Her whisper was the only thing that could have pulled him back from the edge.

I’m okay.

It was weak, barely there, but the way she squeezed his arm—her fingers digging into his muscle with that familiar, stubborn strength—told him the truth. She wasn't broken. She was just raw. And honestly, so was he.

The guilt that had flared up in his chest settled into something heavier, something warmer. He stopped the stream of apologies. She didn't need him to grovel; she needed him to be the ground beneath her feet.

"Okay," he breathed against her hair, the vibration low in his chest. "Okay."

He didn't like her on the rug anymore. The wool was too rough against her skin, and the floor was too hard for the way she was trembling.

"Up," he murmured, shifting his grip.

He moved efficiently, scooping his arm under her knees and the other around her back. He stood up in one fluid motion, lifting her effortlessly. She curled into him instantly, a small, naked weight that fit perfectly against his chest. She buried her face in his neck, hiding from the room, and he held her tighter, his jaw brushing against the top of her head.

He carried her the few steps to the overstuffed leather couch that faced the fire. He sat down heavily, keeping her settled in his lap, refusing to let her go even for a second.

He reached out blindly with one hand, grabbing the thick, knitted throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa. He shook it out and wrapped it around her, tucking the edges in tight, covering her nakedness not because he was ashamed of it, but because he wanted to shield her. He wanted to be the only thing touching her.

She was a bundle of warmth in his arms now, only her face and one hand visible.
He leaned back against the cushions, adjusting her so she was cradled against his chest, her legs draped over his thighs. The firelight flickered over her face, illuminating the wet tracks on her cheeks and the swollen redness of her lips.

She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful.

He lifted his hand, his thumb brushing gently under her eye, sweeping away a stray tear. She flinched slightly, just a reflex, and he hushed her with a soft, soothing sound.

"I’ve got you," he whispered. "You’re safe. We’re just here."

He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his lips. He kissed the damp skin of her cheek, tasting the salt. He kissed her closed eyelid, then the tip of her nose. Soft, feather-light touches that were a stark, deliberate contrast to the violence of a few minutes ago.

He wasn't trying to fix it. He was just loving her through the comedown.

He brushed a damp strand of hair away from her forehead, his eyes roaming over her face with a fierce, quiet devotion.

"Just breathe, baby," he murmured, his hand rubbing slow, large circles on her back through the blanket. "I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here holding you until the world stops spinning."

The blanket was a mercy, a heavy, woven shield that trapped her heat and hid the tremors still racking her muscles, but it was Ben’s arms that actually held her together. Being lifted from the floor and settled onto the couch felt like being pulled from a shipwreck onto dry land; the world was still spinning, but at least the ground beneath her wasn't moving.

She burrowed deeper into the warmth of his chest, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart. It was slowing down, just like hers, syncing back to a rhythm that suggested life might actually go on.

She could feel the tension radiating off him, the way he was handling her with terrified reverence, as if he thought she might shatter into a thousand pieces if he squeezed too hard. He was drowning in guilt, murmuring reassurances that were more for him than for her. But as her mind slowly began to reassemble itself, clearing the haze of endorphins and adrenaline, she knew he had it wrong.

She wasn't a victim in this.

She had been the match that lit the fuse. She had screamed his claim because she needed to hear it, needed to feel the weight of his possession to silence the noise in her own head. The violence of it—the sheer, unbridled desperation—hadn’t been one-sided. It had been a mutual exorcism. She had wanted him to lose control, to stop thinking and just take. She had wanted to be overwhelmed, to be forced out of her own mind and anchored entirely in her body, and he had given her exactly that.

The soreness throbbing through her hips and the raw, stinging ache between her legs weren't injuries to be mourned; they were proof of life. They were the physical echo of a connection so intense it had burned everything else away. She hurt, yes. Every inch of her felt bruised and overextended, her skin sensitive and her muscles turned to jelly. But it was a satisfied hurt. It was the reality of what happened when two starving things finally collided.

She took a slow, shuddering breath, the scent of him filling her lungs—sweat, sex, and the faint metallic tang of the adrenaline still lingering in the air. Clarity was returning in jagged shards.

One specific shard pierced through the afterglow, sharp and undeniable.
She realized suddenly that amidst the frenzy, the tearing of clothes, and the desperate need to be inside her, a crucial step had been skipped. There had been no pause. No plastic wrapper tearing. Just skin on skin, heat on heat.

She shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at her sore muscles, and peeled one eye open.

Ben was looking down at her, his face a mask of concern and lingering ferocity. She studied him for a second, seeing the love there, but needing to ground this moment in the absolute, stark reality of what they had just done.

Her voice was a rasp, stripped of its usual polish.

"You fucked me without a condom."

She watched the color drain slightly from his face, the panic of the responsible man warring with the satisfaction of the primal animal that had just ravaged her. It was almost comical, the way his eyes widened, oscillating between 'I claimed my mate' and 'Oh god, I just ruined our lives.'

She let out a short, breathy laugh that hurt her ribs, but she couldn't help it. She poked a finger into his solid pectoral muscle, right over his racing heart.

"Don't look at me like that," she croaked, a small, crooked smile tugging at her swollen lips. "I was there. I remember. I'm pretty sure I was cheering you on."
She shifted again, wincing theatrically as she tried to find a softer spot on his lap, letting out a long, dramatic exhale.

"But seriously, Benjamin," she drawled, her voice gaining a little more of its usual dry bite, though it was still laced with exhaustion. "If that reckless display of testosterone results in a tiny version of you, you are doing all the night feeds. Every single one. That is the tax. I am not ruining my sleep schedule because we have the combined impulse control of two teenagers in the backseat of a Honda Civic."

She rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him through her lashes, the humor softening the stark reality of the risk they’d just taken.

"And if I am pregnant," she added, narrowing her eyes with mock severity, "you owe me a very expensive push present. I’m talking diamonds. Big ones. Something to distract me from the fact that I let you turn my brain into mush and my common sense into dust."

She sighed, patting his cheek with a heavy hand. "We are terrible at being adults. Just... zero stars. Would not recommend."

The sheer, blunt force of her statement—You fucked me without a condom—hit him harder than the slap he’d delivered earlier.

Ben froze, his hand stilling on her back, his heart skipping a beat before hammering a frantic double-time against his ribs. For a split second, the haze of afterglow vanished, replaced by the cold, mathematical panic of a man calculating dates and consequences.

But then she laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, but it was a laugh. And then she poked him in the chest, complaining about night feeds and Honda Civics, and the tension that had been crushing his lungs evaporated.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his head dropping back against the leather cushions as a low, incredulous chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"Jesus, Cleo," he breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the exhaustion. He looked down at her, seeing the spark of humor returning to her eyes, cutting through the glaze of the orgasm. She was back. She was snarky, demanding, and absolutely perfect.

He caught the hand she was using to poke him and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"For the record," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and lingering adrenaline, "I did pull out. It was a photo finish, and I definitely ruined the rug, but I didn't finish inside you."

He paused, cringing slightly at his own defense.

"And yes, I know," he added quickly, cutting off her eye-roll before it could fully form. "I know the 'pull and pray' method has about the same success rate as a coin toss. It’s the 'dog ate my homework' of birth control. I’m not winning any awards for responsibility tonight."

He shifted, his hand sliding under the blanket to rest flat against her stomach. His palm was large, warm, and heavy.

"But I’m not gonna lie," he whispered, his eyes darkening as the image of the last few minutes flashed behind his eyelids. "Watching you come undone like that... seeing the mess I made on your back? It was a beautiful sight, Cleo. A masterpiece. Worth the panic attack, honestly."

He listened to her list of demands—night feeds, diamonds, the tax for his recklessness. He should be terrified. He was a musician in the prime of his career; a baby wasn't on the rider. But looking at her now, wrapped in his blanket with her hair a mess and her lips swollen from his mouth, the idea didn't scare him.

It settled in his chest, warm and heavy.

"Deal," he said simply.

"If there's a tiny version of me in there because I couldn't keep my hands off you? I’ll do every night feed. I’ll buy you the diamonds. I’ll buy you the whole damn mine if you want it."
He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers, the playful glint returning to his eyes.

"But I’m a man with a contingency plan. Or, at least, a man with good observational skills." He smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m ninety percent sure I saw a box of Plan B behind the counter at the general store today. It was right between the beef jerky and the fishing bait."

He kissed the tip of her nose, his expression softening.

"We’ll make a run tomorrow morning. I'll buy the pill, you buy the donuts, and we’ll pretend we’re responsible adults again. But tonight..." He pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Tonight, you just let me hold you. Zero stars or not."

Cleo let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh, the vibration of it rippling through her chest against his. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, savoring the absurdity of the conversation—discussing potential parenthood while she was still naked, sticky, and trembling in his arms.

"A photo finish?" she repeated, the words muffled slightly against his skin. She tilted her head back to give him a look that was equal parts incredulous and affectionate. "You make it sound like the Kentucky Derby.”

She felt the weight of his hand on her stomach, the heat of it seeping through to her skin. His promise about the night feeds—the absolute lack of hesitation in his voice—made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the physical exertion. It was terrifyingly sweet. Too sweet. So, naturally, she had to diffuse it.

"I’m holding you to that," she warned, though her voice was soft, lacking any real bite. "If I end up expanding, I expect you to be a servant to my every whim. I want foot rubs, I want weird cravings satisfied at 3 AM, and I want that mine. I want to be dripping in conflict-free carbon."

When he mentioned the placement of the Plan B at the general store, she actually snorted, the laugh startling a fresh wave of soreness through her ribs.

"Between the beef jerky and the fishing bait?" She shook her head, her cheek rubbing against his chest. "Of course it is. Because nothing says 'responsible family planning' quite like Slim Jims and nightcrawlers. This town is a fever dream."

But when he pivoted to the plan for the morning—we’ll make a run—she stopped him.

She shifted in his lap, wincing just a fraction as her muscles protested, and freed one hand from the cocoon of the blanket. She placed her index finger firmly over his lips, silencing him.

"Stop right there," she murmured, shaking her head slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded but resolute. "There is no 'we' in this expedition."

She burrowed back down, wrapping her limbs around him like a koala, making herself heavy and immovable. She was an anchor; she was a statue; she was not leaving this cabin.

"You," she corrected, poking his chest for emphasis with each word. "You are going. You are going to brave the cold, you are going to buy the emergency contraception located next to the bait, and you are going to buy the donuts. Chocolate frosted. Two dozen."

She closed her eyes again, snuggling deeper into the crook of his neck.

"I, however, am staying right here. In the warmth. Recovering from your 'photo finish.' That is the deal. Take it or leave it."

Her finger pressed against his lips was a small, soft barricade, but the weight of her body settling against him was an ironclad decree.

He felt her limbs lock around him, her breathing evening out against his neck, and he knew he wasn't winning this argument. Not that he wanted to. The fact that she felt safe enough to order him around while naked and wrapped in a blanket like an exhausted burrito was something he cherished.

He let out a soft huff of laughter against her finger, reaching up to gently wrap his hand around hers and pull it away from his mouth. He kissed her palm—a slow, lingering press of his lips against her lifeline—before tucking her hand back under the warmth of the knit throw to keep it from the cool air.

"Loud and clear, boss," he whispered, his voice rumbling against her ear. "I’ll brave the elements. I’ll face the bait-shop owner. I will secure the contraband."

He shifted his legs slightly, accommodating her dead weight, and tightened his arms around the bundle of her.

"Two dozen chocolate frosted," he mused, a smirk playing on his lips even though her eyes were closed. "Aggressive order. I respect it. We’ll eat them in bed until we both slip into a sugar coma."

He looked down at her. The firelight was casting long, dancing shadows across the room, but in the circle of his arms, everything was still. She was right. She shouldn't move. After the way he’d just handled her—the way he’d pinned her, marked her, and taken her apart on the floor—she deserved to be waited on hand and foot for the next century.

But despite the heavy, bone-deep exhaustion settling into his limbs, Ben found that he wasn't ready to close his eyes.

Sleep felt like a waste. Sleep meant fast-forwarding through the time he had fought so hard to get. He had spent months in hotel rooms where the silence was deafening and lonely, wishing he could teleport to exactly this spot. Now that he was here, with the fire crackling and Cleo heavy and warm in his lap, he felt greedy. He wanted to steal a few more minutes. He wanted to exist in the afterglow just a little longer.

He shifted his hand, sliding it up the back of her neck to thread his fingers into the hair at the base of her skull. He began a slow, rhythmic massage, feeling the tension slowly leaching out of her.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice low and raspy.

He felt her hum a vibration against his chest—not quite a word, but an acknowledgment.

"Don't pass out on me yet," he whispered, tilting his head so his cheek rested against her temple. He kept his eyes open, watching the logs shift and settle in the grate. "I’m not done looking at you. And the fire's still good."

He squeezed her waist gently through the blanket, grounding her.

"Besides," he added, a hint of his usual playful arrogance creeping back into his tone, "you still owe me a review on the view. You said it was 'zero stars,' but I felt that squeeze, babe. I think the data is skewed."

Cleo opened her eyes slowly, the firelight dancing in her vision as she gave her head a small, adamant shake against the crook of his arm.

"I’m not sleeping," she murmured, her voice thick with contentment. "Just... resting my eyes. And enjoying the service. It’s not every day a girl gets held with this much care by a genuine rockstar."

She shifted then, not moving away, but adjusting her position as she sat across his lap. He had her cradled securely, his arms forming a protective cage around her, and she leaned back just enough to look him fully in the face. She settled deeper into his hold, feeling the solid muscles of his thighs beneath her and the steady rise and fall of his chest against her side.

Slowly, she worked her hand free from the warmth of the knit blanket. Her fingers, cool from the air, reached up to graze his jawline. She traced the shape of his mouth, her thumb brushing over his lips—the same lips that had just promised her donuts—before drifting upward.

She stopped at the two bold freckles high on his cheekbone.
She rubbed her thumb over them gently, a soft, reverent touch. She knew millions of women screamed for this face. They had posters of it on their walls, zoomed in on photos of these exact freckles on Instagram, obsessed over every inch of him. But they never got to see him like this. Up close. Guard down. Touchable.

She was never a fan before they started dating. She hadn't even known who he was when they met in that sweltering tent at Coachella in 2020. He had just been a guy offering her shade and water, and she had just been a girl trying not to melt. She hadn't known his songs, his fame, or his reputation.

Maybe that’s what made her different. She met the man before she met the musician. She fell for the guy who made sure she was hydrated, not the guy who sold out arenas.

Her hand drifted down from his cheek, trailing over the cords of his neck and down the solid expanse of his chest until she found where his hand was resting against her waist.

She tugged at his wrist gently, guiding his palm underneath the layers of the knit throw until skin met skin. She pressed his hand flat against her bare stomach, covering the back of his hand with her own to keep it there, anchored and heavy.

It wasn't about the earlier teasing. It had nothing to do with the phantom "passenger" or the hypothetical future they had joked about in the heat of the moment. It wasn't about checking for something that wasn't there.

It was just... him.

She loved the sheer weight of his hand. She loved the rough, calloused texture of his fingertips—hard-earned evidence of thousands of hours pressing down on guitar strings—resting against the softness of her belly. It felt grounding. It felt like he was staking a claim, his heat seeping directly into her, reminding her that he was actually here. He wasn't a pixelated face on a Facetime call or a voice across a bad connection anymore. He was flesh and blood, heavy and warm, holding her together.

"Definitely five stars," she whispered, her gaze dropping to watch the slight rise and fall of her own breathing beneath his palm. "I’m keeping the subscription."

She leaned in then, closing the small distance between them until her breath mingled with his.

The first press of her lips against his was barely a touch—a feather-light graze, soft and adoring. It was a silent thank you for the water in the tent five years ago, for the way he held her now, for the quiet he carved out of the noise just for her. She kissed him slowly, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the faint scratch of stubble against her chin, the familiar, comforting taste of him.

Then, she deepened it.

She didn't rush. There was no urgency, no frantic clawing for more. She simply melted into him, tilting her head to deepen the contact, her lips parting just enough to taste him fully. It was a slow, languid slide into intimacy, keeping the heat low but constant—like the embers glowing in the grate beside them. It wasn't about reigniting the fire they’d just spent; it was about tending to the warmth that remained.

She felt the weight of his hand heavy and possessive against her stomach, anchoring her to him as she kissed him with a lazy, deliberate tenderness, pouring every ounce of her affection into the silence between them.

He kissed her back with the same slow, rolling cadence, his mouth moving over hers with a lazy, thorough appreciation.

Earlier, on the floor, he had been trying to consume her. He had been starving. But this? This was savoring. This was the difference between chugging a cheap beer backstage and sipping a whiskey by the fire. He let her lead, let her tongue trace the seam of his lips, let her taste the remnants of the night on him.

He hummed a low sound of approval against her mouth, the vibration rumbling in his chest where she was pressed so tight.

When she guided his hand under the blanket, pressing his palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach, Ben felt something settle deep in his gut. It was a heavy, grounding sensation, like dropping an anchor in rough water.

He splayed his fingers wide, covering as much of her as he could. His skin was rough—calloused from steel strings and abuse—against the impossible softness of her belly. He felt the heat radiating off her, the slight, rhythmic rise and fall of her breath, and beneath that, the faint flutter of her pulse.

It wasn't just about the sex anymore. It wasn't even about the reckless risk they’d taken, though the thought of it still made his heart kick a little harder in his chest. It was about possession.

She was right. The girls screaming in the front row, the ones with his face on their lock screens? They wanted the guy who stood under the lights. They wanted the noise.

But Cleo?

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes drifting shut as he breathed in her scent.

She had met him when he was just a sweaty, exhausted guy in a tent, trying not to pass out from heatstroke. She hadn't asked for a selfie. She hadn't asked for a setlist. She’d just shared her water and looked at him like he was a person.

That was the moment he was hooked. Not when she took her clothes off, not when she kissed him, but when she looked at him without seeing the dollar signs or the billboard.

"Five stars," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy croak that brushed against her lips. "Good. Because the cancellation policy is brutal. You’re locked in, babe. Lifetime contract."

He flexed his hand against her stomach, his thumb brushing back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm over her navel. He loved the way she trusted him with this—her softest parts, her guard completely down.

"You know," he whispered, opening his eyes to look at her, really look at her, in the dying light of the fire. His gaze traced the swell of her lip, the flush on her cheeks, the way she looked at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "That day in the tent... I looked like hell. I smelled like sunscreen and bad decisions. And you still looked at me like this."

He smirked, a crooked, boyish thing that softened the sharp angles of his face.

"That's how I knew," he admitted, his voice dropping to a level of honesty he usually saved for the songwriting journal he kept hidden. "Everyone else wants the encore. You were the only one who wanted the guy who was too tired to play it."

He leaned in, capturing her lips again, but this time with a bit more pressure, a bit more heat. He slid his hand from her stomach around to the small of her back, pressing her closer until there was no air left between them.

"So yeah," he breathed against her mouth. "You get the service. You get the care. You get whatever the hell you want, Cleo. Just keep looking at me like that."

Cleo let out a soft, breathy laugh that vibrated against his mouth, her lips curving into a wide, undeniable grin even as he tried to kiss her seriously.

She slid her hands up from his chest, her fingers gliding over the strong column of his neck to bury themselves deep in his hair. She scratched her nails lightly against his scalp, feeling him shiver under her touch, and her grin widened.

"But let’s not pretend I was blind, Ben. I didn't know who you were, true. I didn't know the songs or the reputation." Her eyes danced with a mixture of mischief and adoration. "But I knew you were hot. You were sitting there, sweating in that tent, smelling like coconut sunscreen and dust, looking absolutely wrecked... and I still thought, 'Well, he’s beautiful.'"

She tugged gently on his hair, tilting his head back just a fraction so she could kiss the corner of his mouth.

"That’s the difference," she whispered, her voice dropping to that intimate register that was just for him. "I didn't want the encore because I was already obsessed with the opening act. I saw the mess, and I wanted it."

She felt the weight of his hand on her lower back, the way he claimed her, and her heart did a traitorous little flip. The idea of a 'lifetime contract' didn't scare her half as much as it should have. In fact, it sounded like the only rider she was interested in signing.

She leaned her forehead against his again, her fingers tightening in his hair, anchoring him to her just as firmly as he was holding her.

"So, consider the terms accepted," she breathed, closing her eyes and soaking in the heat of his skin against hers. "But there’s a clause."

She brushed her lips against his, firm and demanding.
"Never take your hands off of me, Benjamin."

She didn't wait for him to agree to the terms. The playfulness in her eyes darkened into something fiercer, something that matched the raw honesty he’d just given her.

Her other hand slid up from his shoulder, joining the first one. She buried both hands deep in his messy hair now, her fingers curling tight against his scalp, gripping the thick strands like they were the only things keeping her tethered to the earth.

With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, she used that leverage to drag his head down, crashing her mouth against his.

The softness was gone. This wasn't a gentle exploration anymore; it was a claim. She kissed him with a hungry, demanding heat, her lips parting instantly to deepen the contact. She tasted him, her tongue tangling with his, pouring every ounce of her affection and desire into the movement. It was a physical seal on the contract he’d just offered, a way of telling him that she didn't just want the service or the care—she wanted the grit, the exhaustion, and the man beneath it all.

She pulled him harder against her, her grip in his hair tightening, urging him closer, deeper, until the crackling of the fire was drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. She kissed him like she was trying to breathe for both of them.

He didn't just accept the kiss; he surrendered to it.

When her fingers tightened in his hair, dragging him down, a jolt of pure, electric satisfaction arced down his spine. He made a low, rough noise in his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and opened his mouth to her, letting her take exactly what she wanted.

She tasted like expensive wine. She tasted like his.

He loved the way she kissed him when she was like this—fierce, possessive, a little desperate. It was the same energy she’d had on the floor, but focused entirely on his mouth. She wasn't asking for reassurance anymore; she was demanding his presence.

Never take your hands off of me.

The command echoed in his head, louder than the crackling fire. It was the easiest clause he’d ever agreed to.

He shifted his grip instantly, sliding his hands from the blanket to find the warm, bare skin of her waist again. He spread his fingers wide, his thumbs digging into the soft curve of her hips, pulling her hips flush against his. He wanted to merge with her. He wanted to be so close that he couldn't tell whose heart was beating against whose ribs.

He broke the kiss for a split second, just to breathe, his forehead resting heavily against hers, his eyes dark and blown wide.

"You think that's going to be a problem?" he rasped, his voice wrecked and incredulous. "Cleo, I can’t keep my hands off you even when I’m trying to be a gentleman. You think I’m going to stop now?"

He tilted his head, catching her lips again, but slower this time—a deep, rolling grind of his mouth against hers that promised trouble.

"And for the record," he murmured against her bottom lip, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth, "if you thought I was beautiful when I was heat-stroked and covered in dust... then I really have you fooled. But I'm not correcting you."

He moved one hand up her back, tracing the spine he had just marked, his touch possessive but careful.

"The contract is signed, babe," he whispered, nipping lightly at her lower lip. "No take-backs. You wanted the mess? You got him. I'm yours. Every version of me."

He tightened his grip in her hair, mirroring her hold, and pulled her back in. This wasn't just a make-out session on a couch anymore. It was a seal. It was Ben realizing that for the first time in his life, the silence of a cabin in the woods was infinitely louder, and infinitely better, than a screaming crowd.

He kissed her until the fire popped and hissed beside them, until the cold of the window behind them was a distant memory, and until he was absolutely certain she knew he wasn't letting go. Not tonight. Not ever.

Cleo felt a shiver race through her, not from the cold draft of the cabin, but from the raw, possessive rasp of his voice vibrating against her lips. She leaned into his touch, her body molding against his as if she were trying to imprint herself onto him, loving the way his thumbs dug into her hips to keep her anchored.

"Good," she breathed against his mouth, a small, breathless laugh escaping her. "Because 'gentleman' is overrated. I didn't ask for the polite version, Ben. I prefer the guy who can't keep his hands to himself. So don't you dare start practicing restraint now."

She kept her eyes locked on his, dark and dilated, drinking in the honesty he was spilling just for her. When he tried to downplay the memory of the tent, claiming she was fooled by the heat and dust, she shook her head slightly, her fingers tightening in the hair at the nape of his neck to force him to look at her.

"You didn't fool me," she whispered, her voice fierce and low. She brushed her nose against his, unwilling to give up the contact even for a second. "That guy in the tent? The one covered in dust and sweat? That was the most honest thing I’ve ever seen. The magazines, the stage lights, the photoshoots... that’s the trick, Ben. That’s the costume."

She traced the sharp line of his jaw with her thumb, her expression softening into pure, unadulterated adoration.

"I saw the real you first," she told him, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of it. "And you were beautiful because you were real. No filter. No autotune. Just you."

When he declared the contract signed—when he offered her the mess and every broken, tired piece of himself—Cleo felt her heart swell so tight it actually ached behind her ribs.

"I’ll take the mess," she vowed, pressing her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his. "I’ll take the exhaustion. I’ll take the bad days and the hotel rooms and the silence. I’m not looking for a refund, Benjamin. I’m keeping all of it."

She kissed him then, a slow, searing seal on her own promise, letting her tongue tangle with his one last time before she slowly, reluctantly pulled back just an inch. Her arms, however, stayed locked firmly around his neck.

She looked down at herself, then back up at him, a playful, lazy smirk curving her swollen lips.

"But if the contract includes full service," she murmured, her voice dripping with feigned helplessness, "then we have a logistical issue regarding the bedroom."

She nudged her nose against his cheek, whispering into his ear.
"You realize you’ve rendered my legs completely useless, right? After what you did to me on the floor... I don't think I can walk." She tightened her hold on him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You broke me, rockstar. You’re going to have to carry me to bed."