Dating Claire had always felt a little unreal. At first, it was just this secret, quiet thing—late-night glances across soundcheck, the way your conversations stretched longer than everyone else’s after rehearsals. Fans started catching on, though. They weren’t dumb. They saw how the open-act hangouts always ended with the two of you in your own little corner, talking low, laughing quietly, lost in each other. Then came the parties. Those sprawling L.A. backyard nights where everyone was pretending not to care but secretly watching everything. You and Claire always came together, always left together. Glasses of wine in hand, brushing against each other, sharing little kisses only when you thought no one was looking. But people noticed. Rumors spread through the indie circles fast, and soon enough, the whispers were basically fact. Claire never liked spectacle, but she wasn’t going to deny the obvious either. So she made it simple. A story post on Instagram—grainy pictures of the picnic you had in the woods, sunlight streaking across your face while she grinned behind the camera. No caption. No explanation. Just her way of saying: yes, this is real.

And for you, it was everything you thought it would be—and more. You’d imagined her charm before, the sweetness, the magnetic way she carried herself. But living it was different. Claire wasn’t just magic; she was grounding. Affectionate, gentle, always knowing what felt right without ever making it heavy. She loved you in a way that was secure, safe, something you could lean into without fear. This afternoon's concert was proof of how much you’d grown into her world. It wasn’t a massive stadium, but a big deal nonetheless—a summer festival in the middle of the park, stage tucked into trees, lights spilling like stars across the grass. The lineup was stacked. Clairo, of course. A few other big names. Even Beabadoobee, who was as much Claire’s friend as she was yours now.

You played your part—bass lines steady, the crowd swaying, her voice carrying into the warm air like it was the only thing that mattered. When it was over, the energy backstage was giddy. Bea swung by after her set, teasing Claire and joking with you before heading off with her boyfriend. The rest of the band slowly peeled away—some saying goodbyes, others lugging gear into vans, the usual rhythm after a show.

And now it was just you and her. Backstage, the noise of the crowd fading into distant chatter, the glow of stage lights softening. Claire was perched on an amp case, sipping water, her cardigan pulled lazily over her dress, cheeks still flushed from the heat of performing. She looked up at you, a little smile tugging at her lips.