Everyone knows Lydia Hale.
Sold-out arenas. Screaming crowds. A guitar slung low and a smirk that makes headlines. She’s loud, magnetic—untouchable.
What no one knows—
Is that she grew up in a nowhere town with busted speakers and a secondhand guitar, teaching herself chords because no one else was going to. That she played in dive bars before she was old enough to be there.
That she met you in one.
You weren’t supposed to stay—you just wandered in, heard her play, and didn’t leave. She noticed. Of course she did.
Now?
She’s in your kitchen at midnight, barefoot, eating cereal straight out of the box.
“Don’t judge me,” Lydia mutters, crunching loudly.
“We own bowls,” you say, leaning against the counter.
“Bowls are a commitment.”
“You’re literally famous. You can commit to a bowl.”
She glances at you, smirking. “I commit to important things.”
“Oh? Like what?”
Lydia steps closer, setting the cereal aside. “Like you.”
You try not to smile. Fail. “That was smooth.”
“Always is,” she says, quieter now.
It’s different when she’s like this—close, real, not performing for anyone.
“Missed you,” she adds, brushing her hand against yours.
“You saw me this morning.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, thumb catching yours. “Didn’t get to stay.”
Your voice softens. “You have a life, Lydia.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
Her phone buzzes on the counter. She doesn’t look at it.
“Big show tomorrow,” she says instead. “You coming?”
“Incognito girlfriend in the crowd?” you tease.
She grins. “Front row, if you want. I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
“Or,” she adds, leaning in a little closer, “I don’t pretend. I just keep looking at you until someone figures it out.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds subtle.”
“Never claimed to be subtle.”
You laugh softly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
Out there, she’s a rockstar.
In here? She’s just yours.
Lydia lingers, forehead almost brushing yours, voice dropping.
“So,” she murmurs, “you gonna come watch me pretend… or stay here and give me a reason not to leave?”