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Willa hadn’t expected to feel this much.

Maybe that was foolish. Maybe it was impossible not to when the air thrummed with bass and sweat and the kind of electricity that only came from watching someone you loved do exactly what they were born to do. But still—she hadn’t expected this.

Not the lump in her throat.
Not the burn in her chest.
Not the way her fingers curled tighter around the backstage curtain like it might anchor her to the moment.

Germany was a blur. They’d only been in town a day, most of which had been swallowed by gear checks and lighting tests and media chaos. She barely remembered dinner, or how many languages she’d awkwardly tripped through just trying to find the right hallway backstage.

But she remembered the hotel room.

Their room.

The one from all those years ago, when she’d shown up without warning and Blake had opened the door like he’d been waiting for her ever since. The room hadn’t changed much. Different sheets. New paint. Same narrow window with that view of the river she used to trace with her fingertip while he slept.

She hadn’t meant to feel nostalgic. But Blake had that effect on her. He always had.

Tonight, he’d insisted she watch from the side of the stage—back behind the rigged lights and sound monitors where no fans could see her. “I want you right there when I come off,” he’d said, voice low against her ear. “First face I see.”

So she’d stayed.

And now?
Now she was so glad she had.

He was electric tonight. Voice raw and magnetic, moving across the stage like he owned the dirt beneath it. The crowd surged with him, word for word, pulse for pulse, feeding off every note. Willa swayed with it from the shadows, mouthing along, heart thudding like it wanted to be in the pit.

Then—like a spark skipping out of the fire—he changed the set.

She saw it before she heard it. A brief glance toward his bassist. A nod. A grin.

And then—

Today is gonna be the day that they’re gonna throw it back to you…

Willa’s breath caught.

Oh my God.

It was Wonderwall.

A song he never played live. A song his band had only recently covered in the studio as a joke, tucked into the tail end of an EP with zero promo. A song Blake once caught her singing under her breath while brushing her teeth at three a.m., still half asleep and swaying in his hoodie.

Her hand flew to her mouth, instinctively. She laughed—quietly, disbelieving—while the stage lit up around him, and he leaned into the mic like he was telling the whole damn world her secret.

She didn’t notice the rest of the band looking her way.

Not yet.

Not until the final chorus swelled—familiar, gorgeous, theirs—and right before the short instrumental kicked in, Blake disappeared.

He slipped off his mark like he’d done it a thousand times, ducked behind the amp stack, and suddenly—he was there.

Right in front of her.

Chest rising. Face flushed. Grinning like he was about to do something stupid and perfect.

Willa blinked, startled. “What are you—”

And then she saw it.

The ring.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held it out, grinning, one eyebrow raised like you in or what, Riot Soul?

Her heart stopped.
Then stumbled.
Then soared.

Thirty seconds. That’s all he had.

But it was enough.

Willa’s eyes burned. Her breath hitched. And then—she let out a breathless laugh, biting her lower lip so hard it hurt.

“Yes,” she whispered, eyes locked on his, hand already reaching for his shirt like she couldn’t help it.

Then she smacked his chest lightly, tears and laughter mixing in her voice.

“You absolute asshole,” she said, almost giddy. “You couldn’t have waited one more song?”

He just grinned wider, kissed the side of her head in one quick motion, and turned back toward the stage.

Already gone before she could fully catch her breath.

And Willa stood there, shaking, grinning, eyes full of stars and heart full of him—a ring on her finger, the crowd still singing, and the boy who never once let her forget that even in the dark, they were always the light.

Blake had never been good at waiting.

Not when it came to her.

From the second he saw Willa standing side stage, half-shadowed by cables and velvet drapes, he knew. The setlist could change. The timing could shift. Hell, the world could fall apart mid-bridge. But the second her eyes found his—wide, wondering, lit from within—he wasn’t going to wait another song. Another minute.

She was it.

She’d always been it.

And yeah, maybe dropping a proposal mid-show was unhinged.

Maybe it was chaos.

But so was he.

And she’d loved him through every last second of it.

So as the opening chords of Wonderwall rolled out across the crowd, he grinned like a man with a secret and nodded to the band. They knew what to do. The lights dipped just a little warmer. The drums softened. The moment stretched.

And then—

He vanished.

Slipped off his mark, around the amps, sneakers ghosting across years of history and too many almosts. Every beat of his heart felt like a countdown, but not the kind that ended in an explosion.

The kind that landed here.

In front of her.

His Willa.

His wild thing with the soft voice and the fire-heart. The one who sang love songs with her eyes closed and cursed him out with his own lyrics. The one who stayed—even when he tried to run. Especially then.

She looked up, stunned, laughing. And when she caught sight of the ring, she froze.

Blake didn’t speak.

He just dropped to one knee.

Right there in the dust and the light spill, with thirty seconds and the biggest grin he’d ever worn in his life.

Then he held out the ring, heart pounding, smile tugging crooked at his mouth.

“Hey, Riot Soul,” he said, breathless. “Marry me?”

She stared.

And for a second, all the noise dropped out—the crowd, the lights, the rest of the damn world.

It was just her.

And him.

And the ring he’d been hiding for weeks in a sock drawer labeled “DO NOT OPEN UNLESS ON FIRE.”

He kept going, voice low, warm, utterly sincere.

“I’ve written a thousand songs trying to explain what you are to me, and I still don’t have the words. But I know this—”

His eyes never left hers.

“You’re home. You’re peace. You’re every chorus I want to live inside.”

He laughed a little, nerves fraying the edges of his voice.

“I don’t care where we do it. Backyard, courthouse, middle of a mosh pit. Just… be mine. Always.”

And then—she said yes.

Of course she said yes.

Even as she smacked his chest and called him an asshole through tears.

Blake laughed, full and wild, stood up and kissed her like he was sealing a pact. His hands cradled her jaw for just a second longer than the moment allowed. Then he whispered against her hair:

“I’ll make it up to you with a whole album. Just you. Just us.”

And then—

He was gone again, back on stage, guitar slung back into place like nothing had happened.

But everything had.

Because backstage, just out of the spotlight, Willa Jameson was still standing with a ring on her finger, her heart in her throat, and Blake Maddox’s love written into her bones.

Willa couldn’t move at first.

She stood there, off-stage, half-swallowed by shadows and string lights, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she was holding her heart in place. The other trembled slightly, fingers flexing around the cool weight of the ring now shining on her finger.

Blake was already gone.

Back on stage, his voice spilling into the night like nothing had happened—like the entire universe hadn’t just tilted on its axis backstage in the middle of a 30-second instrumental.

The crowd had no idea.

But the crew?

Oh, they knew.

She could feel them watching. From behind drum crates, through headset mics, across tangled cables and water bottles and wireless guitar packs—everyone in the wings was trying very hard to look busy while grinning like complete idiots.

One of the lighting techs gave her a thumbs-up so exaggerated it bordered on mime-level enthusiasm. The stage manager—usually stone-faced—wiggled his brows like a sitcom uncle and mouthed “about time.”

Willa blinked. Then blinked again.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath, pressing her hand harder to her sternum. “What the hell just happened?”

The audio assistant next to her—barely nineteen and definitely trying not to squeal—offered her a folded towel and a bottle of water like she’d just run a marathon. Which, emotionally speaking, wasn’t that far off.

“Y-you good?” she asked, eyes wide.

Willa just nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I’m… yeah.”

But her voice cracked a little, because damn it, she was still wrecked.

From the rush. From the way Blake had looked at her. From the way he hadn’t said much—but somehow said everything.

She lowered onto a road case like her legs needed a minute to remember how knees worked. Someone—probably the bass tech—passed her a pack of tissues like it was a sacred offering.

She wiped her eyes quickly, biting down a laugh-sob that came out sounding like a choke.

God. He’d done it. He’d really done it.

Proposed to her during Wonderwall.

The fucker.

She glanced at the ring again—brushed white gold, smoky and soft, catching the red-and-gold spill of stage lights like a secret—and her throat tightened all over again.

Then—

She heard him.

Blake’s voice—strong, cracked at the edges, carrying that last verse like a confession he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding…”

The crowd roared with him now, thousands of voices echoing what had just become theirs.

“There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how…”

Willa closed her eyes for a second, pressing her lips together as the song built around her—his voice and the crowd’s, the lights blooming across the smoke-thick stage like something holy.

And then, clear as ever:

“Because maybe…”

She opened her eyes again, just in time to see him step to the edge of the stage, sweat-damp curls falling into his eyes, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth even as he sang the last line like it meant everything.

“…you’re gonna be the one that saves me.”

Pause. Kick of the drums. And then—

“And after all…”

He turned just slightly, just enough that the edge of his gaze caught hers across the chaos.

“You’re my wonderwall.”

The final chord rang out and the crowd exploded.

Cheers. Applause. Arms raised and shoulders shaking with the high of it.

But Blake didn’t let it linger.

He nodded once to his band, breathless, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, and motioned to the drummer.

No banter. No thank-you speech. No delay.

The kickdrum thudded again.

And the final song began.

The real closer.

Something harder. Faster. Loud and raw and pure Blake Maddox—like he needed to shake off the proposal adrenaline before his heart gave out.

And Willa?

She stood again, gripping the curtain edge with one hand, the other still curled around the ring he’d just placed on her finger.

Eyes shining.
Chest heaving.
Heart already gone.

Because tonight?

She wasn’t just the girl in the wings anymore.

She was the girl he came running back to.

And she always would be.

Blake’s lungs were burning.

From the run. From the stage lights. From the goddamn miracle that had just happened off-stage like some fever dream he barely had the words to name.

But mostly?

From her.

Because even as the crowd howled and his guitar roared and his band locked into the final track with the kind of precision only chaos could teach, all he could see was her.

Willa Jameson. Backstage. Hand to her chest like she was keeping the world from falling out of it.

And the ring?

Still on her finger.

He’d done that.

He’d made the music pause and bent time just long enough to ask the girl who’d been singing his name in quiet moments and middle-of-the-night memories to stay. To stay for good. To marry the idiot who once tried to flirt by challenging her to a tequila shot contest.

(Which he lost. Spectacularly.)

His hands moved on autopilot now—strumming, commanding, leading the finale with grit and fire—but his eyes?

God, his eyes.

They kept flicking toward the shadows. Toward her. Toward that wildflower soul in combat boots who looked like she’d just survived a category-five emotion hurricane.

And won.

He didn’t need to hear her answer.

She’d said it without saying a word.

The second her fingers curled into his hoodie.
The second she grinned through those tears and called him an asshole.
The second she looked at that ring like it was home.

Yeah.

That was his yes.

And holy hell, he was going to spend the rest of his life earning it.

He hit the last chord of the set like it owed him rent, sweat flying, voice raw, and heart not even remotely recovered. The crowd surged with him, but Blake didn’t raise his arms or throw his pick into the pit. He just turned, breath catching in his throat—

And looked for her again.

There.

Still at the curtain.
Still watching.

His Wonderwall.

When the final feedback faded and the lights dipped to blackout, Blake didn’t wait for the stage hands or the tech wrap. He was already moving—half-jog, half-sprint—right back to her.

And when he reached her?

No words.

Just arms.

He scooped her up like he’d earned the lift, burying his face in her shoulder with a hoarse, breathless laugh.

“You stayed,” he whispered, dizzy with adrenaline and her shampoo and the fact that she was still wearing his damn hoodie. “You said yes.”

Then, pulling back just enough to see her face, his voice cracked again—softer, but still him:

“Hey, uh… just checking, but… you’re not saying yes just because I sang Wonderwall in front of fifteen thousand drunk Germans, right?”

His smile turned teasing, warm and wicked.

“Because if so, I might have to add ‘Oasis cover band’ to my resume.”

He kissed her forehead—quick and reverent—before nodding toward the ring, voice low again.

“You sure, Wills?”

His thumb brushed her cheek, his eyes locked on hers like the world stopped existing past her answer.

“Because I meant every word. You’re the one. Always have been.”

Willa didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because she couldn’t.

Not with her heart doing somersaults in her chest like it had just been plugged into the amps.

Not with the taste of electricity still in the air, her pulse still syncopated with the kickdrum echoing in her ribs.

Not when Blake Maddox—stage-slick and star-eyed and hers—was looking at her like she was the encore he’d been chasing since the first song he ever wrote.

She was supposed to be cool.

Collected.

Maybe a little smug.

But nope. All bets were off the second he scooped her into that post-show adrenaline hurricane and whispered you stayed like she hadn’t spent the last five years tethered to every version of him that ever dared to burn too bright.

So now?

Now she was full-blown, mascara-smudged, breath-stolen wreckage.

“Blake fucking Maddox,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying as she stared up at him—hair wild, cheeks flushed, that goddamn ring still glinting on her finger like it was made of every bridge and chorus and 3 a.m. lyric they’d ever survived. “You absolute nightmare in glitter. I should punch you.”

She didn’t.

She kissed him instead—quick, fierce, a little unhinged. The kind of kiss that said I know exactly who you are, and I’m still all in.

And when she pulled back, breathless, voice shaking with something that wasn’t nerves anymore—it was joy—she pressed her palm to his chest.

Right over the heartbeat that had always sung in time with hers.

“Of course I said yes,” she whispered, eyes wide and burning. “I’ve been saying yes since the moment you let me hijack your couch with a bottle of wine and my emotional trauma playlist.”

She blinked, laughed through it.

“And just for the record? I would’ve said yes even if you proposed in your boxers in a hotel hallway eating pretzels. But you—” she poked his chest, grinning like she was trying not to combust, “—you went full festival proposal chaos with a Wonderwall fake-out? You asshole.”

He started to say something—some smug little reply, probably—but she shut him up with another kiss, softer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that tasted like every stupid fight they’d survived and every forever they still had coming.

Then she leaned her forehead against his, brushing her nose against his just because she could now. Because this was hers.

“I’m so sure, Blake,” she murmured. “It’s terrifying.”

A pause.

“And perfect.”

Another pause, a hiccup of laughter catching in her throat.

“And I swear to God if I see one ‘Oasis Cover Band’ demo in your email drafts, I’m eloping solo with the ring and a speaker that only plays our demos on loop.”

She brushed her thumb under his eye, catching the edge of whatever emotion he was still trying to blink back, then whispered so only he could hear it:

“You’re my always. There was never anyone else.”

She didn’t say thank you for asking me.

She said it with the look. The touch. The way her hand found his again and didn’t let go.

Let the rest of the world exist outside the curtain.

For now?

She was going to kiss her fiancé until someone physically pulled them apart.

And even then?

She’d still be humming Wonderwall.

Blake was done for.

Absolutely, unapologetically ruined in the best goddamn way.

Because Willa—his Willa—was standing there with mascara warpaint, a ring on her finger, fire in her chest, and chaos in her kiss, and all he could think was this is it.

This was the moment his whole life bent toward without him even realizing it.

She kissed him like a warning. Like a promise. Like she was going to love him whether he was ready or not—and hell, he was ready. Always had been. From that first disaster night on his couch to the chaos in Berlin, he’d been saying yes to her in every lyric and every late-night voice memo he never sent.

But now?

Now she’d said yes back.

He laughed into her kiss, forehead still pressed to hers, arms locked around her like he couldn’t decide whether to dance or drop to his knees.

Instead, he whispered:

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna kill me.”

But he was grinning. That full-body, stupid-happy, I’m-the-luckiest-son-of-a-bitch-on-earth kind of grin.

“I don’t even care. That was worth everything.”

He stole another kiss—quick and dizzying, his hands framing her face like the stage lights hadn’t faded and the world wasn’t still spinning without them.

Then, a mock-wounded gasp.

“Nightmare in glitter? Babe, rude. I wore matte shimmer tonight, thank you very much.”

He leaned back just far enough to look at her hand again—his ring, their ring, glowing under the stage spill like it had been waiting for her all along. He kissed her knuckles. Every one of them.

“Can’t believe you said yes. Well—actually I can, because I’m objectively incredible—but still. You could’ve said no. Would’ve been real awkward with fifteen thousand people watching me spiral mid-solo.”

He looked up at her again, all teasing gone from his voice now.

“But you didn’t.”

A breath.

“You never do.”

He touched his forehead to hers again, the noise of the crew and the crowd fading to white static behind them.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life writing songs about this moment. About you. About the way you looked at me just now like I was your whole damn setlist.”

He laughed—choked and breathless, more emotion than sound—and added, softer:

“Promise not to pitch all of them to my Oasis cover band, though. Maybe just… the wedding version.”

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his nose against hers.

“You’re it for me, Wills. You’ve always been it. The end of every bridge. The last word in every verse.”

Then he took her hand again, the one with the ring, and pressed it against his chest—right over that rhythm she always knew.

“You feel that?”

Beat. Beat. Beat.

“That’s yours.”

And then he kissed her.

Not just because he could. Not just because she was his fiancée now (Jesus, fiancée). But because this kiss? This one said I’m never letting go.

Not even if the amps blow. Not even if the world burns.

Because in every version of forever?

It’s still her.

Blake didn’t let go of her hand.

Not once.

Even as the stage faded behind them and the roar of the crowd turned into a muted thunder, even as wires and water bottles and road cases blurred past in streaks of backstage chaos—he kept Willa close. Like the second he stopped touching her, the whole thing might turn out to be a dream.

So yeah. He held on.

And then?

He looped his arm around her shoulders like it was second nature—like she belonged there, tucked into his side, every inch of her pressed against the afterglow of the moment they’d just lived. His fingers curled into the curve of her arm, pulling her in tight as they walked, step in step, through the buzzing backstage maze.

He bumped fists with his people as they passed—his bassist mouthing finally with a wink, his guitar tech flashing a thumbs-up so enthusiastic it almost turned into a high-five. Blake just grinned, still riding the high, still half-drunk on adrenaline and the way Willa kept looking at him like she was trying to memorize this version of him forever.

Security guided them to the backdoor—fast, practiced, like this wasn’t their first post-show escape—but this time, everything felt different.

Because outside?

The fans were screaming. Louder than ever. Hands reaching, flashes popping, signs waving. A few had already caught wind of what happened—he could hear someone yelling she said yes! like it was gospel.

But none of them could reach her.

Not right now.

Not here.

Blake kept her tucked into his side as the security line parted for them, his free hand raised in a casual wave. And when they reached the tour bus steps, he didn’t even hesitate.

He stopped. Turned toward her. Dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

“After you, future Maddox.”

His voice was low, cheeky, sweet.

And he held out his hand with a small flourish, like she was royalty boarding a getaway chariot.

Once she climbed the steps, he followed—two at a time—into the quiet hum of the bus. Away from the crowd. Away from the noise.

And straight into the future they’d just carved out, one lyric at a time.

Willa couldn’t feel her legs.

Or maybe she could and they just weren’t listening—still drunk off adrenaline and mascara tears and the fact that Blake freaking Maddox had just proposed to her mid-song like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

And she’d said yes.

God. She’d said yes.

The ring felt too heavy and too light all at once. Like a secret and a spotlight. Like a promise written in ink she’d never want to wash off.

She barely remembered climbing the steps onto the bus. Only that his hand never left hers. Only that his voice—“After you, future Maddox”—was still fluttering around her ribs like a damn bird that hadn’t figured out how to land yet.

They passed through the front lounge, dodging grins and half-hidden applause from crew members pretending not to stare. She heard someone whisper “about time,” and someone else quietly lose a bet. Blake just kept his head low and his smile soft, leading her like they were sneaking away from their own wedding.

He opened the door to the back lounge and ushered her inside.

Privacy.

Sanctuary.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Willa finally let the breath go.

And then another.

And then—

She laughed.

The kind of laugh that cracked open her chest and spilled joy all over the floor. Wild. Unfiltered. Over the moon. She pressed both hands to her face and sank down onto the futon like her knees had just remembered they were decorative.

“You’re actually insane,” she breathed out, grinning so hard it hurt. “Like, clinically. Who does that mid-set? Who proposes during Wonderwall?!”

She looked up at him, eyes gleaming, lips still parted in disbelief.

“Do you know how feral I’m about to go every time that song plays now? I hope you’re ready for the absolute menace you just created.”

She tugged him closer, dropped her head to his chest, and just held. Like if she let go, the universe might change its mind.

Her voice was gentler now, threading the space between them.

“I knew I’d say yes the second I saw that stupid look on your face,” she said into his shirt. “You didn’t even need the ring. Just that look. Like I’m the only thing you’ve ever been sure about.”

She lifted her head, cupped his face in both hands, and smiled like the future had already started.

“I don’t need fireworks or a castle or a cathedral, Blake. I just want you. Screaming over rehearsal tracks. Stealing my socks. Leaving love notes in my guitar case and getting distracted every time I walk into the room. I want all of it. Loud and messy and ours.”

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone.

“So yeah. I’m in. I’ve been in. From the first time you looked at me like I was the chorus you couldn’t shake.”

And softer now—barely more than a breath:

“I think my soul’s been singing about you for years.”

She kissed him.

Slow. Fierce. Certain.

Then leaned back with a hiccup-laugh and mock glare.

“Also, if you ever pull some reckless, heart-exploding shit like that again without warning, I will throw your skinny jeans into the Rhine.”

She shoved his shoulder playfully before curling into his side, the ring catching the glow of the fairy lights above.

And this time?

She didn’t say anything else.

Just breathed in the quiet.

Just let it settle.

Because this—Blake beside her, her hand in his, the weight of the moment still clinging to her skin like glitter and smoke—was enough.

More than enough.

It was everything.

Blake leaned back against the door for a second after it clicked shut, watching her with that grin—his Willa grin—the one that only ever showed up when she was happy like this. Shining from the inside out. Laughing like her bones had finally exhaled.

God, she was beautiful.

Completely wrecked. Mascara under her eyes, hair wild from the humidity and the stage lights, still wearing the black boots she swore were “comfy enough, shut up, Maddox”—and he’d never loved her more.

“You think I’m insane?” he said, kicking off his boots and padding toward her, eyes still dancing. “You’re the one who said yes knowing I own five pairs of glitter pants and once tried to stage dive into a crowd of middle-aged dads in Prague.”

He dropped down onto the futon beside her like his entire body was still buzzing, half-wrapped his arm around her waist, and let out a laugh of his own—deep, chest-shaking, full. Like her joy had spilled into him and taken root.

“I had a whole other plan, you know,” he murmured, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Candles. String lights. Something Pinterest would’ve died over.”

He kissed the side of her head.

“But then I looked at you backstage, clutching that curtain like you were about to either throw up or propose to me—and I just… couldn’t wait.”

His voice dropped a little, went softer, like maybe he was talking more to her heartbeat than her ears.

“Didn’t need a perfect moment. Just needed you in it.”

He reached for her hand, tracing the ring with his thumb.

“I’ve never been sure of anything the way I’m sure of you, Wills. You’re not just the chorus I couldn’t shake—you’re the whole damn song. The melody I didn’t know I was playing for until you started singing along.”

A pause. Then:

“And for the record?” He leaned in, forehead brushing hers. “You go feral every time any song plays. It’s part of your charm.”

He kissed her again—quick and messy this time, smiling against her mouth—and pulled her fully into his lap without ceremony, wrapping both arms around her like he was anchoring himself.

“I want the loud. The messy. The socks and the scribbled notes and you yelling at me for stealing the last slice of pizza again.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I want hotel rooms and studio floors and tour bus naps and losing every argument because you weaponize the eyebrow raise.”

Then he glanced down at the ring again, still a little awed.

“You said yes,” he whispered, like he needed to hear it one more time. “You really said yes.”

He tucked her even closer.

“And just so we’re clear, I’d let you throw all my skinny jeans into the Rhine if it meant waking up next to you with that look on your face.”

A beat.

Then, grinning again: “…Okay, maybe not all of them. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He tipped her backward gently so she landed in his arms, tangled in laughter and fairy lights and the quiet hum of their new forever.

“God, I love you,” he said into her hair, the words so soft they barely made it past his lips.

Willa couldn’t sit still.

She was practically vibrating—part adrenaline, part emotional whiplash, and mostly Blake freaking Maddox being the most infuriatingly, wildly, recklessly romantic human she had ever laid eyes on.

She was in his lap before she could even pretend to be chill, legs thrown across his, her hands cupping his stupidly beautiful face like she couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or strangle him with joy. Her laugh was all breath and disbelief and glittery chaos as she leaned in, eyes wide and wild and burning with that very specific brand of love that had always belonged to him.

“Oh my God, you idiot,” she breathed, nose bumping his. “You really proposed mid-set, didn’t even give me a chance to ugly cry in peace—just threw a ring at me and grinned like a feral golden retriever on a sugar bender.”

She kissed him once. Hard. Then again, gentler. Like she didn’t quite trust the world not to blink and make it all disappear.

“And you know what’s worse?” she whispered, dropping her forehead to his. “You were right. About everything. About this moment. About me not needing a Pinterest moment with string lights and violins—though, for the record, if you ever serenade me with a violin, I will walk into traffic.”

Her hands slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him smirk, her voice dropping into something soft and sincere beneath all the teasing.

“But you were right. All I needed was you.”

She pulled back just enough to flash him that wicked grin—the one that had gotten her into trouble on four continents.

“And this hotel room? Oh, it makes sense now. You had plans, Maddox.” She arched a brow, legs tightening around his waist just slightly, smug as hell. “The sentimental value and the room service menu? Real smooth.”

Blake just laughed and pulled her closer, arms banded around her waist like they had nowhere else to be. And honestly? They didn’t. Not yet.

So they stayed.

Curled together in the dim hum of the bus, surrounded by empty water bottles and forgotten setlists and the quiet creak of the road beneath them.

Willa tangled her fingers with his and studied the ring again—how it looked in the low light, how it caught on the strands of her hair, how it felt like a weight and a promise and a beginning.

“Gonna be real hard to top this for our honeymoon,” she murmured, voice lazy now, softer with the weight of the moment settling in. “Unless you plan on skydiving into a volcano and proposing again mid-flight.”

Blake made some ridiculous sound—half-snort, half groan—and buried his face in her shoulder. She let him stay there, her fingers drifting over the nape of his neck, tracing lines only she knew.

“I can’t believe I get to marry you,” she said after a minute, more to herself than anything.

It was breathless. Honest. No armor. No deflection. Just her, open and wrecked and completely in love.

“I mean—I can. Obviously. Because I’m a menace and you’re a menace and together we’re unstoppable chaos with too many guitars and a disturbing number of inside jokes. But still.”

She held up her hand again, watching the way the ring shifted in the low light. It sparkled like it knew it had just been part of something cinematic.

“I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Even when I was pretending not to be.”

She leaned in, forehead pressed to his, and whispered like a secret:

“Now shut up and kiss me again.”

And he did.

Slow this time. Deep. Like every unsent voice memo, every missed moment, every lyric he never let her hear finally found its way home.

They stayed like that. A tangle of limbs and heat and wonder. Letting time slow down. Letting the noise stay outside. Her boots kicked off and forgotten on the floor. His hands tracing the edge of her jaw like he couldn’t believe she was real. They didn’t need the hotel yet. Didn’t need champagne or rose petals or fireworks.

Just this.

Just them.

And the promise of forever, humming under their skin like a song only they knew how to sing.