Blake could barely keep his eyes open.

Not because he was tired—God, not even close—but because she was too much and not enough all at once. The way she moved above him, slow and devastating, like she was rewriting gravity just to pull him under with her. Like she knew she was undoing him, and did it anyway. Because she could.

Because he wanted her to.

Willa didn’t need to say a word.

Her body spoke louder than any lyric he’d ever bled onto a page. Her hips rolled like poetry, like percussion—steady and deliberate. His name kept slipping out of her like a mantra, wrecked and wanting, and every time it did, Blake gripped her tighter like it was the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

His hands mapped her back, memorizing the slick curve of her spine, the twitch of her muscles every time he met her rhythm. She was a living drumline and he swore he could feel her under his skin—notes and nerves and need.

She was everywhere.

And when she leaned down, hair brushing his cheek, lips brushing his ear, chest pressed tight to his—he didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

The world narrowed to skin and sweat and the sound of the bed frame giving up under them.

Every sigh that left her mouth was a hook.

Every gasp was a chorus.

And God, when she looked at him like that—flushed and glowing, a fucking wildfire with mascara smudged down her cheeks and love lighting up her eyes like a riot—he came undone all over again without even touching her.

He whispered her name like it was sacred.

Like he’d never been sure of anything else in his life.

His fingers shook when they dragged across her jaw, thumb brushing over her bottom lip like he was trying to convince himself she was real. That this wasn’t some post-show delusion. That he’d really done it. Proposed mid-set. That she’d said yes. That she was here. Still here.

“You,” he rasped, barely a breath, voice cracked wide open. “You’re my fucking religion.”

Willa moved again—slower this time, deeper—and his hips stuttered up to meet her without thought, his body chasing hers like it was coded in his DNA.

He swore the stars shifted.

The world blurred.

He felt her everywhere—on his tongue, in his lungs, under his nails, behind his ribs.

When she kissed him again—hard and claiming, like she was making sure the universe knew he was hers now—he moaned into her mouth and swore he’d never need anything else.

Not a crowd. Not a chorus.

Just this.

Her voice in the dark. Her mouth on his. Her body wrapped around him like a battle cry and a lullaby all at once.

And when she finally dropped her forehead to his, and they locked eyes again—wide open, burning, whole—he let go.

Of the tour.

Of the fear.

Of everything but her.

He gave her all of it.

Right there in that busted hotel bed, wrapped in sweat and sheets and the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission anymore.

He came apart with her name in his mouth and her pulse under his hand and her breath curling into his.

And afterward, when they were just a tangle of limbs and hums and aftershocks, he didn’t say anything at first.

He just held her tighter.

Pressed his mouth to her temple.

And smiled against her skin like a man who’d finally found home.

Because Blake Maddox had loved a lot of things in his life.

But nothing—nothing—like this.

Like her.

Like Willa fucking Riot Maddox, the girl who turned his chaos into a chorus and said yes like it meant everything.

Because it did.

Willa couldn’t stop shaking.

Not from nerves. Not from cold.

But from the aftershocks of having him—of riding the high of that kiss, that yes, that unraveling that started onstage and ended here, in this too-warm room with the smell of skin and sweat and something sacred hanging thick in the air.

Blake was beneath her, breath ragged, chest rising fast. And she was wrecked.

Utterly, stupidly wrecked.

Her thighs ached in the best way. Her body hummed with adrenaline and heat and the ghost of every place he’d touched like he was trying to memorize her from the inside out. And maybe he had. Maybe he had carved his name into every bone in her body tonight, because God, she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

She was still straddling him, bare and kissed raw, her hands braced on his chest. His skin was flushed and gleaming in the low light, and his eyes—fuck, those eyes—looked at her like she was the final lyric to a song he hadn’t known how to finish until now.

She dipped her head, brushed her nose against his, kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the curve of his throat where his pulse still thundered.

“I can feel your heartbeat in my teeth,” she whispered against his skin, lips curling into a smirk even as her voice cracked. “That’s how hard you’re loving me right now.”

She kissed lower, lazy and possessive, tongue flicking against his collarbone before she bit—soft, then harder. Just enough to make him groan again. A sound she’d bottle if she could. Something guttural and punched-out and hers.

Willa eased back, watched him for a beat, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint tremble in his arms as he pulled her down against him like he couldn’t stand not having her close. His mouth was parted, eyes dazed, and she kissed him again—slow and deep and claiming.

Then her body collapsed over his.

Skin to skin. Scar to scar. Heart to heart.

And Blake?

Blake wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go.

She curled her fingers into his damp curls, breathing him in, grounding herself in the thrum of him under her cheek.

The world was still moving—sirens outside, headlights washing briefly through the window, the hum of a minibar fridge trying its best—but in here, it was just them. Tangled limbs. Shaky breath. Sheets twisted around their ankles.

No stage. No audience.

Just two chaotic hearts that had crashed into each other and found something real in the rubble.

Her voice was hoarse when she spoke again, quieter this time, like she didn’t want to startle the moment.

“Next time you wanna propose, maybe do it somewhere I’m not already planning to crawl you like a jungle gym.”

She felt his laugh vibrate through his chest, a low, delicious sound, and she grinned against his skin.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because this? This was it.

Not the finale.

Not the fade-out.

Just the start of a new track—one only they could hear.

And Willa had never been more ready to press play.

Blake’s chest was still shaking with the tail end of that laugh—deep, ruined, full-body—when he curled one arm tighter around her back and let the other tangle in her hair. He didn’t speak right away, couldn’t. His brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that this was real yet.

That she’d said yes.

That she was here, molten and perfect, sprawled across his chest like she owned the goddamn sky and had just decided to gift him the stars.

Her breath fanned across his neck, warm and a little uneven, and he swore he could still feel her printed into the lines of his palms. Not just the way she moved. Not just the way she kissed him like he was a living vow. But the way she felt. The weight of her. The trust.

He kissed her temple without thinking. Then again, slower this time. Anchoring.

“Jungle gym,” he muttered, voice wrecked and rasped with the kind of bliss that only came after someone had dismantled your soul in the most loving way possible. “Jesus Christ, Willa.”

Another laugh, but this one was gentler. Reverent.

“You realize I blacked out for a solid two minutes in the middle of that set, right? My brain was just echoing ‘say it, say it, do it now, you coward’ over and over until I sprinted offstage like a gremlin.”

He turned his head, nuzzling his nose into her hair, then tilted just enough to catch the curve of her cheek with his lips. His other hand—still shaky, still reverent—smoothed down the line of her spine, slow and sure.

“You made it impossible not to,” he added, quieter now. “You, standing there in the wings like you’ve always fucking belonged to me… like I could finish the whole tour and still come undone the second I looked at you.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I have to propose before you jungle gym me again, because I’m a control freak and I wanted to win one thing tonight.”

His grin pressed against her skin this time. Lazy. Lopsided. Undeniably his.

Outside, the city murmured on. Distant traffic. Someone shouting three floors below. The rhythm of life still pulsing.

But in here?

They were wrapped in quiet.

The kind that came after surviving something. After choosing someone. After wreckage and rebuilding and saying yes with your whole body.

Blake pressed another kiss to her shoulder—then one to the corner of her jaw, where he could still feel her pulse.

His voice, when it came again, was softer than the city outside. Just a thread of breath and truth.

“I love you, Willa Jameson-Maddox.”

Not a song.

Not a performance.

Just a fact.

Said in the kind of hush meant only for hotel rooms and sweat-drenched sheets and the space between two people who’ve decided to build something permanent out of every broken part.

And he meant it.

Every syllable.

Every beat.

Willa didn’t lift her head right away.

She couldn’t.

Not when he said it like that. Like it wasn’t a question. Like it wasn’t even a confession anymore—just gravity. Truth wrapped in warmth, tangled limbs, and the aftermath of something holy.

Her fingers flexed against his chest, nails dragging lightly through the damp there as if to anchor herself, to make sure she was still real and he was still here. Still hers.

God. Hers.

The laugh she let out was quiet and wrecked and maybe a little dangerous. The kind of sound that came from deep down—lower than her ribs, lower than her thoughts—born from the parts of her that had always been a little wild and a little starved. And right now? She was full.

Of him. Of this.

Of the weight of his body under hers and the echo of his voice in her bones.

She shifted just enough to look up, chin resting on his sternum, hair sticking to her cheeks, her expression lazy and flushed and radiant in the low light.

“Only one thing?” she murmured, voice gravel-soft and smug with affection. “Baby, you won the whole fucking night. You practically made the scoreboard short-circuit.”

Her hips nudged against his just enough to make him inhale through his teeth, but there was no heat in it now—just that slow, molten afterglow and the way her eyes locked on his like he was a planet she hadn’t finished mapping yet.

“I love you too,” she said. Plain and simple. No fireworks. No chaos. Just the raw center of her, peeled back and handed over like a dare.

Then she bent down and kissed him—soft and unhurried. Not demanding. Not urgent. Just theirs. Her mouth barely parted his, and yet he tasted everything: the promise, the surrender, the wild thunderclap of a girl who didn’t do quiet but gave him all her quiet anyway.

When she finally pulled back, she tucked her head into the crook of his neck again, lips brushing his skin as she whispered, “But if you think for one second I’m not gonna jungle gym you again before checkout…”

Her grin curled slow and wicked against his throat.

“…then you don’t know what the fuck you just signed up for, Maddox.”

And he could feel her smile—pressed into him, blooming through the hush.

They stayed like that for a long moment. The room a cocoon. The air thick with heat and heartbeats and unspoken plans.

Tomorrow, the world would start again.

But tonight?

They had time.

Blake didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe right for a second.

Because God, how could he, when Willa was curled over his chest like a living crown and an unapologetic threat to his sanity? When her voice—wrecked and velvet and smug as sin—dragged itself across his ribs like a match just waiting to be lit again?

He was done for.

Completely. Gloriously.

The kind of undone you don’t recover from—don’t want to recover from. The kind that rewrites you at the molecular level and leaves your name permanently scribbled in someone else’s margins.

And her saying I love you like that? All grounded and unflinching and stupidly hers?

It didn’t just land—it detonated.

He swallowed hard, arms flexing instinctively around her waist, his fingers brushing soft, aimless patterns over the bare curve of her back. Anchored there. Desperate to stay there.

She felt like gravity and gasoline.

And that promise in her smile—the one about the jungle gym?

Yeah.

His heart did something deeply unhelpful. Skipped or exploded or something in between.

A hoarse laugh slipped out, low and winded. His head tipped back against the pillow, and he closed his eyes for a breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, grinning so hard it was almost a problem. “I proposed once and now I’ve unleashed a sexy jungle gym gremlin with a god complex and a vendetta.”

He cracked an eye open. Watched the way her hair spilled against his shoulder. The way her fingers kept absently tracing along his chest like she was cataloging each heartbeat.

And then—softer, but still grinning—he added:

“I really hope housekeeping has hazard pay.”

His hand slid up, brushing back a strand of hair stuck to her temple, lingering just long enough to trace the line of her cheek. Then her jaw. Then her mouth, which was still curved in that dangerously perfect little smirk.

His thumb rested there, not moving, just being.

And when he spoke again, it was quieter.

Not because he was afraid.

But because some things were meant to be said in the hush.

“You feel like home, Wills.”

His voice cracked on it—just slightly—but he didn’t look away.

“You always did.”

And then he kissed her again, with none of the heat from before—but with all the weight of a man who knew exactly what he was holding.

Not chaos.

Not just want.

But a lifetime.

And he was never letting go.

Willa didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because her whole body responded for her—melting into him like a slow exhale, like a sigh she hadn’t realized she’d been holding since the day they met. Her arm curled tighter around his ribs, cheek pressed to his chest, lashes fluttering against skin still damp with sweat and something sacred.

She could feel his heartbeat. Still racing. Still reckless. Still hers.

And she smiled.

God, she smiled.

Not the cocky, flirtatious kind that used to mask how much she hoped he loved her back. Not the playful kind she tossed over her shoulder when she knew she had him wrecked. This one was quiet. Full. Real.

The kind that didn’t ask for anything—because it already had everything.

Her fingertips danced lazily along the ridge of one of his tattoos, tracing it like a trail only she was allowed to follow. She wasn’t in a rush. Wasn’t trying to start anything up again. She was just… there. With him. Completely.

She tilted her chin up slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. Then another. Slower. Thoughtless. Reverent.

“You’re warm,” she murmured against his skin, voice hazy with afterglow and adoration. “Like a weighted blanket and a furnace and an ego trip all at once.”

Her grin curved against his chest, but her tone softened, dipping into something truer. “But mostly? You just feel like… peace.”

She let that hang in the air for a moment. Let it breathe.

Then she shifted up slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Her elbow propped between them, hair sticking to her back, her cheek still flushed with leftover heat.

“But don’t tell anyone,” she whispered conspiratorially, brushing her nose against his. “Riot Willa has a reputation to uphold. Can’t have the world knowing she gets cuddly and starry-eyed after wrecking her fiancé in a shitty hotel bed.”

Her gaze flicked down to his mouth.

Then back to his eyes.

And for a moment, she didn’t speak.

She just looked at him.

Open. Present. So full of love it nearly knocked her flat all over again.

Then she dropped back down with a dramatic sigh, her body half-draped across his, her legs tangled with his like they belonged there.

Which—God, they did.

She tilted her head so her lips brushed the base of his throat.

“So this is what forever feels like,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Sticky and exhausted and stupidly happy.”

A beat.

Then she added, smug and sleepy:

“...and a little sore.”

And fuck, she was glowing.

Not from the sex. Not even from the ring.

But from him.

From them.

From the kind of love that didn’t have to perform anymore. Didn’t have to prove itself.

It just was.

And as her eyes drifted closed, fingers still tracing soft patterns over his ribs, Willa didn’t say another word.

She didn’t need to.

Because her whole body—pressed close, unguarded, anchored in the center of the storm they’d both survived—was already saying the only thing that mattered.

I’m yours.

And she always would be.

Blake didn’t say anything right away.

He couldn’t.

Because if he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what would come out—words or a sound or just a mess of breath and wrecked wonder at the fact that she was here. Still draped over him like she belonged there. Like all that fire and fury and fragile softness had decided to make him its home.

His arms tightened around her without thinking, like his body was trying to memorize the shape of her all over again, even now. Even still. His thumb brushed lazy circles at the base of her spine, slow and grounding, like he was trying to etch calm into the curve of her.

She was warm. Soft. Smirking against his chest like she hadn’t just reduced him to holy ruin an hour ago.

He tilted his chin just enough to glance down at her, hair stuck to her temple, that smug little smile still curled like a secret across her lips.

Peace, she’d called him.

Peace.

Blake exhaled through a grin he couldn’t contain if he tried, the kind that made his eyes squint a little at the corners. His voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and tangled in awe.

“Well, shit,” he murmured, his chest rumbling under her cheek. “You call me peace and a furnace in the same breath, and expect me not to walk into traffic for you?”

He felt her huff against his skin, that silent laugh that made his ribs ache in the best way.

“And for the record,” he added, voice rough with love, “you can keep Riot Willa for the world. But this one? This sleepy, smug little gremlin melted on top of me, whispering about forever and cuddling like it’s not a public safety risk?”

He kissed the crown of her head—slow and full, lips lingering in her hair.

“That one’s mine.”

His voice dropped, softer now. Less for teasing. More for truth.

“Always has been.”

He felt her hum against his chest, felt the way she sank further into him, like the words settled her deeper than the sheets ever could. And God, she was right.

This wasn’t a performance anymore.

This was them.

Sticky and exhausted and happy.

And yeah, probably a little sore.

He laughed quietly into her hair, one hand stroking the length of her spine now, slow and aimless, like a lullaby with skin.

Then—just above a whisper, like a vow wrapped in nothing but breath—he said:

“Go to sleep, Willa Riot Maddox.”

And when she didn’t argue?

He smiled.

Because he’d won.

Not the night.

Not the scoreboard.

But her.

Forever.

Willa’s lips twitched into a sleepy, smug grin against his chest.

She didn’t move—didn’t need to—not when he was stroking her spine like that, slow and steady, like she was something to be cherished. Like she was something that didn’t need to be fought for anymore. Just held.

His voice—rough and sweet and all hers—settled into the hollow of her collarbone like a secret, and she let herself melt. Fully. Unapologetically. As if it was the easiest thing in the world to let go of every jagged edge she'd ever weaponized and just be.

With him.

A low hum vibrated against his ribs, content and unbothered. “You win one round,” she muttered, voice heavy with drowsy affection, “and suddenly you think you’re king of the jungle gym.”

But her hand curled tighter against his chest, fingers splaying like she could hold the moment in place. As if staying tucked against him—bare and boneless and bonafide his—might keep the rest of the world from intruding.

She shifted just enough to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Not heated. Not teasing. Just soft.

Final.

A punctuation mark on the kind of night you only get once in a lifetime if you’re lucky.

And she was.

God, she was lucky.

Because no one had ever loved her like this. No one had ever let her take up space like a storm and still called her home. No one had ever looked at the wildest parts of her and grinned like they were a gift.

But Blake did.

Every time.

And tonight, in this hotel bed with his heartbeat under her ear and his promise still echoing through her bones, she let herself believe it would always be like this. That chaos could coexist with calm. That love didn’t need taming to be true.

She didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t have to.

Because the quiet was enough. His arms were enough. He was enough.

And as her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing slowed, Willa drifted into sleep with a smile on her lips and a name in her heart—hers now, in every way that mattered.

Blake Maddox.

Her furnace.

Her peace.

Her always.

Blake stayed awake a little longer.

Not out of restlessness. Not because he couldn’t sleep.

But because this—her, folded into him like they’d been stitched together by something ancient and cosmic—was a view he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

He watched the way her lashes rested against flushed cheeks, how the corner of her mouth still quirked up in that stubborn little smirk even as sleep tugged her under. Her fingers twitched now and then against his chest like her body was still reaching for something it already had.

And God, did she have him.

He tightened his hold on her slightly, just enough to draw her closer, to press another kiss into her hair and breathe her in like a grounding spell. She still smelled like stage lights and perfume and sweat and something sweeter—something hers—like rebellion dipped in honey.

Blake closed his eyes.

Listened to her breathing sync with his.

Felt her heart, steady and sure, right against his own.

And for the first time in a long damn time, the future didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like her.

Wrapped in sheets. Whispering threats and promises in equal measure. Kissing him like he was a prayer and a punchline all at once. Sleeping with her whole body curled into his like she’d never known how to want something halfway.

He ran his thumb along her back one more time—gentle, absentminded, like he was etching the moment into memory.

Then, finally, with her name echoing in his chest like the best kind of chorus, he let his head fall back against the pillow.

And he let go.

Of the noise.

Of the doubt.

Of everything that didn’t start and end with Willa Storme Jameson.

The woman who kissed like a riot and loved like a vow.

His.

Now and always.

And as sleep pulled him under too, one last thought flickered behind his eyes:

Damn right I won.

[fast forward two days. The festival is over, they've decided to stay an extra night and meet the band tomorrow]

The water was just on the edge of too hot—Willa’s favorite temperature. The kind that flushed her skin and made the world outside the tub feel like an afterthought. Steam curled up around them, fogging the antique mirror above the sink and turning the entire hotel bathroom into a sanctuary of dim gold light and soft echoes.

The bottle of champagne sat in a silver bucket nearby, half-sunk in ice. Two long-stemmed flutes rested on a narrow tray Blake had dragged over, positioned just within reach. She’d already knocked hers once with her foot, but he’d caught it before it tipped.

Of course he had.

He was behind her now, arms resting along the rim of the tub, legs stretched out to either side, his chest a solid wall of heat against her back. Willa reclined fully into him, her head resting just below his collarbone, her damp hair trailing over one of his arms like seaweed caught in a current.

She sighed—content, heavy-limbed, almost drunk from the heat and the day and him.

“Well,” she said, voice lazy, lips curling into a smile she didn’t bother hiding, “if this is what post-proposal life looks like, I gotta say…I’m thriving.”

She reached for her flute without sitting up, fingers curling delicately around the stem as she brought it to her lips. It was crisp and cold, a perfect contrast to the molten water lapping at her shoulders.

“I mean, look at this,” she continued, gesturing vaguely with the flute before taking another sip. “Giant tub. Bubbly. The hottest man I’ve ever met as my personal pillow. I feel like a scandal waiting to happen.”

Her toes wiggled above the surface, bubbles clinging to her ankles. The tips of her knees brushed his thighs when she stretched, and she could feel the way his hands drifted lightly over her hips, grounding her with every subtle touch. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to.

Willa tilted her head just enough to nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. Her voice dropped to a whispery purr.

“Y’know, if you keep letting me get away with things like this, I’m gonna get spoiled.”

She smiled against his skin, letting her teeth graze lightly over the spot just below his jaw.

“Actually…” she murmured, teasing, “I’m already spoiled. I mean—look at you. Look at this. I’m sitting in a five-star Berlin bathtub with the man I’m going to marry, drinking champagne out of glass slippers like I’m on my third fairy tale.”

Her free hand lifted, settling over his forearm where it curved along her ribs. She ran her fingers lightly along the tattoo near his wrist, then laced their hands together under the water. Her thumb brushed his knuckles, slow and rhythmic.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” she admitted, softer now. “Not just safe. Like…held. Like I could fall apart a little and not have to rebuild myself alone.”

She wasn’t trying to make it heavy. But it slipped out anyway, honest and warm and echoing between the tile walls and the bubbles.

Then—because she was still Willa, and still herself even wrapped in love and champagne—she tipped her head back to look up at him, her smile curving slow and dangerous.

“By the way… you didn’t exactly specify a rating system, but I think I nailed it,” she said. “Two days into being your forever and I’m already setting the bar so high you’ll have to write a whole new album just to keep up.”

She took another sip, eyes glittering, cheeks flushed.

Then she added, with a wink:

“You’re welcome.”

And she sank back into him like the smug little menace she was, entirely at home in the arms of the man she planned to make hers again and again—forever.