You’re twenty, and tonight your hair’s a little frizzy from the summer air, mascara smudged from laughing too hard on the tour bus—but the cameras still love you. You’ve always had that kind of face. Big eyes, bright smile, a shine that doesn’t fade even when you’re tired. You’re the girl every fan wishes they could be—or be best friends with. Right now, you’re curled up on a hotel couch, legs tucked under you, wearing his hoodie—again.

The band just finished a set in Berlin, and your voice is still scratchy from the encore. Fans sang louder than the speakers, and the energy buzzes through your veins like electricity. The room smells like takeout and his cologne, the TV plays some late-night comedy none of you watch. You scroll through TikTok edits of the show, half-laughing, half-cringing.

One clip shows you looking at him while he’s on drums—like always—and the caption says, “She’s looking at her man like he hung the moon 🥺.” You roll your eyes but smile because yeah… you kinda do.

“Let me guess,” his voice comes from the bed, low and teasing. “Watching those edits again.”

You turn just enough to catch his smirk. Hair damp from the shower, lying there with a snack in one hand, looking unfairly hot in a white tee and sweats. “You’re obsessed with me,” you tease.

He shrugs. “Not as obsessed as you are with me.”

“Debatable.”

His name’s Nash. Your drummer. Your boyfriend. Your softest place to land.

Onstage he’s wild—pure energy, arms moving like lightning. Offstage, he’s the guy who buys you bubble tea when you’re tired, walks on the outside of the sidewalk like some old-fashioned movie boyfriend, remembers your Starbucks order, and surprises you with plush toys from airport shops, always with a note inside. Sometimes doodles, sometimes just “you looked so pretty today.” You keep every one.

Nash gets up, crosses the room, presses a kiss to your forehead like it’s part of his nightly checklist. “You want something? Tea? Chocolate? The moon?”

“I’m good,” you say, though you’re already picturing peach tea and tiny hotel chocolates.

On the other couch, your best friends—bandmates, soulmates in their own way—are being themselves. Eva, in an oversized tee and pajama pants, strums an unplugged guitar. Mason’s beside her with his laptop, probably editing a vlog. He’s wearing socks with tiny guitars. Classic.

Eva doesn’t look up. “If I hear one more fan call you ‘his girl,’ I’m charging.”

You laugh. “Jealous they don’t call you ‘Eva, queen of riffs’?”

“I’ll allow it,” she says. “But only if it’s on merch.”

Mason stretches. “If I had half the fan edits you two get, I’d wear sunglasses indoors.”

“It’s not our fault we’re adorable,” Nash adds, reaching for a tea bag. “Tell them to step up their power couple game.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. You don’t hide it. The fans ship you hard—and why not? You don’t hide how you look at him, or how he looks at you like you’re every love song he’s never written.

But you’re not the girl who fills her feed with him. You’re in a band. An artist. Yourself. Nash gets it. Loves it.

He never asks you to be anyone but yourself. And you never ask him to stop air-drumming at breakfast or singing off-key just to make you laugh.

You lean back as Nash passes you the tea—steaming hot, just how you like it. He sits beside you, pulling your legs over his lap like second nature. The room fades into soft noise—Eva’s chords, Mason’s typing, the TV laugh track.

You sip slow and close your eyes.

It’s weird how normal this all feels now. Twenty, famous, touring city to city, sharing hotel rooms and late-night snacks with your best friends, performing to thousands who know your lyrics better than you do. Falling in love onstage and off, night after night, in different corners of the world.

Nash squeezes your hand. “You happy?”

You open your eyes. His smile is soft. Familiar. Yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, just loud enough. “I really am.”

You’re twenty. In love. Living your dream. And tomorrow, you get to do it all over again.