Blake didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

He just let his hand trail slow, lazy circles over the dip of her waist, the pads of his fingers tracing the edge of a bubble that had the audacity to cling to her like it was invited. His other arm stayed firm across the rim of the tub, anchoring them like maybe this whole moment could last longer if he didn’t move too much.

God, she was something else. Willa Maddox. Willa Riot Maddox. Whatever name she ended up stealing from him, he’d never stop being wrecked by the fact that she was his.

He leaned down—barely—and let his lips brush the shell of her ear.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough from heat and champagne and the way she always managed to floor him without even trying. “You were born to be spoiled. I’m just giving the universe a little help.”

He kissed the spot just behind her jaw, right where her pulse fluttered. Didn’t rush it. Just let it linger, warm and certain.

“And for the record?” he added, lips brushing her skin as he spoke. “You’re not a scandal waiting to happen. You’re the headline. Front page. Limited edition. Collector’s item.”

She shifted in his arms, that smug little grin of hers blooming like trouble incarnate, and he could feel her pride in the way her body melted deeper into his. Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Like she always had.

His hand slipped beneath the water, finding hers. Their fingers laced like muscle memory, like they’d been doing it for lifetimes.

Blake tilted his head down, cheek brushing her temple as he spoke low, almost reverent now. “I’ve never felt like this either, baby. Not once. Not with anyone.”

He paused. Let that live in the space between heartbeats.

“I’ve had stages. Spotlights. Crowds screaming my name. But this right here?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt seen.”

He kissed her temple. Slow. Full. Let it say all the things he was still learning how to put into words.

Then—because she tipped her head back with that damn gleam in her eye and claimed she’d already set the bar too high—he let out a low, delighted laugh and leaned in close, nose brushing hers.

“Oh, you nailed it alright,” he said, smirking. “You shattered the damn scale. I’m not even mad about it. Just deeply, wildly turned on and a little terrified.”

He stole her champagne flute from her hand, took a sip, and grinned like he’d just gotten away with something dangerous.

“And you’re right,” he added, voice lower now, eyes locked on hers. “I am gonna write a whole album about you. Might even call it Riot. But you’re gonna have to help me finish it. In between more baths. And breakfasts in bed. And ruining hotel room sheets.”

He placed the glass back down with care, then tucked her tighter against him, chest to her back, nose in her hair, like he could inhale her.

“I’m in this for everything, Willa,” he said, voice soft now. Steady. “All of it. Every chaotic minute. Every giggle-fit and wardrobe malfunction and backstage kiss. I don’t want the cleaned-up version. I want you. Loud. Soft. Bratty. Brilliant. Mine.”

A beat.

Then, against her ear, barely a whisper:

“Forever looks real fucking good on you, stormcloud.”

And he didn’t say another word.

Just held her there in the heat and the hush, bubbles popping around them, hearts beating in sync, the future waiting politely at the door while they finished their moment.

Together.

Willa didn’t move at first.

Didn’t even blink.

Just let the warmth of him wrap around her, all voice and chest and slow, reverent hands—like he was trying to memorize her from the inside out. His words had settled into her skin like ink, still warm, still bleeding a little at the edges.

Forever looks real fucking good on you, stormcloud.

God.

It hit like a chord struck just right—sharp and sweet and vibrating through the cage of her ribs. She could’ve made a joke. Could’ve winked or teased or said something slick and shameless to keep the moment light.

But she didn’t want light.

Not this time.

So she leaned back into him instead, letting her head rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling around his under the water. The air between them was thick with quiet and warmth and the smell of champagne and hotel soap and him.

She tipped her chin slightly, lips brushing the edge of his jaw—not quite a kiss, more like a thank-you disguised as a breath.

“I used to think I’d burn out before anyone ever saw the whole of me,” she said quietly. “Like maybe I was too much to carry. Too much to keep.”

Her thumb ran across the back of his hand, slow and steady.

“But you… you keep showing up with a damn bucket and a grin like I’m something worth catching.”

She smiled at that, small but certain. A little shaky, maybe. But honest.

Her voice was lower now. Threaded through with awe she hadn’t meant to let show, but couldn’t quite bury.

“I’ve been in love before. I’ve been in lust. I’ve been adored and I’ve been wanted and I’ve been fucking worshipped—but this?”

She twisted slightly, just enough to glance up at him, lashes damp, eyes reflecting both candlelight and something bigger. Something steadier.

“This is the first time I’ve ever felt kept.”

Her voice cracked on that last word, barely audible over the soft fizz of bubbles. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

Because the truth didn’t scare her anymore.

Not with him.

She turned her face back into his neck, breathing him in like the end of a song she never wanted to stop playing. And when she spoke again, it was soft. Flirty. Dangerous in the way only she could make danger feel like a promise.

“Also, side note? If you call an album Riot without letting me design the damn cover, I’ll actually kill you.”

She felt him chuckle—felt it in his chest, against her cheek, low and warm and hers.

Then, quieter:

“I want the mess, too. The writing at 3 a.m., the missing socks, the way your laugh sounds when you’re sleep-deprived and caffeinated and trying to pretend you’re not. I want your nightmares and your tour meltdowns and every cracked version of you the world doesn’t get to see.”

She tilted her head back again, eyes on him now. No teasing this time.

Just truth.

“All in, Blake Maddox. I’m in this all the way.”

Her fingers tightened in his.

Then she smiled, slow and wicked and completely herself again.

“But fair warning—forever with me means you’re never gonna get bored. Or well-rested. Or possibly clothed.”

She reached for her flute, took a sip without breaking eye contact, then smirked.

“Think you can handle that, rockstar?”

And she settled back into him again—content, fearless, and absolutely kept.

Because for the first time in her life?

Forever didn’t feel like a cage.

It felt like home.

Blake didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t.

Because damn if she didn’t just strip him bare with words alone—no lipstick, no lace, no swaggered hips or smirking bravado—just her, wide open and wild and incandescent with the kind of honesty that broke him in the gentlest way possible.

Kept.

He felt that word like a gut punch and a vow all at once. It rang in his chest, louder than stadium crowds, deeper than any lyric he’d ever scratched into a hotel napkin at 2 a.m. And the way she said it—quiet, cracking, brave? He didn’t deserve her. Not really. But he’d spend the rest of forever earning every goddamn second of her saying it again.

He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles like a prayer. No smirk. No line.

Just reverence.

“I don’t want the easy version of you, Willa,” he said, voice low and close, the kind of tone that belonged to confessions and back-of-the-bus promises. “I want the wild. The worn-out. The wicked. I want every piece that makes you flinch when people get too close—because I’m not gonna flinch.”

His nose brushed hers, soft and steady. Like punctuation. Like gospel.

“I want the storm and the quiet after. The riot and the recovery.”

He let that land. Let it breathe.

Then—because she smirked, because she made that damn album cover threat with enough venom and velvet to wreck a lesser man—he grinned, teeth flashing.

“Baby, you are the cover. I’ll just slap your boots and your chaos and a middle finger in rhinestones on it and call it a day.”

He laughed, deep and warm, tugging her in closer like he couldn’t get enough of her skin on his.

Then—quieter, throat tight around something thick and real—he pressed his lips to her temple and whispered, “Forever with you sounds like the best kind of beautiful trouble.”

A pause. His thumb brushed the top of her thigh beneath the water, slow and grounding.

“And yeah, I can handle it. All of it. The mess. The magic. The not-so-clothed parts.”

He tilted her chin up again, met her gaze without a trace of doubt.

“I’ll take your nightmares. Your morning breath. Your rage-texts and off-key singing and tour burnout tantrums.”

His voice softened.

“I’ll take your love. However it shows up. However it crashes in.”

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, like a promise in motion.

And when he finally pulled back, their foreheads still pressed, steam curling around them like a cocoon, he smiled.

“You’re not too much, stormcloud,” he murmured. “You’re just finally with someone who knows how to hold thunder.”

And with that, he reached for the champagne, clinked her glass with his, and said the only toast that mattered:

“To home.”

Because Willa Storme Maddox wasn’t a destination.

She was the storm and the shelter.

And God, he was never leaving.

Willa didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have anything to say—but because her heart was a little too full, and her throat a little too tight, and because fuck, sometimes love was just so much.

Even after all these years—after every airport reunion, every backstage bicker, every I love you murmured through teeth and tears and laughter—he still found new ways to ruin her.

Not with grand gestures.

Not even with the proposal, if she was honest.

But with this.

With him. Sitting there like sin incarnate in a candlelit bathtub, steam haloing around them, saying things he had no right to say with that voice and that face and that goddamn heart.

Her cheeks were flushed, sure—from champagne and heat and the way his thumb was still tracing slow circles over her thigh—but mostly from the weight of it. The realness.

“Jesus, Maddox,” she whispered, laughing under her breath as she tipped back the last of her champagne. “How am I supposed to compete with that? You say things like ‘the storm and the quiet after’ and I’m just over here hoping my boobs are floating symmetrically.”

She set the flute on the tray, her fingers lingering on the stem just long enough to pretend she wasn’t trying to collect herself.

But when she finally turned—when she twisted in the water, sliding slick and warm across his lap to face him fully—she didn’t hold back.

Didn’t filter. Didn’t blink.

Her knees bracketed his hips now, arms looping loosely around his neck, the grin she wore equal parts trouble and truth.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head, “we’ve been doing this thing for over five years now. Friends for more than ten. And somehow…” Her voice went quieter. Softer. “Somehow you still make me fall for you in new ways. Like you’ve got tricks hidden in your back pocket just waiting to emotionally destroy me when I least expect it.”

Her thumb brushed over his bottom lip, slow. Thoughtful.

“And honestly? Rude.”

She leaned in, mouth barely an inch from his now, eyes locked and dark with affection.

“But effective.”

Willa kissed him slow, deliberate, like she was branding the moment into his bones. Then again, quicker, lighter, more playful—smiling against his lips because God, this was her life now. This was her person.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” she murmured, teasing. “And that I love you. And that you keep saying shit that makes me want to cry and climb you at the same time.”

Her fingers threaded through the damp ends of his hair, tugging just enough to be bratty. Just enough to make a point.

“You said you’d take it all, remember? The rage-texts. The tantrums. The off-key karaoke.”

She raised a brow, daring him to flinch.

“Good,” she said, voice a little breathless now, “because you’re stuck with it. Forever. Every meltdown. Every messy part. Every time I cry at a dog commercial or flip off a paparazzi or make you late because I need to change my outfit again.”

A beat.

Then—quiet and absolutely sincere, her heart worn wide open on her face—she added:

“I’ll give you all of me, Blake. Every version. Every storm. Every damn sunrise I get to wake up in your arms.”

She kissed him again—just once, soft and still and home.

Then leaned back, smug and starry-eyed all at once.

“And you better start prepping that album, husband-to-be,” she whispered. “Because I’ve got at least six verses worth of opinions on track titles.”

And when she curled into him again—heart-first, grin-still-smoldering—there was nothing left in her but certainty.

She was his.

Fully. Loudly. Forever.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

Blake’s eyes didn’t leave her—not when she turned, not when she said it, not even when she tried to hide how much it meant. Because that was the thing about Willa: she could bury her heart in a thousand jokes, drown it in champagne and chaos and that sharp, dazzling grin—but he still saw it. All of it. All of her.

And God, he loved her for it.

He let out a soft breath, arms tightening around her as his thumb traced a lazy, reverent circle on her hip under the water. The candlelight caught the curve of her cheek, the curl of her hair damp against her shoulder, and he couldn’t believe—still couldn’t believe—that this was his life now. That she was.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and honest, lips brushing the edge of her temple. “That’s the part no one warns you about.”

She tilted her chin, curious. He smirked.

“How loving you sneaks up on me in new ways. Even when I think I’ve hit the ceiling—you go and say something like that, and it wrecks me all over again.”

His fingers threaded through hers beneath the water, slow and sure.

“I’ve been in bands, Willa. I’ve played to sold-out crowds. I’ve seen cities from rooftops and sunrise from tour buses—but nothing’s ever leveled me like loving you.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then again, closer to her neck.

“And yeah,” he added, eyes soft, voice rough, “I’m all in. Every late-night spiral. Every outfit change. Every time you yell at traffic like it insulted your ancestors.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “Every version of you.”

He leaned back just enough to look at her—really look at her. Hair a mess. Shoulders bare. Eyes dark and wild and full of everything that made him whole.

“You’re the song, Wills,” he said. “You’ve always been the damn song.”

And then, smirking as he raised her hand from the water, kissing her ring finger:

“So yeah. Start prepping those verses, babe. Because I’m ready to spend the rest of my life writing the chorus.”

And in that little cocoon of steam and candlelight, with her heartbeat steady against his and forever already written in the space between their skin—

Blake Maddox had never felt more certain of anything.

Willa kissed him before he could say anything else—quick, a little fierce, full of feeling she couldn’t wrangle into words yet. Her fingers curved around the back of his neck like she meant to hold the moment in place, like she could bottle the heat and hush of his heartbeat right there beneath her palm and keep it forever.

She didn’t pull away so much as melt back—soft lips trailing against his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, then the tip of his nose like punctuation marks made for lovers. And when she finally breathed again, it was a little uneven. A little stunned by how easily this still gutted her.

“God,” she muttered, a hand dragging down his chest, wet skin on wet skin, “you really never fucking miss.”

She let her fingers wander over the ink sprawled across his collarbone—slow, delicate, almost absent-minded. But it wasn’t. She was memorizing him again. The topography of every line she’d kissed a hundred times but still got dizzy from tracing. The one that curled over his ribs. The sharp, black smudge near his hipbone. The phrase just above his heart that had meant something before her and now, somehow, meant them.

“This one still gets me,” she whispered, brushing the tip of her finger over a half-faded lyric, a secret only she knew the story behind now. “Like it knew I was coming.”

And then—because softness didn’t mean silence—she grinned, dropped her head briefly against his shoulder, and muttered, “And don’t flatter yourself too hard, Maddox. I’ve seen cities from rooftops too. I’ve screamed into microphones and kicked down doors barefoot. But this—” she gestured loosely between them, between bathwater and bubbles and candlelight flickering against tile—“this is the kind of chaos I never saw coming.”

She let the silence settle, just for a second. Let it warm her ribs from the inside out.

Then Willa shifted again, slipping back into place like puzzle pieces and permanence, her back pressed to his chest and her hair wet against his collarbone. She sighed, long and content and unbothered by the water cooling or the city pulsing on without them.

Because right now?

She didn’t need the crowd. Or the anthem. Or the fire.

She just needed this.

His arms around her. The soft rise and fall of his breath against her spine. The quiet.

“I love that you know how to handle the riot,” she said eventually, voice quieter now. Honest in the way that crept up only in the in-between hours. “But I love you more for letting me burn loud when I need to.”

She turned her head just slightly, enough for her cheek to brush the line of his jaw. “And for making this feel like a choice, not a consequence.”

A beat. Then, smirking faintly:

“Also, champagne baths? A little slutty. Proud of us.”

And with that, she reached blindly for her flute, raised it in the air without turning around, and declared, “To the last night in Berlin.”

A pause.

“And to giving the hotel staff something deeply awkward to gossip about tomorrow.”

She clinked his glass with hers behind her back, leaned back into him like gravity owed her a favor, and whispered with a grin just for him:

“Next stop: chaos. But tonight? I just wanna be soft.”

And for once, she didn’t need to brace for the next drop.

Not when she had this to land in.

Blake grinned—slow, crooked, totally wrecked by her in that way she never tried to hide. The kiss had stunned the breath right out of his lungs, but it was what came after that gutted him. That voice. That chaos. That heart of hers, all spitfire and softness in the same damn breath.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the spot just behind her ear, damp curls stuck to her skin, his mouth barely a whisper against her pulse.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he murmured, smiling into the hollow of her throat. “Like… I should genuinely fear for my life a little.”

His fingers slid under the water again, tracing slow circles along her thigh, lazily reverent, like he was trying to commit the whole shape of her to memory one brush at a time. She felt so real like this. Not just the girl in the spotlight. Not just the riot. But his.

“And you wanna talk about chaos?” he added, voice dipping lower, softer, warmer. “You are the rooftop. You’re the scream and the fire and the anthem. But you’re also this.” He kissed her shoulder. “This exact moment. All melted into me, calling me rockstar like it’s a goddamn spell.”

He tilted his head, nuzzled her temple, nose brushing her damp hair.

“I love you loud. I love you soft. I love you when you’re barefoot and feral and flinging shoes across hotel rooms, and I love you when you’re draped over me like steam and silk and mine.”

He tapped his flute gently against hers, letting the chime echo off the tile.

“To Berlin,” he echoed, voice a little hoarse now. “To the chaos that comes next. And to the hotel maid who’s gonna find a rhinestone in the soap dish and wonder if we bathed in glitter.”

Then, low and close to her ear:

“And to you, Willa Jameson. My riot. My calm. My always.”

He kissed the side of her neck, just once.

And for the first time in forever, he didn’t need to be on a stage to know he’d just hit the best note of his life.

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t have to.

Because his voice had already wrapped around her like a second skin, rough and reverent, full of that maddening tenderness he reserved only for her. It echoed in her chest, somewhere between a hymn and a dare, and she let herself fall into the quiet of it.

Into him.

For a while, they just stayed like that—limbs tangled, breath syncing, the last flickers of candlelight playing against the tiled walls. Willa let the silence bloom, thick and golden, pressing her cheek against his bicep as if that might slow time down.

Her fingers idly skimmed the tattoos along his forearm underwater, now just muscle memory and affection. She traced the edge of a lightning bolt, a lyric, the outline of something he’d once drawn on a napkin in the middle of nowhere—and smiled. Quietly. Almost to herself.

The champagne flutes rested nearby, nearly empty. Bubbles fizzled out like applause after the final encore. Berlin pulsed faintly behind the windows—alive, electric, unaware that in this little bathroom cocoon, the world had already shifted on its axis.

But eventually, the water started to cool.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that shattered anything. Just enough to make her shiver a little. Enough to remind her they were human again, and maybe a little pruny.

She exhaled a reluctant breath.

“Alright,” she murmured, breaking the spell as gently as possible. “Before I lose circulation in my ass or turn into a raisin…”

Willa eased out of the tub with a soft groan, bracing her hands on either side before standing—bare skin slick with water and candlelight. She grabbed one of the oversized white towels from the warmer and wrapped it around herself with the kind of flair that only came from years of dressing room chaos.

The ends of her hair dripped onto the tile. Her legs goosebumped instantly.

But her eyes?

Still molten as she looked over her shoulder at him. Still dangerous.

“You stay there,” she said, towel hitched around her chest, voice lazy and amused. “You look like a damn Renaissance painting. All sultry and smug and slightly cocky about the fact that you just made me forget what planet I’m on.”

She grabbed another towel from the warmer, turned, and held it out to him with a raised brow.

“Come on, Michelangelo. Before you catch a chill and I have to explain to your fanbase that their favorite tattooed menace went out like a Victorian heroine.”

A beat.

Then, softer—no less flirty, but honest in the way she only ever gave to him:

“Also, I kind of want to be warm and wrapped up with you again in five minutes. So let’s not die of romantic hypothermia, yeah?”

She offered a wink, towel still extended.

And somehow, in a five-star hotel bathroom lit by candlelight and steam, Willa Storme Jameson had never looked more like home.

Blake didn’t move at first.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared—completely, shamelessly—at the woman standing in front of him, wrapped in nothing but steam and sass and a towel that had no business looking that good.

God, she was a problem.

His favorite one.

And the way she tossed that line about romantic hypothermia over her shoulder like she hadn’t just turned a five-star bathroom into a whole-ass movie set? Yeah. He was done for.

He grinned—slow, lopsided, absolutely smitten.

“‘Sultry and smug’?” he repeated, voice rough with leftover heat and something stupidly fond. “You know, I was going for ‘tragically poetic in a bathtub,’ but I’ll take it.”

He took the towel from her hand, fingers brushing hers—just for a second, just enough to spark—and stood, water sluicing off him in rivulets, muscles shifting beneath ink and candlelight. The kind of sight that would’ve had any tabloid foaming at the mouth.

But the only audience he cared about?

Was standing there with goosebumps and galaxy eyes and a look that said hurry the hell up and get in my arms again.

He toweled off quickly—efficient, practiced—and then tossed the damp cloth onto the sink with zero elegance, because honestly, who had time for tidy when she’d just told him he looked like a Renaissance painting and then winked?

“Let the record show,” he said, crossing to her in two long strides, “that I’m only getting out because you promised me warmth and wrapping and five more minutes of whatever the hell this night is.”

He stopped just in front of her.

Close enough to feel the steam still clinging to her skin. Close enough that her damp hair tickled his collarbone.

His hands found her waist beneath the towel, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. He dipped his head, kissed her shoulder—just once, slow and reverent.

Then again, higher.

Then again, just beneath her jaw.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured against her skin.

Then: “And home.”

And just like that, he scooped her up—laughing as she yelped—and carried her straight toward the bed like some lovesick, inked-up disaster of a knight in damp armor.

“C’mon, Jameson,” he said over her squeal, already smiling into the hollow of her throat. “Let’s go get warm and make the Renaissance jealous.”

And the door closed behind them like a period at the end of a perfect verse.