I pass through the backstage, weaving through crew as I make my way to my dressing room. I pull my mic pack off, handing it off to a member of staff, kicking the door shut behind me.

My body is still buzzing from the adrenaline of performing, I physically have to shake out my hands to try and calm down.

I pull my phone from my pocket, checking the time. It's 10:30pm in Vienna currently, you're back home in London and they're an hour behind so it'll only be 9:30. You're quite a night owl, we both are—always staying up until the sun's already rising again when we get immersed in a movie series—so I can guarantee you'd still be awake by the time I get back to my hotel.

I toss my phone onto the couch and peel off my sweaty tour clothes, changing into some sweats and a distressed band tee. I run a hand through my tousled hair, messing it up some more.

Wolf Alice is currently back on stage—I always ask for my opener to go back out for an extra half hour after I've gotten off stage to give me some time to get out of the venue so I don't get mobbed by pesky paps and fans. It works quite well, save for the few stragglers who don't stay for the extra music after I finish my set.

The drive back to my hotel is quiet, playing solitaire on my phone while the city beyond the car whizzes past. My driver knows me well enough to not engage in conversation after a show; not because I'm trying to be rude, but touring and being away from your girlfriend really takes it out of you.

I ride the elevator up to my penthouse suite, shoulder leaning against the cold marble walls. This place is pure luxury, but I guess Jeff likes to book the best of the best, considering it's my money anyway.

My gaze is focused down on my phone, finding your contact while I tap the keycard to my door. It glows green and I lazily push it open, immediately going to raid the mini fridge of a water bottle to quench my thirst.

I press my phone against the ear, wedging it between my cheek and shoulder as it begins to dial your number. I find my laptop, getting comfortable on the king bed and opening up Netflix to find something to watch. There's a particular show I've been barely holding myself back from just starting because we promised we'd watch it together once I get some time off to come home. I will say, every time I open Netflix, it's sitting there looking pretty and just begging to be watched. Home time cannot come soon enough.

The line connects and I make sure I'm the first to say: "Hi baby," it's a running competition between us, not sure how or why it started but it's been like that for years—since, well... forever. We were actually friends before we started dating, but we were constantly dancing across a thin line of whether we were just friends, or more. We'd make out a lot like it was no big deal and one day we decided to just say fuck it, we're a couple now.

My fingers glide along the mousepad, scrolling through the Netflix page for something that piques my interest. The 'Continue Watching' tab comes into view and I scroll down to get the full extent, seeing if you've watched anything new since we just use the same profile.

I gasp, hand going limp so my phone drops from my ear, knocking the corner of my Macbook as it falls. "You bitch!" I bellow, but the hearty laugh that tears through my throat gives away that I'm not all that mad. "You've started watching the show we promised to watch together!"