders, gently peeling the sliding coat the rest of the way down.

"And as much as I love the 'disheveled explorer' look," he teased softly, sliding the heavy fabric down her arms and tossing it onto the chair nearby. "Let’s get you out of the survival gear. You’re safe inside now. No wind chill factor."

He picked up his glass again and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, kicking off his boots with a heavy thud, finally shedding the last of the travel day himself. He rotated his body to face her, sitting cross-legged, knee bumping against hers.

"To Phoebe’s rules," he proposed, lifting his glass for a toast, his eyes dancing with amusement. "To Jax’s conspiracies. And to the fact that we are actually, physically here."
He clinked his glass against hers—a soft, crystalline chime in the quiet room.

"It is weird," he agreed, taking a sip and watching her over the rim of the glass. "But it's the good kind of weird. The kind where I don't have to check the schedule for tomorrow because there isn't one."

He lowered the glass, licking a drop of wine from his lip, and looked at her with a steady, grounding intensity.

"So," he asked, his voice soft, inviting her in. "What was the final verdict on the spa rules? Are we allowed to have fun, or is fun strictly prohibited by the silica gods?"

Cleo laughed softly, the sound bubbling out of her like she couldn’t quite contain it, and she tipped her head back just a little as if picturing it.

“That tracks,” she said, grinning. “I feel like Jax would absolutely uncover a global sweater conspiracy and then immediately forget about it because he got distracted by a dog or a snack.”

She took the glass from him carefully—deliberate, proud of herself for the coordination—and lifted it up to eye level, studying the color like it might reveal secrets.

“Talking about nothing is my favorite kind of talking,” she added, warmth threading through her voice. “That’s when you know you’re actually okay. When you don’t need to solve anything.”

She took a sip, smaller than his, savoring it, then looked back at him with a soft, unguarded smile when he said he preferred this view.

“Yeah?” she said, clearly pleased. “Good. Because I was hoping I’d still rank above Abbey Road.”

When he slid her coat off completely, she let him, lifting her arms with exaggerated cooperation, laughing under her breath.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “I was absolutely battling the elements. A true pioneer. You saved me.”

She shifted on the bed as he sat, angling her body toward him, one knee brushing his, her balance a little loose but her focus completely on him.

At the toast, her face lit up.

“To Phoebe’s rules,” she echoed, lifting her glass. “Which are… extensive. And laminated. She read them like she was issuing commandments, but—” she beamed then, unmistakably proud and affectionate, “—she was smiling the whole time. So I think that means she approves. Don’t tell her I said that.”

She clinked her glass to his and took another sip, cheeks warm, eyes bright.

“And the spa,” she continued, leaning in a little, lowering her voice like she was sharing classified information. “We are absolutely allowed to have fun. Encouraged, even. The silica gods want us relaxed, hydrated, and slightly unrecognizable.”

She laughed at that, shaking her head.

“Tomorrow is… soak, float, put mud on our faces, make zero decisions,” she said happily. “And then we sleep in. Like, aggressively. No alarms. No responsibilities.”

Her smile softened into something quieter as she reached out, fingertips brushing his knee, grounding herself there.

“And after that?” she added, eyes half-lidded, content. “Cuddling. All day. You, me, nowhere to be. I’m not leaving the bed unless someone physically removes me.”

She took one more sip of her wine, then looked at him over the rim of the glass, playful and fond.

“This is my ideal pace,” she said lightly. “A little wine. A lot of you. And absolutely no schedule.”

Ben laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress where their knees touched. He watched her over the rim of his glass, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and pure, unadulterated fondness.

"Let's be clear," he said, lowering his wine and leaning in just a fraction. "Abbey Road is a masterpiece. It changed the trajectory of modern music. It is a perfect album."

He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"But Abbey Road doesn't look like you in a hotel room with messy hair. So, yeah. You win. You win by a landslide. It’s not even a competition."

He listened to her breakdown of the spa rules—the hydration, the silica, the aggressive relaxation—and he felt his shoulders drop another inch. The idea of Phoebe handing out laminated commandments was terrifyingly on-brand, but the idea of Cleo relaxed and unbothered was the real prize.

"Aggressively sleeping in," he repeated, savoring the phrase. "I like the violence of that. I want to sleep so hard I forget my own zip code. I want to sleep until I don't remember what a guitar looks like."

He took a sip of his wine, watching her fingers brush his knee, feeling the warmth of her touch seep through his jeans.

"And regarding the 'not leaving the bed' clause," he murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, intimate register. "You say that like I’m not going to be the one holding you hostage. You think you’re going to have to fight to stay in bed? Cleo, I am going to be a human anchor. I am going to be a very heavy, very comfortable paperweight."

He set his glass on the nightstand next to the bottle, deciding he was done with the wine. He wanted his hands free.

He reached out, his palms cupping her face, his thumbs brushing lightly over her flushed cheeks. She looked so soft, so happy, and the fact that she was sitting here telling him her ideal pace involved "a lot of him" made his chest ache in the best possible way.

"You have no idea," he whispered, searching her eyes. "How much I need exactly that. Zero decisions. Just us."

He tilted her head back gently, studying her face like it was the only map he needed.
"You're a little wobbly, you know," he teased softly, a grin touching his lips. "It's very cute. You've got that 'I conquered the wine bottle' glow. It suits you."

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her forehead, then down to the tip of her nose.
"But since we have a big day of mud masks and aggressive napping tomorrow," he murmured against her skin, "maybe we switch to water? I want you fresh for the silica gods. They seem demanding."

Cleo laughed at him immediately, soft and bright, the sound spilling out before she could even help it. She leaned in without thinking, forehead brushing his, like that was just where she belonged now.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, smiling wide, eyes warm, “I am not arguing with the cultural significance of Abbey Road. I respect it. I honor it. I would never slander a perfect album.”

She tipped her head slightly, hair falling into her face as she added, quieter and more playful,
“I’m just saying it’s having a hard time competing with this exact moment. That’s not its fault.”

When he repeated aggressively sleeping in, she grinned like he’d just said the most romantic thing she’d ever heard.

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Violent rest. Zero alarms. No responsibilities. If I forget what day it is, we’re doing it right.”

His comment about being a human anchor made her smile soften, her hand drifting to his chest, fingers resting there like she was feeling something steady under her palm.

“I would absolutely let you hold me hostage,” she admitted easily. “I’d probably thank you for it. Maybe negotiate snacks.”

When he cupped her face, her breath hitched just a little—not because she was overwhelmed, but because she felt seen. Completely. She leaned into his hands, eyes flicking between his.

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I keep saying it. Just us. No deciding. No planning. Just… being.”

Then—water.

Her eyes widened instantly.

She gasped, dramatic and scandalized, one hand flying to her chest.

“Water?” she repeated, disbelief dripping from the word. “Benjamin.”

She straightened up a bit, squaring her shoulders with exaggerated dignity. “I want you to know I heard everything you said before that. I was emotionally aligned. Spiritually bonded.”

Then she pointed at him, wobble minimal but confidence maximal.

“But suggesting I switch to water like I’m some kind of dehydrated houseplant?” she continued, trying very hard not to laugh. “That’s bold. That’s brave.”

She pushed herself up from the bed in one smooth, if slightly ambitious, motion. There was a brief moment where she had to recalibrate—ankle, heel, gravity—but she recovered like a champion, planting her boots and lifting her chin with theatrical pride.

“I can walk in a straight line,” she announced firmly, immediately taking two careful steps to prove it. “And I am doing it in these heels. Which, by the way, is a skill. A life skill.”

She turned back toward him, pointing a finger for emphasis, her balance loose but her confidence unshaken.

“And also,” she added, narrowing her eyes playfully, “I am twenty-eight years old. Twenty. Eight. If you think you can cut me off like I’m a college freshman who just discovered tequila, you are deeply mistaken.”

She took another step closer—closer than necessary—leaning in just enough to make the point land.

“Because if you do not let me continue drinking,” she said sweetly, lowering her voice into a mock-threatening whisper, “I will go get my big sister.”

A beat.

“And you know,” she continued, nodding solemnly, “Phoebe is very scary when she thinks I’m being bullied into something I don’t want to do.”

Her lips twitched, fighting a smile, then she broke into a grin anyway, softening immediately. She reached out, resting her hands lightly on his chest, steadying herself there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” she concluded, eyes bright and teasing, “do try me.”

Then, quieter—fond, warm, undeniably happy—

“I promise I’ll drink water too,” she added. “Just… not instead.”

Ben’s hands went up instantly. It was a reflex, a survival instinct honed by years of navigating high-stakes situations, and this—Cleo threatening to unleash Phoebe—was a Defcon 1 scenario.

"Whoa. Okay. Pause," he said, his eyes wide, backing up a fraction of an inch even though he was already sitting down. "You didn't say we were bringing out the nuclear option. I surrender. I fold. White flag."

He shook his head, looking at her with a mix of genuine fear and absolute delight.
"Phoebe is terrifying on a Tuesday morning," he pointed out. "Phoebe defending you? That is a force of nature I am not equipped to fight. I don't have the armor class for that boss battle. You win. The wine stays."

He let out a low whistle, impressed by her sheer audacity.

"And for the record," he added, his voice dropping into a teasing, affectionate lilt as he reached out to steady her by the hips. "That was a spectacular straight line. Truly. It was geometric. It was artistic. It had flair."

He grinned, his thumbs rubbing lightly against the navy fabric of her dress, right where the ruching cinched at her waist.

"I am not questioning your motor skills, Cleo. I am simply suggesting that we hydrate so that tomorrow, when we are floating in a lagoon, your head doesn't feel like a drum solo."

He stood up then, moving into her space with an easy, fluid grace. He placed his hands firmly on her waist, his grip warm and sure against the fitted bodice of her dress, grounding her wobbly determination.

"But you’ve made your point," he murmured, looking down at her, his expression softening from playful to something heavier, more attentive. "You are capable. You are an independent woman with excellent balance."

He guided her backward, step by slow step, until the back of her knees hit the mattress. He applied just enough pressure to encourage her to sit, waiting until she was safely settled on the edge of the bed, the hem of her mini dress riding up slightly, before he let go.

"However," he said softly, "these need to go. You've done enough walking for one day."
Ben didn't sit next to her. Instead, he sank down onto his knees on the plush hotel carpet, positioning himself right between her legs.

He looked up at her for a second—taking in the square neckline of her dress, the bare skin of her legs, the way she looked like a queen even in a hotel room—before reaching for her left heeled boot.

"Relax," he commanded gently, his voice a low rumble.

His hands moved with slow, deliberate intent. He found the zipper at the side of the boot and pulled it down, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He didn't rush to pull it off. Instead, his hands slid over the leather, warming it, before slipping inside to cup her heel.

He slid the boot off slowly, easing it away from her foot, his fingers grazing the arch of her foot. He set it aside and immediately moved to the other one.

He kept his eyes locked on hers as he worked the second zipper, the angle making him look up at her through his lashes.

"Better?" he asked softly, sliding the second boot off and tossing it near the first.

He didn't pull away. He stayed there on his knees, his hands moving up to rest on her bare knees, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs just below the hem of her dress. It wasn't aggressive; it was worshipful.

"Now," he whispered, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. "Wine for the lady. Water for the peace treaty. And me, right here, making sure you don't have to walk another line unless you really want to."

Cleo laughed so hard she had to brace a hand on his shoulder, the sound tipping into that bright, unguarded place that only showed up when she felt completely safe.

“Oh—oh no,” she said, grinning wide as he surrendered. “You absolutely know better. You don’t threaten Phoebe-adjacent consequences unless you’re prepared to lose.”

She steadied herself when his hands found her hips, not resisting it at all—letting him be the anchor he clearly wanted to be. “And thank you,” she added, mock-serious, “for acknowledging the artistry of that walk. I worked very hard on it.”

When he talked about hydration and drum-solo headaches, she softened, tilting her head and meeting his eyes. “Okay,” she conceded gently. “That part is fair. Lagoon Cleo wants to be happy, not concussed.”

She let him guide her back without argument, the backs of her knees catching the mattress as she sat, watching him with a fond, slightly dazed smile. The dress rode up and she didn’t even notice—too busy tracking the way he moved, careful and attentive.

Her breath hitched just a touch when he knelt, not from nerves but from the quiet intimacy of it. “You know,” she murmured, voice low and warm, “most people don’t get this version of you.”

She relaxed when he told her to, toes flexing instinctively as he unzipped the first boot. “Bossy,” she teased softly, eyes never leaving his. “But I’ll allow it.”

As he eased the boots off, one then the other, she reached down and brushed her fingers through his hair, a light, affectionate touch. “Yes,” she answered when he asked if it was better. “Much.”

When his hands rested on her knees, thumbs tracing slow circles, she leaned forward slightly, elbows on her thighs, meeting him where he was. Her smile turned softer, more sincere.

“Deal,” she said quietly. “Wine for me. Water for diplomacy.”

She glanced toward the glasses, then back to him, eyes bright and steady. “And you?” she added, tilting her head. “You stay right there. That seems… strategically sound.”

Cleo let herself go.

Not dramatically—just a quiet, earned surrender. She leaned back until her shoulders met the mattress, the motion slow and unguarded, the way you move when you know you’re not about to fall through anything. The bed dipped softly beneath her, cool sheets against warm skin, and she left her knees bent, legs still where they were, an open, familiar shape that didn’t need adjusting.

She exhaled, a long, steady sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deeper than her lungs.

“Oh,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Her gaze drifted up to the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by the low lamps, the edges of the room blurring into something gentle and indistinct. No music. No voices outside the door. No expectations tugging at her sleeve.

Just stillness.

She let one hand fall to her stomach, the other resting loose at her side, fingers slack for once. The tightness she carried so often—between her shoulders, behind her eyes—unspooled quietly, without fanfare.

“This,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “is nice.”

She didn’t move to reach for him. She didn’t need to. The peace was already there, filling the room, settling into her bones.

For the first time in a long while, her thoughts didn’t race ahead to tomorrow or rewind through yesterday. They simply… paused.

And Cleo lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling safe, feeling present—feeling, finally, at rest.

Ben stayed right where he was—kneeling on the hotel carpet, framed by her legs—and watched the tension leave her body like a magic trick.

One second she was holding court, defending her walking skills; the next, she was pouring herself onto the mattress like liquid mercury. He watched her chest rise and fall with that long, deep exhale, and he felt a sympathetic looseness spread through his own shoulders.

"Strategically sound," he echoed, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I’d say it’s a tactical masterclass. You look very comfortable. I’m jealous."

He didn't move to join her up there yet. He wasn't done with the service portion of the evening.

He reached out, capturing her right foot again. His hands were large and warm, wrapping completely around her arch. He didn't ask for permission; he just started. He pressed his thumbs firmly into the sole of her foot, finding the tight spot right in the center where the heel had been punishing her all night.

"This is nice?" he teased softly, looking up at her chin and the line of her throat exposed to the ceiling. "Baby, you have low standards. Lying down is just the baseline. We haven't even hit the premium features yet."

He worked his thumbs in a slow, circular rhythm, digging deep enough to make it count but gentle enough to keep her in that floaty state. He watched her reaction closely—the way her toes curled slightly, the way her breathing hitched. It was a different kind of applause than he got on stage, but frankly, he liked this one better.

"I found a knot," he announced gravely, sliding his hand up to cup her heel and stretch the foot gently. "I think this one has a name. I think it’s named 'The Walk from the Car.' It’s a stubborn little guy."

He moved his hands up, sliding over her ankle and gliding along the curve of her calf. Her skin was cool, smooth, and soft under his palms. He used the heels of his hands to push upward, dragging long, firm strokes from her ankle toward her knee, working the muscle that had been holding her up in those heels all night.

"You know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to watch his own hands on her skin, contrasting against the dark navy of her dress that had ridden up her thighs. "I’m a man of many talents. Musician. Actor. Unlicensed podiatrist. You’re really getting the full Ben Wilder experience tonight."

He switched legs, giving her left foot the same devoted attention, kneading the arch until he felt the resistance melt away. He loved touching her like this—not grabbing, not taking, just giving. It grounded him. It made the room feel small and the world outside irrelevant.

He slid his hands up her left calf, squeezing the muscle gently, his thumbs tracing the line of her shin bone. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the mattress on either side of her knees, looking up the length of her body to her face.

"How we doing?" he asked, a crooked, charming grin playing on his lips. "Is the customer satisfied? Or do I need to call in a manager?"

He squeezed her calf one last time, playful but possessing.

"I charge hourly, by the way," he whispered, his eyes dancing. "But I accept payment in soup decisions and exclusively focused attention."

Cleo didn’t move at first. She let herself stay exactly where she was—spread out on the bed, limbs loose, spine sinking into the mattress like it finally trusted gravity again. The ceiling above her blurred at the edges, not from the wine so much as from the relief of being done, of being held by the quiet instead of the noise.

When he said strategically sound, she let out a soft, breathy laugh that barely made it past her lips.

“Mmh,” she murmured, eyes still on the ceiling. “I knew you’d appreciate the tactical angle.”

Then he said it—the thing about premium features—and that finally pulled her attention fully back to him.

She tilted her head just enough to look down the length of her body at him there on the carpet, kneeling like this was exactly where he belonged, hands already warm around her foot. Her mouth curved, slow and fond, the kind of smile that came from somewhere deep and unguarded.

“Baby,” she said quietly, voice warm and sure, “I would stay at a one-star motel with flickering lights and a suspicious ice machine if it meant I got to be with you.”

Her toes flexed instinctively when his thumbs pressed into her arch, a soft sigh slipping out before she could stop it. She didn’t even bother pretending she was composed. Not tonight. Not here.

“This?” she added, eyes fluttering closed again. “This is just… bonus content.”

When he teased her about low standards, she laughed again—this time a little fuller, a little tipsier.

“Hey,” she protested mildly, though there was no heat in it. “I have very high standards. You just happen to meet all of them while kneeling on hotel carpet and touching my feet.”

Her breathing slowed as he worked, the rhythm of his hands steady and intentional. She felt herself melting in stages—the kind of unraveling that didn’t feel dramatic, just inevitable. When he announced he’d found a knot, she groaned softly, tipping her head to the side.

“Oh, that one?” she said. “Yeah. That’s absolutely named after the walk from the car. It’s been holding a grudge all night.”

Her fingers curled loosely into the sheets when his hands slid up her calf, the pressure firm and grounding. She could feel how careful he was—not just with her body, but with her mood, her edges. It made her chest ache in that quiet, good way.

When he listed off his many talents, she cracked one eye open to look at him, amusement shining through the haze.

“Unlicensed podiatrist is really where you shine,” she said dryly. “Very niche. Very exclusive service.”

She watched him switch to her other leg, watched the focus in his face as if this mattered just as much as anything else he did in the world. Maybe more. It made her feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with being looked at.

When he leaned closer and asked how they were doing, manager jokes and all, she finally shifted. Slowly, lazily, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

She bent one knee, then the other, planting her feet lightly on the mattress. Then she sat up, the movement unhurried, her body still loose from his hands. She reached for him without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair first, then down to his cheek.

Her thumb brushed along his jaw, slow and affectionate, her touch warm and grounding now, returning the care he’d just given her.

She looked at him properly then—really looked at him—and her expression softened into something deeply content.

“The customer,” she said gently, a smile tugging at her lips, “is extremely satisfied.”

She leaned in just enough to press her forehead briefly to his, breathing him in, before pulling back again.

“Five stars,” she added. “Would absolutely book again.”

Ben leaned into her hand the moment it touched his face, his eyes slipping shut for a second as her thumb brushed his jaw.

He let out a long, ragged exhale, the kind that emptied his lungs of the last remaining bits of tour stress. Hearing her talk about one-star motels and suspicious ice machines—and knowing she meant it—hit him harder than the wine. It grounded him. It made him feel like he wasn't just a destination for her; he was the journey.

"Five stars," he repeated, his voice low and raspy, vibrating against her palm.

He turned his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of her hand, his lips lingering on her skin, warm and devout.

"I’ll take it. I’ll frame it. I’ll put it on my business card right under 'Retired Wizard.'"

He opened his eyes, looking up at her through his lashes with a gaze that was equal parts mischief and absolute, terrifying adoration. He kept his hands on her knees, his thumbs sweeping back and forth over the soft skin of her inner thighs, grounding her, claiming her.

"But regarding the one-star motel," he murmured, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You have terrible taste, Cleo. I, for one, refuse to sleep anywhere that doesn't offer at least a complimentary continental breakfast. I have standards. I’m a diva."

He chuckled softly, but the sound faded as he looked at her—really looked at her—sitting there with her hair wild and her dress riding up, looking at him like he hung the moon.

"Five stars," he whispered again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't believe his luck.
He shifted his grip, sliding his hands up her thighs just a few inches, not pushing for more, just needing to be closer.

"Just so you know," he said, his voice dropping into that intimate, serious register that made the air in the room feel thinner. "I don't offer this service to just anyone. The 'Ben Wilder Premium Package' is extremely exclusive. It’s a very limited release. You have to know a guy."

He leaned forward, resting his chin on her knee, looking up at her with big, soulful eyes that knew exactly what they were doing.

"But for you?" He smiled, slow and soft. "I'm fully booked. Indefinitely. You can have the whole schedule."

He moved one hand from her leg to capture hers where it rested on his cheek, interlacing their fingers and bringing her knuckles to his lips for another kiss.

"Now," he murmured against her skin, lingering there like he had all the time in the world.
He didn't make a move to get up. He didn't check the time. He just stayed there, kneeling between her legs on the hotel carpet, looking up at her with a quiet, devastating sincerity that cut through all the jokes.

"I think I’m going to stay right here for a minute," he whispered, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Because looking at you like this? Happy, relaxed, looking at me like that?"

He shook his head slowly, a soft, amazed smile touching his lips.

"It beats any view I've ever had from a stage, Cleo. Hands down. No contest."

Cleo’s smile tugged slow and crooked as she felt his breath warm against her palm, the rasp of his voice vibrating right into her skin.

“Five stars,” she echoed softly, amused and a little undone by how serious he sounded about it. “You say it like you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”

She laughed under her breath at the business card comment, her thumb still tracing the familiar line of his jaw. “Retired Wizard stays,” she said fondly. “But if you laminate it, I’m judging you.”

When he called her taste terrible, she tipped her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, laughter spilling out warmer this time. “Excuse you,” she murmured. “My taste is impeccable. I just don’t require… amenities to be happy.” Her gaze dropped back to him, affectionate and steady. “I require you.”

Her breath hitched just a little as his hands shifted, not pushing, just closer—close enough to remind her he was there, present, choosing her. She reached down, fingers threading through his hair, grounding herself the way he always grounded her.

“And don’t pretend I don’t know a guy,” she added quietly. “I know the guy. Very well.”

When he rested his chin on her knee and looked up at her like that—open, reverent, devastating—her chest tightened. She softened immediately, the jokes slipping away.

“Indefinitely sounds right,” she said, voice low and certain. “I don’t need the schedule. I just need… this.”

She let him stay there, kneeling, unhurried, like time had agreed to pause for them. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles when he kissed her hand again, her touch returning the care without thinking.

“That stage line,” she murmured, eyes shining. “You’re not allowed to say things like that and expect me not to fall apart a little.”

She shifted then, slowly, carefully, sitting up straighter. Her hand slid from his cheek to his shoulder as she rose to her feet, steady despite the haze. She turned her back to him, fingers finding the zipper at the back of her dress, pausing.

“Hey,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder with a small, trusting smile. “Can you unzip me?”

The zipper slid down. The dress followed, whispering to the floor at her feet. She stepped out of it without hurry, bare and unguarded in the quiet, then turned back to him.

Cleo leaned down, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and kissed him gently—slow, tender, full of warmth rather than urgency. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his, her smile soft and unmistakably content.

Then she whispered, just for him, voice calm and sure—

“Come to bed with me.”

Ben watched her rise, the movement fluid and graceful despite the wine, and he made no move to follow her up. He stayed right where he was—kneeling on the plush hotel carpet, hands resting on his thighs—and watched the perspective shift. Suddenly, she was towering over him, a vision in navy blue and messy curls, while he remained anchored at her feet.

When she turned her back to him and asked him to unzip her, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charging with a sudden, electric intimacy.

"Unzip you," he repeated, his voice low, the words rumbling in his chest. "I think I can handle that. It falls under my jurisdiction as unlicensed support staff."

He didn't stand. He didn't even think about standing. The position felt right—devotional, attentive, exactly where he wanted to be.

He reached up, his large hands hovering for a second against the small of her back, feeling the warmth radiating off her skin through the fabric. He traced the line of her spine upward with his thumbs, a ghost of a touch, before his fingers found the small metal tab at the top of the dress.

He pulled it down slowly.

The sound was a sharp, erotic zzzzzt that cut through the silence of the room. He watched the navy fabric part, revealing the pale, smooth curve of her back, inch by inch, vertebra by vertebra. He resisted the urge to press his mouth to her skin right then and there—though it cost him something—and instead let his hands slide down her sides, guiding the fabric as it loosened.

The dress pooled at her feet in a soft, dark cloud.

She stepped out of it, bare and beautiful, and turned to face him.

Ben stopped breathing.

From down here, looking up at her, she looked like a goddess who had decided to grace a mortal with a visit. She leaned down, her hands finding his shoulders to steady herself, and brought her face to his level.

He met her halfway, tilting his head back, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. The kiss was slow, sweet, and tasted faintly of red wine and absolute certainty. It wasn't a hungry kiss; it was a promise.

When she pulled back, her forehead resting against his, and whispered it—Come to bed with me—Ben let out a short, incredulous breath, a laugh trapped in his throat.

He kissed her nose, then her lips one more time, before finally unfolding his frame.

He stood up, rising to his full height until he was the one looking down, the dynamic shifting effortlessly from worship to protection.

"Cleo," he whispered, shaking his head slightly as he looked at her, marveling at the fact that she was real. "You say that like there is literally anywhere else in the universe I would rather be."

He didn't wait for her to walk. He bent down, sweeping one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. He held her high against his chest, holding her like she was the only thing in the room that had any gravity, burying his face in the curve of her neck for a brief, grounding second.

"Request accepted," he murmured into her skin, carrying her the few steps to the bed. "Schedule cleared. Management has been informed."

He lowered her onto the mattress, the sheets cool against her skin, and followed her down immediately. He covered her body with his, taking his weight on his elbows so he could just look at her—hair fanned out on the pillow, eyes bright and trusting.

"I’m yours," he said, staring into her eyes with a crooked, helpless smile that was all truth and no performance. "Clocked in. Overtime approved. Whatever you want."

Cleo smiled up at him when he said it, really smiled — the kind that settled instead of sparkled.

“Anywhere else?” she murmured, voice low and steady. “No. I didn’t think so.”

When he lowered her onto the bed and hovered there, careful with his weight, she didn’t rush him. She let the moment stretch, let him look. One leg stayed long beneath him, relaxed. The other bent naturally at his side, anchoring him close.

Her hands slid into his hair first, grounding, familiar. She kissed him — slow, deliberate — not asking, not hesitating. Her palms traced over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

“Mmm… Ben,” she mumbled softly against his mouth.

Her fingers slipped under his shirt, warm against his skin, and before he could fully help, she tugged — one smooth, decisive pull — catching one arm and the neckline, peeling the fabric away in a single motion.

She didn’t rush the next kiss either.

Just held him there, close and certain, like this was exactly where he belonged.

Cleo stayed there with him for a moment, forehead brushing his, her breath evening out as if she needed the pause to be brave enough for what came next.

Her hands slowed where they rested on his back, thumbs tracing small, absent lines like she was grounding herself through touch. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—not fragile, just honest in a way she didn’t always allow herself to be.

“Hey,” she murmured, tipping her head just enough to look at him properly. “There’s something I need to say before I lose my nerve.”

She swallowed, a small smile tugging at her mouth, more soft than playful.

“I thought I already loved you as much as I could,” she said. “I really did. I remember thinking—this is it, this is the ceiling, this is as deep as it goes.”

Her fingers curled lightly into his shirtless back, anchoring him there.

“But these last couple of months?” she went on, shaking her head a little. “They did something to me. Watching you show up. Watching you stay. The way you’re gentle when no one’s watching, the way you let me be exactly who I am without trying to fix it or frame it or make it prettier.”

Her voice softened even more, warmth settling into every word.

“I didn’t know it could keep growing like this,” she admitted. “I didn’t know I could fall harder after I was already in love.”

She leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth—not asking, just reassuring.

“I’m in it,” she whispered. “More than I ever thought I’d be. More than I planned. And I don’t feel scared about that at all.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her smile small but certain.

“I just feel… sure.”

Ben felt the shirt tear away from his body, the fabric bunching at his elbows before he shrugged it off completely, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

But the physical sensation of skin-on-skin was nothing compared to the absolute sledgehammer of her words.

I didn’t know I could fall harder.

Ben stopped breathing. He froze, hovering over her, his weight braced on his forearms, staring down at her face. The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the sheer gravity of what she just admitted.

He had been prepared to be the caretaker tonight. He had been ready to be "Zen Ben," the guy who gives foot massages and opens wine bottles and tucks her in with a chaste kiss on the forehead because she’s had a long day and a few drinks. He was ready to be noble.

But then she looked at him with those wide, hazy, devastatingly honest eyes and told him she was in it.

"You..." Ben started, his voice cracking, rougher than sandpaper. "You can't just say things like that, Cleo. You can't drop a nuclear bomb of affection while I'm trying to be a gentleman."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He couldn't. The surge of emotion—love, relief, and a fierce, blinding desire—was too much to contain behind a smile.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

This wasn't the slow, sweet kiss from before. This was hungry. It was deep and wrecking. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside to taste the wine and the truth on her breath. He kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul, like he needed to physically consume the words she’d just spoken.

He let his restraint slip—just enough.

He lowered his hips, letting his full weight settle between her legs, pressing the hard ridge of his erection firmly against her thigh. He wanted her to feel it. He wanted there to be zero ambiguity about what she did to him.

"Sure," he gasped, breaking the kiss but staying right there, his lips hovering millimeters from hers. "You feel sure? Good. Because I feel... insane. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

He moved his hands from the mattress to cup her face, his thumbs stroking hard over her cheekbones, holding her gaze with an intensity that burned.

"I tried to be good," he rasped, grinding his hips against her in a slow, deliberate circle that made his own breath hitch. "I was going to tuck you in. I was going to let you sleep."
He kissed her jaw, his mouth hot and wet, moving down to the sensitive cord of her neck where her pulse was hammering.

"But you had to go and tell me you love me more," he growled against her skin, nipping lightly at her throat. "And now I don't think I can be noble, Cleo. I think I need to be inside you. I think I need to show you exactly how hard I’ve fallen."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, searching for any sign of hesitation, checking the haze in her gaze to make sure she was still with him. He needed her to know this wasn't just the wine talking for him either.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice dark and desperate, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Tell me you're too tired. Tell me to clock out. Because if you don't... I am going to ruin you for anyone else. I am going to love you until you can't remember your own name."

Cleo blinked, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. The wine had made the edges of the room soft, but Ben—hovering above her, desperate and raw—was the clearest thing she had ever seen.

His words washed over her like hot water. Ruin you. The threat didn’t scare her; it thrilled her. It settled deep in her belly, coiling tight and warm. He was trying to be good, trying to give her an escape hatch, but the sweetness of that, the sheer protective instinct of it, only made her want him with a ferocity that cut right through the alcohol in her system. She wasn't confused. She wasn't just "tired." She knew exactly what she was asking for.

She reached up, her hands sliding from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair to anchor him there. She could feel the tension vibrating through his frame, the sheer effort it was taking him to hover instead of crush her, and she decided to break that restraint once and for all.

"Let's make our babies," she mumbled against his lips.

The words were hushed, pressed directly into his mouth, but they were perfectly distinct. There was no hesitation, no stumble in her speech—just a heavy, undeniable promise.

Before he could even process the words, before he could gasp or argue, she surged upward. She pressed her lips against his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a hunger that matched his own. She kissed him like she was searching for oxygen, like he was the only air left in the room and she was drowning.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled, dragging his weight down until there was no space left between them. She felt the rough slide of his bare chest against her sensitive skin, his chest hair scratching an itch she hadn't known she had, rasping against her breasts. It was abrasive and raw and real, and she didn’t care. She loved it. She arched into him, a silent demand for him to stop talking, stop hovering, and just be with her.

She poured everything she had into the kiss, drinking him in, tasting the shock and the desire warring on his tongue. She wasn't letting him go; she wasn't letting him overthink this. The wine made her bold, but the love made her certain.

Her hands slid up from his neck, her palms warm and steady as she cupped his face. She held him there, framing him like he was the only thing worth looking at, even with her eyes squeezed shut against the rush of sensation. Her thumbs grazed the rough stubble along his jaw, loving the friction, loving the masculine grit of him that contrasted so perfectly with the desperate tenderness of his mouth on hers.

Then, her fingers pushed higher, diving past his temples and into the thick waves of his hair. She gripped the dark strands, tugging gently to angle his head deeper into the kiss, anchoring him to her. As the texture slid between her fingers—soft, dense, and wild—a fierce, hazy thought bloomed in the back of her mind.

I want this, she thought, her heart hammering against his chest. She wanted a little boy with these same dark, unruly curls. She wanted a little girl with this same thick mane to braid. She wanted his stamp on the world, woven right into the DNA of the family she was begging him to start right now.

Let's make our babies.

The words didn't just land; they detonated.

The last shred of Ben’s "noble boyfriend" act evaporated in a cloud of white-hot heat. He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against her lips, and kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on violence. He wasn't gentle anymore. He devoured her, his tongue sweeping deep into her mouth, tasting the wine and the reckless promise she’d just made.

He felt her legs hook around his waist, pulling him down, and the friction of her soft skin against his bare chest sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He ground his hips against her thigh, unable to help himself, needing the friction, needing to feel the resistance of her body against his.

But it wasn't enough. The clothes were in the way. The denim of his jeans felt like a cage.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air, and scrambled back. He didn't say a word—he couldn't. His breath was coming in short, harsh pants as he stood up by the side of the bed. His hands fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency, ripping the buckle open. He shoved his jeans down, not caring that the button flew off or that he nearly tripped getting them over his heels. He kicked them aside. His boxer briefs followed a second later, discarded in a pile on the floor.

He was hard, painfully so, the cool air of the room hitting his skin only emphasizing the heat radiating off him.

He moved back to the bed instantly, crawling over the mattress like a predator returning to its kill. He positioned himself between her spread legs, looming over her, his eyes dark and dilated as he took in the sight of her—flushed, wild-haired, and waiting.

He reached for the waistband of her panties—a scrap of white lace that looked impossibly innocent against her skin. He hooked his thumbs into the sides and dragged them down. He lifted her hips easily with one hand, sliding the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, and off her ankles, tossing them blindly into the room.

Now there was nothing. No barriers. Just her.

He settled his weight between her thighs, careful not to crush her but needing to be close. He pressed his hips forward, the head of his cock brushing against her slick heat, teasing the entrance but not entering. Not yet.

He wanted to savor this. He wanted to make sure she was ready for everything he was about to give her.

He lowered his head to the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her aroused skin, while his hand moved down between their bodies. He found her wetness instantly. She was soaked, slick with desire, and the feeling nearly sent him over the edge right there.

"So wet," he breathed against her throat, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle.

He used his thumb to circle her clit, dragging through the slickness, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that made her hips buck up against his hand. He kept teasing her, rubbing the swollen bundle of nerves, spreading her wetness over her folds until she was glistening. But he wanted her slicker. He wanted her sliding open for him without a hint of friction.

He pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers up to his mouth. He held her gaze, his eyes dark and intense, as he licked his fingers, coating them thoroughly, wetting them until they glistened.

He brought his hand back down, the cool slide of saliva mixing with her heat as he found her entrance again.

He slipped one slick finger inside her, then a second. They glided in effortlessly, deep and smooth. He scissored them slowly, stretching her, preparing her. He felt her inner muscles clamp down around his fingers, pulsing a welcome, and he groaned, resting his forehead against hers as he pumped his fingers in and out, mimicking the thrusts he was desperate to give her.

He kept the rhythm steady, his thumb continuing its relentless work on her clit, while he stared into her eyes, watching her pupils blow wide, watching her breath hitch and catch. He wasn't going to stop until she was begging. Until she was so open and ready that taking her would be the only option left.

Cleo’s breath hitched, a ragged sound escaping her throat as she arched against the relentless rhythm of his hand. The sensation was electric—the slick, sliding pressure, the way he was stretching her—but it wasn't what she was aching for. The emptiness inside her felt vast, and his fingers, while skilled, were just a placeholder for the weight and warmth she truly needed. She didn't want to be prepared; she wanted to be possessed.

She reached up, her hands trembling slightly as she found his face. She slid her palms over his warm cheeks, her fingers threading into the hair at his temples to hold him still. She pulled him down gently, guiding him until his focus was entirely on her, until his forehead rested against hers.

She brushed her lips against his, a feather-light caress that was a stark, tender contrast to the heavy heat pulsing between her legs.

"Ben, please," she whispered against his mouth, her voice soft and thick with need. "Don't... don't tease me anymore. I don't want to wait." She kissed the corner of his mouth, her eyes fluttering open to plead with him directly. "Just take me. Please, just make love to me."

She felt his hand pause, the rhythm stopping at her plea, and the sudden stillness made the empty ache inside her throb even harder. She didn't want the teasing; she wanted the completion. She wanted the promise she had made to become a reality.

She kept her hands on his face, her thumbs tracing the tense line of his cheekbones, feeling the heat radiating off him. She looked up into his eyes, trying to convey that this wasn't just the wine, and it wasn't just a whim. It was a deep, resonant need.

"I'm yours," she breathed, the words catching in her throat. She shifted her hips, tilting her pelvis up to graze against him, trying to guide him past the threshold he was hovering over. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him down, using her whole body to beg him to bridge that final gap.

"Right now, Ben," she whispered, her gaze unwavering. "Be with me. Completely."

Ben stopped.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, the loss of contact making a muscle in his jaw jump, and rested his forehead against hers. He looked deep into her eyes, seeing the desperation there, the raw need that mirrored his own.

"I’m not teasing you, baby," he whispered, his voice rough, breathless. He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, tender despite the fire in his blood. "You know how I do vocal warm-ups before a show? All those scales? The humming?"

He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and reassuring.

"It’s not to stall," he murmured against her lips. "It’s so I don't wreck the instrument when I finally hit the high notes. I just want to make sure you’re ready to sing for me."

But her plea—right now, be with me—cracked the last of his discipline. He couldn't hold back anymore. The preparation was done; the show was starting.

He shifted his hips, his hand moving down to guide himself. He lined the broad head of his cock up with her entrance, feeling the slick, welcoming heat he’d coaxed from her.

"Okay," he breathed, his eyes locking onto hers. "No more waiting."

He pushed forward.

He entered her slowly, agonizingly so. He let the head slide past the ring of muscle, stretching her, filling her inch by glorious inch. The sensation was blinding—hot, tight, and wet—a velvet vice that wrapped around him and felt like coming home.

He watched her face as he claimed her, watched her eyes widen and her lips part. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to snap his hips, forcing himself to take this slow. He slid deep, burying himself to the hilt until his hips met hers with a heavy, final thud.

He bottomed out and stopped.

"God," he groaned, the sound torn from his chest. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, squeezing his eyes shut as the pleasure washed over him in a crushing wave. She felt incredible. She felt perfect.

He held there for a long moment, letting her adjust to the size of him, letting the reality of them being connected like this sink in. He wrapped his arm under her, pulling her body flush against his, skin to skin, heart to heart.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

He pulled back almost all the way out, then dragged himself back in—a long, heavy stroke that hit every nerve ending. He wasn't pounding into her; he was savoring her. He established a slow, rolling rhythm, grinding against her clit with his pelvis on the downstroke, listening to the way her breath hitched in time with his thrusts.

He turned his head, finding her mouth, and kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, relentless slide of his body inside hers.

Cleo let out a long, shaky moan as he finally filled her. His words about the warm-up floated through her mind, sweet and funny, but they were instantly drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming physical reality of him stretching her. The sensation of him sliding deep, burying himself until there was no space left between them, was a relief so profound it made her toes curl.

As he began that slow, rolling rhythm, a high, needy whimper escaped her throat. It felt heavy and consuming, a friction that set her blood on fire. Her hands wandered over the expanse of his back, her palms sliding against his warm, damp skin. She traced the shifting muscles of his shoulder blades, feeling the power in his body as he moved over her and in her.

She needed more. She needed him closer, deeper. She lifted her hips, arching off the mattress to meet his thrusts, trying to take every inch he was offering.

Suddenly, he angled his hips just right, grinding against a deep, sensitive spot inside her that sent a jolt of pure electricity through her nervous system. She cried out, the sound broken and raw, her fingernails digging slightly into his shoulders.

"Oh!" she gasped, the pleasure spiking sharp and bright. She hooked her arms tighter around his neck, dragging his heavy frame down until he was crushing her into the mattress, until she was completely enveloped by his heat. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, her breath hot against his skin.

"Benjamin," she breathed, the full name falling from her lips like a prayer, heavy with affection and surrender. "Yes... Benjamin."

The rhythm he set was slow and deep, a rolling tide that seemed to reach the very center of her being, and with every heavy stroke, the haze in Cleo’s mind crystallized into a single, radiant image.

It wasn't just pleasure; it was purpose. Every time he buried himself inside her, she felt a soaring sense of completion that went beyond the physical. This is it, she thought, her mind whirling with visions of dark, unruly curls and little hands grabbing at her fingers. She could see a little boy with Ben’s soulful eyes, a little girl with his gentle smile. She wanted that future so badly it ached, a sweet, hollow longing in her chest that only he could fill.

She tossed her head back, a broken, high-pitched moan tearing from her throat as he hit that spot again, harder this time. She didn't just want to feel him; she wanted to keep a piece of him.

"Yes..." she hissed, her hands raking down the damp skin of his back, her nails dragging lightly over his shoulder blades to urge him on.

She lifted her hips to meet him, slamming against him, trying to fuse their bodies together permanently. Her hands flew up to tangle violently in his thick hair, gripping the strands she adored, the strands she imagined brushing out of a toddler's eyes one day.

"Deeper," she begged, her voice ragged and breathless. She bit her lip, overwhelmed by the friction and the fierce, biological need crashing through her. "I want all of you. Make it real."

Her voice cracked on the name, a desperate, breathless prayer that shattered whatever fragile control Ben had left.

Make it real.

The command hit him like a physical blow, bypassing his brain and wiring directly into the primal, possessive instinct that had been roaring in his blood since she first mentioned names in the trailer. The time for charming metaphors and slow, teasing warm-ups was over. She wasn’t asking for the boyfriend who opened wine bottles; she was asking for the man who wanted to bind her to him permanently.

He didn't answer her. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his pulse deafening in his ears.
He groaned, a rough, guttural sound torn from the deepest part of his chest, and tightened his grip on her waist until his fingers dug into her soft skin.

He pulled back—slowly, agonizingly—dragging himself almost all the way out until just the swollen head remained hooked inside her entrance. He felt her hips buck, chasing him, unwilling to let him go, and the desperation in her movement snapped the last tether of his restraint.

He snapped his hips forward.

He drove into her hard, burying himself to the hilt in a single, punishing thrust that pushed her body up the mattress. The impact knocked the breath out of her in a sharp gasp, and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed erotic and loud in the quiet room.

He didn't retreat this time. He held himself there, grinding deep against that swollen, sensitive spot she’d cried out over, letting her feel the full weight and length of him stretching her, filling her, claiming the space.

Then he pulled back and did it again.

And again.

The rhythm shifted instantly from a slow roll to a hard, relentless pounding. It was a drumbeat, heavy and fast. He released her waist and grabbed her thighs, his large hands sliding down to hook behind her knees. He hauled her legs wider, pressing them back toward her shoulders, opening her up completely to his view.

This angle changed everything. It let him go deeper than before, hitting the very back of her, touching parts of her he felt like he was discovering for the first time.

He watched her face as he fucked her—watched the way her eyes rolled back, the way her lips parted in a silent scream, the way her head thrashed against the white pillowcase. He was sweating now, a fine sheen coating his back, his muscles straining as he maintained the pace. Every thrust was a declaration. Every time he slammed into her, he was answering her plea.

Real. Real. Real.

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her sweat, her perfume, and her arousal. He bit down lightly on the sensitive slope of her shoulder—not to hurt, but to stifle his own roar of pleasure, to mark her. His hand slid down from her knee to grip her hip bone, his thumb digging in to anchor her against the force of his thrusts, keeping her exactly where he needed her.

He wasn't holding back a single ounce of energy. He was pouring everything he had into her—the adrenaline of the tour, the quiet of the hotel room, the terrifying fierce love that had been building in his chest for months. He pounded into her with a terrifying, beautiful intensity, determined to give her exactly what she asked for, determined to leave a part of himself inside her that would never, ever leave.

Cleo gasped, her head thrashing against the pillow as the rhythm shifted from a slide to a slam. The sheer force of him pushed her up the mattress, jarring the breath from her lungs, but she didn't fight it. She welcomed the violence of it, the absolute possessiveness in the way he held her legs wide and drove into her. It felt like he was trying to merge their bodies into one, and she loved every second of the crushing weight.

She craned her neck, seeking his mouth, and when she found it, she kissed him with a wild, messy heat, tasting the salt on his skin. She sucked on his tongue, meeting his energy, before she pulled back just an inch. Her eyes half-lidded and dark with desire, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down—hard enough to be felt, a seductive, siren-like challenge amidst the storm.

When he groaned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her shoulder, a shiver ripped through her that had nothing to do with the cold air. She didn't flinch away. Her hand slid up the back of his sweat-dampened neck, her fingers weaving into the thick hair at the base of his skull. She gripped tight, anchoring him there, holding his heavy head against her pulsing skin as if to say, I’ve got you.

She wasn't even trying to reach a climax. The pressure was building, hot and coiled, but she ignored it, letting it simmer in the background. She didn't want this to end, and she wasn't chasing her own release. She wanted this—the connection, the feeling of him filling the empty spaces inside her. Her goal was singular and fierce. She wanted to keep him. She wanted his DNA woven into hers; she wanted the consequence of this night to last a lifetime.

As he pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, she reached up and framed his face with both hands. Her thumbs stroked over his flushed cheekbones, wiping away a bead of sweat. She looked up at him, her expression open and wrecked, a portrait of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She stared straight into his dark, dilated eyes, seeing the edge he was teetering on. She wanted him to fall. She wanted him to ruin her.

"Let go, Ben," she whispered, her voice a smoky, broken rasp. She ran her thumb over his lip, her gaze dropping to his mouth and then back up to his eyes with searing intent. "Give it all to me. Be a good boy..."

She arched her hips, inviting him deeper one last time.

"...and finish inside me."

The bite to his lip was a spark in a powder keg, but the words—be a good boy—were the match that blew the whole thing sky-high.

Ben’s vision actually blurred at the edges. The praise, whispered in that smoky, wrecked rasp, hit him right in the center of his chest, stripping away the last of his civilized layers. It wasn’t just hot; it was devastating. It tapped directly into the part of him that just wanted to serve her, to please her, to give her everything he had until he was empty.

"Cleo," he choked out, the name tearing from his throat as a ragged, desperate groan.
He didn't just let go; he unraveled.

He abandoned the rhythm he’d been maintaining. He stopped trying to pace himself, stopped trying to make it last. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with bruising force, and he drove into her with a frantic, chaotic need. He fucked her hard, fast, and deep, chasing the friction, chasing the edge that was suddenly rushing up to meet him.
He watched her face—the way she looked at him, open and demanding—and he felt his control shatter completely.

Finish inside me.

"Yes," he hissed, his voice unrecognizable. "Yes, baby."

He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding his pelvis against hers to get as deep as physically possible.

Then he broke.

He tensed, his entire body going rigid as the orgasm hit him like a freight train. He threw his head back, a guttural roar of pleasure ripping from his throat, loud and raw in the quiet room. He poured himself into her, pulsing hard, flooding her with everything she’d asked for, everything he’d been holding back.

He held her tight, his arms shaking with the force of his release, pressing her into the mattress as he spent himself completely. It went on and on, wave after wave of white-hot intensity that left him feeling hollowed out and refilled all at once.

He stayed there for a long time, buried deep inside her, his chest heaving against hers, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He couldn't move. He didn't want to. He felt heavy, drained, and completely, irrevocably hers.

Slowly, the room started to come back into focus—the dim light, the hum of the heater, the sound of their ragged breathing mingling in the air.

Ben dropped his head to her shoulder, his face buried in her hair, too weak to lift it. He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice a wrecked, breathless rumble against her neck.
He pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he could physically hold the moment in place.

"I hope that was it," he whispered, sounding awed and absolutely sure. "I hope we just made a Sage or a Briar. I’m ready to meet them."

Cleo lay there, her chest rising and falling in time with his, the heavy, comforting weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. She felt completely unraveled, her limbs heavy and loose, but her heart was full to bursting.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice trembling and thick with emotion. She pressed her cheek against the top of his head, her arms tightening around his broad shoulders. "Always. So much."

But when he murmured those names—Sage or Briar—and spoke with such awe about meeting them, something inside her fractured.

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked at the corners of her eyes and spilled over, tracking silently into her hairline. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by a wave of longing so sharp it almost hurt.

For the longest time, she hadn't let herself touch this dream. She hadn't let herself look at Ben—at the chaotic, loud, public whirlwind of his life—and picture a nursery. The touring, the screaming fans, the constant movement… none of it was conducive to the quiet, private life she craved. She was terrified of the world knowing their business. She remembered how suffocating it felt the last time things got out of hand, the intrusion, the judgment. She wasn't sure she had the armor for that kind of war again.

But lying here beneath him, feeling the way he held her like she was the only thing that tethered him to the earth, the fear began to recede, replaced by a fragile, blooming hope.

He wasn't just the rockstar tonight. He was Benjamin. He was the man who wanted to be noble, who wanted to protect her, who wanted to build something real. If he could keep being this man—if he could keep shielding her and prioritizing us over them—then maybe, just maybe, they could have this.
She sniffled, shifting slightly to kiss his sweat-dampened temple, her fingers stroking soothingly through his hair.

"I hope so too," she choked out, her voice barely audible, acknowledging the terrifying, wonderful possibility for the first time. "I really hope so."

The room settled into a heavy, peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing slowly syncing back up. Ben felt heavy on her, a dead weight of exhausted muscle and bone, but Cleo didn't want him to move. She wanted to feel every ounce of him, wanted to keep him anchored right here in this safe, private harbor they’d created.

She shifted her hand, sliding it from the nape of his neck to his face. She curled her fingers slightly, using the smooth side of her index finger to trace the strong, sharp line of his jaw. The dark stubble rasped against her skin—a rough, masculine texture that contrasted perfectly with the tenderness of the moment. It was grounding, that grit. It reminded her that he was real, that he was here, and not just a dream she was having.

"I've got you," she whispered into the quiet, her voice a soft, lulling hum.
She continued the motion, gliding her finger back and forth along his jawline, a rhythmic, soothing caress designed to calm the adrenaline she knew was still fading from his blood. She pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, breathing in the scent of him.

"Just breathe, baby," she murmured, her touch steady and loving. "I'm right here. We're right here."

Ben felt the wetness against his temple before he registered the sound of her sniffle.
He was floating—drifting in that heavy, golden haze that comes after completely emptying yourself—but the sensation of her tears, and the quiet, trembling way she said I hope so too, pulled him right back to the surface.

He didn't move his body at first. He let her hand continue that soothing, rhythmic stroke along his jaw, leaning into her touch because he needed it just as much as she did. It was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the mattress.

But he needed to see her.

"Hey," he rasped, the word vibrating against her collarbone.

He gathered his strength—which was currently sitting at about zero percent—and pushed himself up onto his forearms. The movement was slow, his muscles protesting the effort, but he needed to take his weight off her chest. He hovered there, framing her face, and looked down.

She was wrecked. Beautiful, flushed, and crying silent, hot tears that were tracking into her hair.

Ben felt his heart squeeze tight in his chest. He knew those tears. He knew they weren't just happiness; they were relief. They were the release of all the anxiety she carried about his world, about them, about whether this fragile thing they were building could actually survive the noise.

"Baby," he murmured, his face softening with a tenderness that hurt.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips softly to the wet track on her cheek, tasting the salt. He kissed her eyelid, then the corner of her eye, drinking up the evidence of her fear and her hope.

"We’re right here," he echoed her words, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with her. "And we're not going anywhere. I promise you."

He shifted one hand to brush a damp strand of hair off her forehead, his thumb lingering on her temple.

"If we just made a Sage or a Briar?" he whispered, a crooked, exhausted smile touching his lips. "Then they're going to be lucky. Because they get you."

He kissed her mouth—soft, lingering, sealing the promise—before finally groaning and rolling off her. He didn't go far. He collapsed onto his side and immediately scooped her up, pulling her back against his chest so they were spooning, fitting her body into the curve of his like a puzzle piece. He draped his heavy arm over her waist, his hand resting flat and possessive over her stomach.

He buried his face in the back of her neck, inhaling deeply, feeling her heart beat against his forearm.

"I am officially a corpse," he mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "I can't move. If there is a fire, you have to save yourself. Tell the world I died happy."

He squeezed her middle gently, his hand splaying wide over her belly, warm and protective.

"But seriously," he whispered, drifting now, safe in the harbor she'd built for him. "Thank you. For being brave with me."

Cleo’s breath caught when he said hey, the sound of it vibrating against her collarbone like he was anchoring himself there. Her fingers never stopped moving along his jaw, slow and repetitive, like she was afraid that if she did, everything would spill at once.

“I know,” she whispered back, voice thin and trembling. “I’m here. I just—” She swallowed. “I’m here.”

When he lifted himself and looked at her, really looked, the tears broke harder. She didn’t try to hide them. Her eyes shone, lashes clumped, mouth pulling tight as she tried to keep herself steady and failed anyway.

“Baby,” she echoed softly when he said it, the word undoing her completely. Her hand slid up to his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye like she needed to reassure herself he was solid, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

She let him kiss the tears from her face, eyes closing as he did, her breath stuttering. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not because she felt wrong for crying, but because the intensity of it surprised even her. “I’m not sad. I’m just… relieved. And scared. And really, really full.”

When he promised they weren’t going anywhere, her forehead tipped forward until it rested briefly against his. “I want to believe that,” she said quietly. “I do. Sometimes it just feels too good to be real.”

At the mention of the names, a broken little laugh slipped out through her tears. “Sage or Briar,” she murmured. “Our musician, surfer or a painter, ” Her hand drifted down to his wrist, holding him there. “Like us.”

She kissed him back when he kissed her, slow and lingering, as if she were memorizing the shape of it.

And then he pulled her back against him.

The moment his arm settled over her waist and his hand rested warm and sure against her stomach, the dam finally gave. Her shoulders shook, breath hitching as the tears came harder—not panicked, not sharp, just deep and overwhelming. She pressed her face into his forearm, letting herself cry without restraint now that she was held.

“I didn’t know I was holding this much,” she whispered between uneven breaths. “I didn’t know where to put it.”

His joke drew a soft, tearful laugh out of her. “I’d come back for you,” she said quietly. “Even if there was a fire. I’d come back.”

She reached back, lacing her fingers through his where it rested on her middle, holding his hand there like it was meant to be. Her crying didn’t stop right away—it softened, turned into quiet, shuddering breaths as she let herself feel everything at once.

When he thanked her, her voice came out raw but sincere. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For seeing me like this and not pulling away.”

She shifted closer, fitting herself more fully into the curve of him, still crying softly—not from fear now, but from the release of finally letting herself believe she was safe enough to fall apart.

Ben felt the tremors running through her body, the way her breath hitched and stuttered against his arm. He didn't try to hush her. He didn't try to fix it. He just lay there, solid and unmoving, letting his body absorb the shockwaves of her release.

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his lips finding the soft, damp skin just below her ear. He kissed her there—slow, reverent, breathing in the scent of her skin and the lingering trace of the sex they’d just shared.

"Hey," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "Don't thank me for that. Never thank me for that."

He shifted his arm, his hand spreading wider over her stomach, his thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle over her navel.

"You think I want the polished version?" he whispered, his mouth moving to press a kiss to the prominent bone of her shoulder blade. "You think I want the red carpet Cleo who smiles for the cameras and pretends everything is fine?"

He shook his head against her hair, tightening his hold on her waist.

"I don't. I want this. I want the messy parts. I want the snot and the tears and the shaking."
He paused, resting his cheek against her shoulder, his eyes closed but his heart wide open.

"Seeing you like this... trusting me enough to fall apart?" he said softly, the truth of it making his voice thick. "That’s the biggest compliment you could ever give me. It’s better than the applause. It’s real. And I am so in love with the real version of you it’s actually kind of embarrassing."

He kissed her shoulder again, feeling her body slowly start to soften into his, the jagged edges of her crying beginning to smooth out.

"And as for the 'pulling away' part," he added, a hint of that familiar, teasing warmth creeping back into his tone, though it was quieter now, gentler.

He squeezed her middle, possessive and sure.

"Bad news, babe. You’re stuck with me. We just crossed the Rubicon. We just—hopefully—combined genetic material."

He nudged his nose against her neck, smiling against her skin.

"I’m like a barnacle now. I’m like a burr on a sweater. You couldn’t shake me if you tried. I’m going to be annoying you with bad jokes and foot massages for the next fifty years, so you might as well get used to the weight."

Cleo let out a shaky breath when he said hey, the word settling her more than anything else had. She nodded slightly against his arm, as if agreeing with him without trusting her voice yet.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I won’t. But I’m still grateful you’re… you.”

When his hand spread over her stomach, slow and grounding, she reached back and threaded her fingers through his, holding on like it anchored her to the bed, to him, to the moment. Her breathing began to even out, though her chest still felt tender and wide open.

“I know,” she murmured when he talked about the polished version of her, her voice softer now, steadier. “I get so tired of pretending I’m fine all the time. It’s exhausting being watched.” She swallowed, squeezing his hand gently. “This version of me doesn’t get much air.”

At his words about wanting the messy parts, her eyes burned again—but this time the tears came slower, warmer. She turned her head just enough to press her cheek against his forearm.

“I don’t fall apart in front of people,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t even realize how much I was holding back until you didn’t flinch.”

When he told her he loved the real version of her, she laughed softly through the last of her tears, the sound shaky but genuine.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head back slightly toward him, “I’m very relieved you’re into this one. Because she’s the only one who actually knows how to breathe.”

At his teasing, she huffed a quiet laugh, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand before settling again. She tightened her grip on his fingers, then turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, eyes still damp but glowing.

“You joke,” she said softly, “but I can’t wait.” She paused, choosing her words carefully, honestly. “I can’t wait for the day I get to watch you hold a tiny human and realize you’ve already been practicing your whole life. The patience. The care. The way you show up.”

Her voice warmed as she went on, steadier now. “I can see it so clearly—our mornings, our messes, our life. You making terrible jokes and pretending you’re not emotional about it.”

She squeezed his hand again, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“That future?” she murmured. “It feels real to me. And it feels… safe.”

She settled back into him, letting her body relax fully now, her tears finally spent.

“And for the record,” she added quietly, a smile in her voice, “I don’t mind barnacles. Especially the ones who stay.”

Ben let out a soft, vibrating chuckle against her neck when she mentioned his "terrible jokes," the sound rumbling through his chest and into her back.

"Objection," he murmured, his voice thick with sleepiness and a smile he couldn't hide. "My jokes are top tier. They are sophisticated. Our child is going to be the funniest kid in kindergarten. They’re going to be doing tight five-minute sets at show-and-tell."

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her even more flush against him, needing to eliminate every millimeter of space between them. Hearing her say she could see it—the mornings, the messes, the life—made his heart hammer a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. It was terrifying, sure, but mostly it felt like looking at a map and finally recognizing the destination.

"But regarding the 'tiny human' skills," he whispered, his tone shifting, losing the joke and finding the raw, honest center of it. "You have a lot of faith in me. My experience is mostly limited to keeping Jax alive since we were kids and not dropping expensive guitars."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, lingering there.

"But if you think I can do it... if you think I'm ready to show up for a little person like that?" He swallowed hard, the emotion clogging his throat again. "Then I believe you. Because you’re usually right about everything. Except my jokes."

He moved his hand on her stomach, splaying his fingers wide as if he could already protect whatever might be happening in there.

"Safe," he repeated, testing the word. "I like safe. Safe is good. I think I've spent my whole life trying to be loud, or impressive, or cool. But safe? For you?"

He rested his chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes.

"That’s the best thing I could ever be."

He drifted there for a second, surrounded by the scent of her and the quiet of the room, feeling the luckiest he’d ever felt in his life.

"And I'm glad you're okay with the barnacle situation," he mumbled into her hair, his voice fading as the adrenaline crash finally took hold. "Because I meant it. I am attached. I am structural now."

He squeezed her one last time, a silent promise.

"Sleep now, Cleo," he whispered, drifting now, safe in the harbor she'd built for him. "We've got a big future to rest up for. Plus, we have a very serious appointment with some silica mud in the morning, and I need you rested for the robe wars."

Cleo smiled when she felt his laugh against her neck, the sound warm and grounding.

“Objection noted,” she murmured, voice soft and fond. “But I stand by my assessment. Your jokes are… ambitious. Kindergarten audiences are very discerning.”

She let him pull her closer, welcomed it, her back settling fully into his chest like that space had always been shaped for her. She reached back for his hand again, lacing their fingers together and holding on as his tone shifted, as the joke fell away.

“You underestimate yourself,” she said quietly when he talked about faith, about readiness. “You’ve been showing up for people your whole life. You just never called it that.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, slow and reassuring. “You’re gentle when it counts. You pay attention. That’s most of it.”

When his hand spread over her stomach, her breath caught—not sharp, just full. She covered his hand with hers, keeping it there.

“I can see it,” she went on, voice low and certain. “You half-asleep, pacing the floor. Talking nonsense to calm someone who doesn’t even have words yet. Teaching them music before they know what music is.” A small smile curved her mouth. “Our life. Loud sometimes. Messy sometimes. But ours.”

At the word safe, she nodded once, pressing her cheek lightly against his forearm.

“You already are,” she said. “You don’t have to prove anything else to me.”

She felt him settle, felt the weight of him ease as sleep began to claim him, and it softened something deep in her chest. When he joked again, fading, she let out a quiet, affectionate breath.

“Structural barnacle,” she whispered, amused and tender. “I like the sound of that.”

At his last words, her eyes closed. She tightened her fingers around his hand one more time, anchoring herself in the promise of it.

“Okay,” she murmured, calm and full and certain. “Sleep.”

She stayed awake just a moment longer, listening to his breathing even out, letting herself imagine that future he mentioned—not loud, not flashy, just steady and shared—before finally letting herself rest too.

Ben listened as her breathing shifted, lengthening into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

He didn't move for a long time. He just lay there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, feeling the way his own heartbeat seemed to be syncing up with hers. The room was starting to cool down—that sharp, crisp Icelandic chill seeping in through the invisible cracks—and he felt a protective instinct flare up that had nothing to do with saving guitars.

He shifted carefully, inches at a time, trying not to disturb the structural integrity of the spoon. He reached down, grabbing the thick, heavy duvet they had kicked off in the heat of the moment. With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, he pulled it up, draping the weight of it over her legs, her waist, her shoulders. He tucked the edge of it under her chin, cocooning her completely, making sure not a single draft could touch her.

He settled back down, his arm heavy over the blankets now, his hand finding the curve of her hip through the down filling.

"Safe," he whispered into the dark, a final seal on the night.

Then, the exhaustion pulled him under, and Ben Wilder slept harder than he had in a decade.



The first thing Ben registered was the light.

It wasn't the harsh, accusatory sun of Los Angeles. It was a soft, diffuse, steely grey light bleeding through the edges of the blackout curtains, suggesting that the world outside was awake, even if he wasn't entirely sure he was.

The second thing he registered was that his arm was completely asleep.

He was pinned. Cleo was sprawled halfway across him, her head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over his thighs, effectively trapping him in the most comfortable prison imaginable. Her hair was a chaotic halo of curls tickling his chin, and she was breathing warm, soft puffs of air against his collarbone.

Ben blinked at the ceiling, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face as the memories of the night before filtered back in.

The wine. The boots. The desperate, wrecked way she’d whispered his name. The promise.
Sage or Briar.

In the cold light of morning, usually, the panic would set in. The "what did I do?" anxiety. But Ben lay there, pinned by the girl he loved, and checked his internal weather report.

Clear skies.

He felt... grounded. He felt like he’d finally arrived at the destination he’d been driving toward without a map.

He carefully extracted his numb arm from beneath her, shaking the blood back into it with a wince, then checked his watch on the nightstand.

9:08 AM.

"Respectable," he whispered to himself. "We’re practically functional adults."

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could face her. She was out cold, deep in the kind of sleep that usually required medication or a three-day hiking trip to achieve. He brushed a stray curl off her cheek, his fingers lingering on her soft skin.

"Psst," he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. "Hey. Future mother of my children. Wake up."

He kissed the tip of her nose, then moved to her ear.

"We have an appointment," he murmured, infusing his voice with a mock-serious urgency. "The silica gods are waiting. And I look terrible without my morning mud. You don't want to see me like this."

He nudged her gently with his knee.

"Come on, sleepyhead. Robe wars start in T-minus ten minutes. I've already been practicing my wizard poses."

Cleo didn’t wake right away.

At first there was only a soft shift—her brow smoothing, her breath deepening—like she was surfacing slowly from somewhere warm and distant. She made a small, content sound against his chest, instinctively burrowing closer when he moved, her arm tightening around his middle as if to say don’t you dare.

“Mmm,” she murmured, barely audible, words tangled in sleep. “Too early.”

When he kissed her forehead and nose, she scrunched her face faintly, lashes fluttering but not quite opening yet. His voice—low, familiar, teasing—cut through the fog a little more.

“Silica gods?” she mumbled into his skin, voice thick and slow. “I thought they were… optional.”

She shifted, one leg hooking more firmly over his thighs, effectively re-trapping him, her cheek pressing into his chest like it belonged there. A sleepy smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.

“Wizard poses,” she added, half-laughing, half-yawning. “That feels… deeply threatening.”

Her eyes finally cracked open just a sliver, unfocused and heavy-lidded. She looked up at him like she had to re-learn the shape of his face, then smiled fully—soft, unguarded, still wrapped in sleep.

“Hi,” she whispered, like she hadn’t seen him in days instead of hours.

She yawned, long and slow, then let her eyes fall shut again, forehead resting against his chest. Her hand slid lazily up his side, fingers curling softly into the skin of his back.

“Five more minutes,” she murmured. “Future mother of your children needs… buffering time.”

Then, quieter—almost instinctive, said without thinking—
“Don’t move. I’m very comfortable right here.”

Cleo stayed curled against him, eyes closed again, but she was awake now in that half-soft, half-dreaming way where everything felt distant and safe.

She shifted slightly, her cheek sliding over his chest until she found the steady rhythm of his heartbeat again. Her fingers traced a slow, absent line along his side, not teasing—just familiar.

“Okay,” she murmured after a beat, voice still heavy with sleep. “Maybe… three minutes. Five was optimistic.”

She took a slow breath, then another, like she was cataloging the morning—the light, the quiet, the fact that she was here and not rushing anywhere. Her leg loosened a little but didn’t move away, still draped over him like an anchor.

“I forgot how nice it is when the world doesn’t ask anything of you right away,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “No noise. No expectations. Just… this.”

Her eyes opened again, fully this time, and she tipped her head back just enough to look at him. The smile she gave him was gentle and unguarded, the kind that only showed up when she felt completely at ease.

“You look very serious for a man about to be covered in mud,” she added quietly. “Very committed to the ritual.”

She yawned again, smaller this time, then pressed a light kiss to his chest—unhurried, affectionate.

“Alright,” she sighed, finally relenting. “You win. But if you steal my robe, I’m filing a formal complaint with the silica gods.”

She didn’t move yet, though. She lingered for one more heartbeat, letting herself feel how real this morning was before she shifted, slow and reluctant, ready to meet the day with him.

Ben felt her cheek slide against his chest, settling over his heart, and he knew he was in dangerous territory. If he didn't get them out of this bed in the next five minutes, they weren't making it to the lagoon. They were going to order room service, build a pillow fort, and stay horizontal until checkout.

Which, honestly, sounded perfect. But he had a plan. And he wanted to see her in the steam.

"Hi," he whispered back, the word catching slightly in his throat at the sight of her sleepy, unguarded smile.

He let his hand drift up and down her back, tracing the curve of her spine as she bargained for time.

"Buffering time granted," he murmured into her hair. "But I should warn you, my connection speed is very high. I'm already fully loaded and ready to annoy you."

When she talked about the silence and the lack of expectations, Ben's hand stilled for a second. He pressed his chin to the top of her head, soaking in the weight of her words. She was right. This—the quiet, the privacy, the us-ness of it—was rare. And he intended to fight for it.

"I like 'just this' too," he said softly, his voice losing the teasing edge for a moment. "It's my favorite setting. We should default to this setting more often."

He watched her eyes open fully, that soft smile knocking the wind out of him all over again.
"I take the mud very seriously, Cleo," he said, keeping his expression deadpan despite the affection radiating off him. "It's a spiritual experience. It’s exfoliating. It’s the secret to my youthful glow. You think this face maintains itself? It takes dedication. It takes minerals."
He kissed her forehead one last time, inhaling the scent of her, before he squeezed her tight and finally accepted her surrender.

"Formal complaints noted," he said, a wicked glint entering his eyes as he grinned. "But in the event of a robe shortage, survival of the fittest applies. I have longer reach. You have been warned."

He moved then—not pulling away abruptly, but shifting so he could slide his numb arm out from under her neck and sit up. He kept one hand on her waist for a beat longer, grounding himself, before letting go.

"Okay," he said, stretching his arms over his head with a groan that cracked his back in three places. "Three minutes are up. Up and at 'em, Tiger. The lagoon awaits."

He swung his legs out of bed, grabbing his boxers from the floor where he'd abandoned them in a hurry the night before. He stood up, unashamedly naked for a moment in the grey morning light, the cool air hitting his skin, and turned to look back at her nestled in the sheets.

"Unless," he added, pausing with his hands on his hips, a smirk playing on his lips. "You need help with the buffering process? I offer a very specific technical support service. It involves coffee and possibly carrying you to the bathroom."

Cleo didn’t answer his hi out loud. She smiled instead, cheek still tucked over his heart, like the sound would be redundant when the feeling was already there.

When he warned her about buffering time, she made a soft, amused sound, her fingers idly tracing the line of his side.
“Mm,” she murmured. “You say that like I’m supposed to be impressed. Fully loaded before coffee feels… optimistic.”

At his agreement about just this, she stilled, really listening. Her cheek pressed a little more firmly into his chest, anchoring herself there for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “This is the part that feels rare. When nothing’s asking anything of us yet.” Her thumb brushed a small, absent circle near his ribs. “We should absolutely default to this whenever we can.”

His deadpan seriousness about the mud finally pulled a laugh out of her, low and sleepy.
“Minerals,” she repeated, fond. “Of course. I should’ve known there was a whole belief system behind the glow.” She tipped her head back just enough to look at him. “Very devoted. Very enlightened.”

At the robe warning, she scoffed softly.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “You’re taller and you know it.” A beat, then a smile. “But I’ll remember this when I steal yours later.”

When he slid out from under her and announced the end of buffering time, she sighed dramatically and stretched into the sheets like she might protest on principle.
“Three minutes was generous,” she muttered. “But fine. I hear the call of the lagoon.”

She watched him stand in the grey morning light, eyes still heavy-lidded but appreciative. When he offered technical support, she pushed herself upright, the sheets pooling around her waist, and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Well,” she said slowly, considering. “Here’s the thing. I am awake. I am cooperative.” She tilted her head. “But I am not vertical yet.”

She held out her arms toward him, open and unmistakable, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“So if you’re offering the carrying option,” she added gently, “I think that’s the most efficient solution.”

Once he scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom, she relaxed into him easily, one arm looped around his neck.
“See?” she murmured. “Problem-solving.”

He set her down by the sink, and she immediately reached for a makeup remover pad, leaning over the counter as she wiped away the remnants of the night before. Her movements were unhurried, comfortable—like this was a routine she didn’t have to rush through.

“Okay,” she said softly once her face was clean, splashing it with cool water. She brushed her teeth next, glancing at him in the mirror with a small, content smile around the toothbrush. “Now I’m officially human.”

She rinsed, dried her face, then stepped back into the bedroom long enough to pull on her bathing suit, slipping it on with practiced ease before returning to the bathroom. She shrugged into a white, fluffy robe, tying it loosely at the waist.

“There,” she said, smoothing the sleeves, finally awake now. She looked at him, eyes warm.
“Lagoon-ready.”

Ben leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, ankles crossed, watching the transformation with a kind of fascinated reverence.

He’d seen Cleo in evening gowns that stopped traffic. He’d seen her in oversized vintage tees that belonged to him. He’d seen her in nothing at all (his personal favorite genre). But there was something about watching her in the harsh, unforgiving light of a hotel bathroom, scrubbing her face and brushing her teeth, that hit him differently. It felt… permanent. It felt like a scene from the life she’d described earlier—the messy, quiet, real life.

Watching her spit toothpaste into the sink shouldn't have been romantic. It really shouldn't have been. And yet, Ben felt a swell of affection so large it was actually inconvenient.

"Official human," he echoed, pushing off the doorframe as she finished rinsing, walking up behind her to catch her eye in the mirror. He rested his chin on the top of her head, grinning at their reflection. "I don’t know. I kind of missed the smudged-mascara raccoon look. It was very rock and roll. It was giving 'indie sleaze album cover' in the best way."

He waited while she ducked into the bedroom to change, taking the opportunity to quickly brush his own teeth—minty fresh was a non-negotiable for the robe wars—and run a hand through his hair. He attempted to tame the gravity-defying situation happening on top of his head, staring critically at a cowlick that refused to submit to water or prayer.

"Fine," he told his reflection. "Be that way. The wind is going to humble you anyway."

When she emerged in the fluffy white robe, announcing she was ready, Ben stopped wrestling with his hair and felt a grin split his face.

"Lagoon-ready," he repeated, looking her up and down with exaggerated appreciation. "You look like a very expensive cloud. A luxury marshmallow. I am intimidated by your comfort levels. I feel like I should be offering you a cucumber water and a non-disclosure agreement."

He turned, grabbing his own swim trunks from his suitcase. He shimmied into them quickly, hopping on one foot to get his balance—a movement that was decidedly not cool—then grabbed the matching hotel robe.

He shrugged it on, popping the collar and tying the belt with a sharp, dramatic knot like he was a karate master preparing for a bout in the dojo.

"Alright," he said, turning back to her and giving a solemn nod. "The Fellowship of the Ring is assembled. We have the robes. We have the sheer will. We have the silica appointment."

He walked over to her, sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his robe and leaning down. He crowded her space just a little, enjoying the way she looked up at him, before pressing a quick, hard kiss to her mouth—minty and fresh and promising.

"But just so we're clear," he murmured against her lips, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I have done my research. That water is warm, but the air is technically classified as 'Arctic.' And I have zero thermal regulation. I am a lizard, Cleo."

He pulled back, grinning.

"If I get cold, I am climbing onto your back like a koala. I have zero shame. I will use you as a human raft. I will cling. It won’t be dignified, but it will be necessary for my survival."

He stepped back, grabbing the room key card from the dresser and bowing grandly toward the door, sweeping his arm wide.

"After you, my lady. Let’s go get muddy."

Cleo caught his reflection watching her in the mirror and smiled to herself, small and private, as she finished rinsing her mouth.

“Hey,” she said lightly when he echoed official human, eyes meeting his in the glass. “That raccoon look was earned. It told a story.” She tilted her head, amused. “Very underground. Very I survived the night.”

When he rested his chin on her head, she leaned into it instinctively, her hands braced on the counter. “Indie sleaze album cover,” she repeated, laughing softly. “You say that like it wasn’t intentional.”

She stepped out to change, and when she came back in the robe—fluffy, oversized, tied just loose enough to be comfortable—she watched his face shift into that exaggerated admiration and couldn’t help the grin that spread across hers.

“Luxury marshmallow?” she said, glancing down at herself. “I’ll take it. I feel extremely plush.” She smoothed the robe sleeves with mock seriousness. “And yes, cucumber water would be appropriate. Sparkling, preferably.”

As he hopped into his trunks, she laughed openly now, leaning back against the counter. “Oh, very graceful,” she teased. “Really commanding the room.”

When he popped his robe collar and declared the fellowship assembled, she lifted an imaginary sword. “I accept my quest,” she said solemnly. “I will not be swayed by cold or mud or robe theft.”

He crowded her space and kissed her, and she kissed him back without hesitation—brief, sure, smiling against his mouth.

At his koala warning, she laughed, shaking her head. “First of all, you are not a lizard,” she said. “Second of all, if you climb me like a human raft in public, I will never let you live it down.” Her eyes softened. “But fine. I’ll save you. For survival reasons only.”

She adjusted her robe belt, then stepped toward the door as he bowed. Pausing just long enough to look back at him, she smiled—warm, grounded, exactly where she wanted to be.

“Lead the way,” she said. “Let’s go get muddy.”

Cleo stepped into the hallway first, the cool air brushing her bare calves beneath the robe and making her laugh softly under her breath. She pulled the robe a little tighter—not out of modesty, just instinct—and glanced back at him as the door clicked shut behind them.

“Okay,” she said quietly, voice already dropping into that hushed, shared tone reserved for hotel corridors and early mornings. “I will admit… I am slightly concerned about your lizard physiology.”

She padded along the carpet, slippers whisper-quiet, then reached back without looking until her fingers found his hand. She laced their fingers together, grounding, easy.

“But,” she added, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth, “I’m prepared to be brave. For science. And for you.”

The elevator ride down was slow and quiet, just the soft hum of movement and their reflections in the mirrored walls—two people wrapped in white robes, hair still damp and sleepy, looking more like they’d lived together for years than guests passing through.

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled, the kind that didn’t need words.

“This,” she said softly, nodding at their reflection, “is exactly what I meant earlier.” A pause. “No audience. No expectations. Just us stealing warmth and pretending the world doesn’t exist yet.”

When the doors opened and the scent of minerals and steam drifted toward them, she squeezed his hand once.

“Alright,” she murmured, eyes bright now, anticipation settling in. “Lagoon time.”

She leaned in closer as they walked, shoulder brushing his. “And if you cling to me like a koala,” she added lightly, “I promise I’ll only tease you a little.”

Cleo felt it the moment they turned the corner—the subtle shift from public quiet to managed quiet. Fewer voices. Softer footsteps. A staff member who smiled a little too knowingly and nodded before Ben even said a word.

“Oh,” she murmured under her breath, glancing up at him. “We’re doing that entrance.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, though. If anything, her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself as the attendant stepped aside and gestured them toward a narrow path marked PRIVATE ACCESS.

Cleo caught the look—polite, practiced, reverent—and let out a small, amused breath. “I always forget,” she said softly, leaning in toward Ben as they walked. “You exist in a slightly different lane than the rest of us.”

The path opened into the lagoon’s VIP enclave: steam rising in gentle curls, stone walls that blocked out the rest of the world, water glowing a deeper blue-green here, quieter, calmer. No crowd. No chatter. Just the low hush of minerals and warmth.

She stopped for a second, taking it in.

“Okay,” she admitted quietly. “This is… really nice.”

She glanced sideways at him, her smile warm but a little bashful. “I promise I’m not here because of that,” she added, tapping their joined hands lightly. “But I’m also not mad about it.”

She stepped closer to the water’s edge, the steam curling around her ankles, robe brushing her calves. The quiet wrapped around them like a held breath.

“This feels like cheating,” she said, half-laughing. “Like we skipped a level.”

Then, softer—more honest—she added, “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

She looked back at him, eyes bright, already warm just thinking about the water.

“And for the record,” she said, teasing now, “if you cling to me in here, no one important will see. That’s the real VIP perk.”

Ben squeezed her hand as they navigated the stone path, the steam rising around them like a curtain being drawn shut.

"Listen," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "I didn't invent the lane. I just merge into it aggressively when I need to. And today? I needed to."

He watched her take in the private enclave—the milky blue water, the moss-covered lava rocks, the silence that felt heavy and expensive. When she said it felt like cheating, he laughed, a low sound that vibrated in his chest.

"It is cheating," he agreed cheerfully. "It’s a cheat code. But considering I spent the last three months sleeping on a bus that smelled exclusively of dry shampoo and diesel, I feel like the universe owes me this. And by extension, it owes you."

He stopped at the edge of the water where a set of wooden hooks waited for their robes. He turned to face her, his expression softening as she thanked him.

"Cleo," he said, reaching out to tuck a damp curl behind her ear. "You don't have to thank me. Honestly? The only reason this is cool is because you're standing in it. Otherwise, it’s just hot soup and silence."

He looked at the water, then back at the freezing Icelandic air nipping at his exposed ankles.

"Okay," he announced, steeling himself. "This is the worst part. The transition. It’s going to be violent. It’s going to be disrespectful to my biology."

He looked at her with wide, serious eyes.

"On three. Robes off. We run—dignified running, but fast—into the water. Do not hesitate. Hesitation is death."

He didn't wait for a count. He shucked his robe in one fluid motion, hanging it up with shaking hands as the arctic air hit his bare skin. He let out a sharp, high-pitched yelp that was entirely uncool.

"Go, go, go!" he hissed, ushering her toward the steps.

He followed her in, the water accepting them instantly. The heat was a shock to the system, enveloping his freezing limbs in a thick, mineral-rich embrace. He sank down to his chin immediately, letting out a long, groaning sigh of pure ecstasy.

"Okay," he breathed, the steam swirling around his face. "We survived. I can feel my toes again."

He looked over at Cleo, her skin flushed from the heat, the water lapping at her shoulders. She looked ethereal in the mist, like a siren who had lured him into the deep end.

He paddled over to her, closing the distance until he was invading her personal space.

"And regarding the VIP perk..."

He grinned, that boyish, mischievous look returning.

"You said no one important would see."

He didn't climb on her back—he wasn't that cruel—but he did wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him underwater. He hooked one leg around hers, anchoring them together, effectively becoming the barnacle he’d promised to be.

"I am a tropical creature," he murmured, resting his wet chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes against the steam. "I require body heat. It’s for science."

He kissed the side of her neck, wet and warm.

"Also," he whispered, gesturing vaguely toward a wooden box on the edge of the deck filled with white silica paste. "The mud awaits. I’m ready to make you look like a ghost. It’s very romantic."

Cleo laughed as he leaned in to whisper, the sound soft and breathy, almost swallowed by the steam curling around them.

“Aggressively merging tracks,” she murmured back, eyes warm. “That checks out. Very on brand.”

When he called it cheating, she smiled, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “I think you’ve earned the cheat code,” she said gently. “Bus karma alone justifies it.” She glanced around the quiet enclave again, then back at him. “And I’m not arguing with the universe when it decides to be generous.”

At the edge of the water, when he tucked her curl back and told her she didn’t have to thank him, her expression softened in a way that felt unguarded.

“Well,” she said quietly, “hot soup and silence is still pretty great.” Her lips curved. “But yeah… it’s better with us.”

When he announced the transition like a battle plan, her eyes widened, amused. “Violent?” she repeated. “Disrespectful to your biology?” She laughed, already bracing herself. “You’re really selling this.”

Then he dropped the robe and yelped, and she burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” she said, hurrying after him. “You said dignified!”

The heat of the water wrapped around her instantly, a full-body sigh escaping her as she sank in. “Okay,” she breathed. “Worth it. Absolutely worth it.”

She turned just in time to see him drifting closer, steam clinging to his hair, that familiar grin already forming.

At his reminder about the VIP perk, she raised a brow. “I did say that,” she replied lightly. “I stand by my words.”

When his arms slid around her waist underwater and he hooked his leg around hers, she laughed again, this time softer, more surprised, hands coming up instinctively to rest on his forearms.

“So this is the barnacle phase,” she said, amused. “I should’ve known.”

She tilted her head slightly when he rested his chin on her shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a second at the warmth and the closeness. “For science,” she echoed, smiling. “Of course.”

At the kiss to her neck, she let out a quiet breath, leaning back into him without thinking.

“And the mud,” she added, glancing toward the box he gestured at. “You’re very excited about this.” She laughed, turning her head just enough to look at him. “Fine. Make me a ghost. But if I look terrifying, I’m blaming the minerals.”

She reached back and squeezed his arm once, anchoring them together.

“Honestly,” she said softly, steam swirling around them, “this might be my favorite cheat code yet.”

Cleo eyed the wooden box of silica mud like it had personally challenged her.

“Oh, I absolutely get first rights,” she said, slipping one arm free from his barnacle hold just long enough to scoop a cool handful of the paste. “You do not get to turn me into a ghost without consequences.”

She turned toward him in the water, the steam curling around them as she lifted her hand. “Hold still,” she warned lightly, already smiling. “This is a delicate process. Very technical.”

She dabbed the mud onto his cheek first, slow and deliberate, her fingers cool against his warm skin. Then another streak along his jaw. She traced it up the bridge of his nose, laughing quietly as she worked, the contrast between the mineral paste and his expression far more charming than intimidating.

“There,” she murmured, studying her work with mock seriousness. “You look very enlightened. Like you just emerged from a mountain with forbidden knowledge.”

She added one last gentle swipe across his forehead, smoothing it out with her thumb, then let her hand fall away. For a second, she just looked at him—mud-smeared, steam-softened, eyes bright and familiar—and something in her expression shifted from playful to tender.

“Okay,” she said softly. “That’s enough science for now.”

She leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and kissed him—slow and warm and easy. It wasn’t rushed or hungry; it was the kind of kiss that lingered, that said this is good without needing to explain why.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, a small smile still on her lips.

“Your turn,” she added quietly. “But be nice.”