It includes me finding excuses to sit next to her. Always next to her. Whether we’re passing time on the bus or killing hours backstage, I’vegot one eye on the setlist and the other on the way she curls her knees up when she reads.
We’ve got a routine now.
Before shows, she’ll help Annie run over the social posts, or make fun of DeShawn’s pre-gig affirmations ("You’re a goddess, you’ve got this, hydrate or die-drate"). She’ll pretend to gag when Lucas sprays himself with too much cologne, then steal his gummy bears anyway. And when the lights go down and we take the stage?
She’s always there. Side stage. Watching.
I can feel her eyes on me, even through the fog machines and the screaming crowd. There’s something about it that grounds me. Makes me feel like I’m performing for someone who actually matters.
After the show, we fall into our own little orbit. She waits for me with water and a knowing smile. I pull her in for a kiss before the adrenaline has time to fade.
And when the others head to the bar or back to the hotel, we sometimes sneak off.
Once, to a twenty-four-hour bookstore in Portland where she dared me to read Brontë in a dramatic British accent. (I did. Poorly.) Once, to the roof of the venue with a bottle of wine and a blanket, where we watched satellites skate across the sky like they had somewhere more important to be.
But it’s not always big moments.
Sometimes it’s me helping her hunt for her misplaced phone charger under a pile of guitar pedals. Or her handing me painkillers before I even ask, because she can see I overdid it on stage. It’s the way she slips her hand into mine when no one’s looking. Or how she pretends not to notice when I pull her into my pod just to have her close.
It’s the way her shampoo clings to my pillows now.
The way her laughter changes the sound of the bus.
The way she teases me for having too many black T-shirts, but wears them to bed anyway.
And the way she comes for me when we take pleasure from each other—God.
The sex has woven itself into the fabric of tour life for me.
Sometimes, it’s frenzied—after a show, when the adrenaline’s still raw and I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me from side stage. Eyes dark, lips parted, hands clenching the edge of the curtain like she wanted to drag me off the stage by my collar.
Sometimes it’s slow. Stretching into hours that blur beneath the low thrum of the road. In my bunk, lights dimmed, her breath soft and close, her fingers trailing over my chest like she’s memorizing the map of me.
We’ve gotten good at being quiet.
She bites her lip now—just a little—when she’s about to come. Fists the sheets or buries her face in my shoulder. Once, she actuallyapologizedafter, like she’d gotten too loud. I told her if she ever muffles a moan again I’ll make her start from scratch and earn it proper.
She slapped my arm.
I kissed her so deep we both forgot our names for a minute.
It’s not just the sex. It's the routine of it. The trust of it. The comfort in knowing that when the doors close and the lights are off and the world shrinks to this bus and this bunk and this moment—she’s there. Warm. Wanting. Mine.
It’s the way her breath hitches when I kiss the back of her knee.
The way she digs her nails into my shoulder when I tell her what I want to do to her next.
The way she tugs me into the shower with her after a long show, just so we can laugh and steam up the glass and maybe fuck with the water still running down our spines.
And then there are mornings.
When I wake up with her legs tangled in mine, her body pressed to my chest, her palm splayed over my ribs like she’s keeping me grounded.
She always stirs first. Always tries to move without waking me.
She never succeeds.
I usually catch her ankle, drag her back into bed, and murmur something filthy in her ear until she’s laughing and breathless and right back where she belongs.
