You’re running on four hours of sleep, two oat lattes, and the buzz of last night’s sold-out show still humming somewhere behind your teeth. The makeup chair’s too warm, the dressing room mirror’s fogged over, and your throat’s a little sore from that third encore — the one you swore you wouldn’t do again, but did anyway.

You were tuning your guitar when he walked in, your nerves building like waves under your skin. The kind of pressure that feels like it might split you open. First sold-out show. First real venue. First time the industry people would be watching from the wings, half-smiling with clipboards in hand.

And then there was him.

Timothée, in a hoodie probably two sizes too big, carrying a crumpled paper bag with your favorite drink and a granola bar you were too anxious to eat. His curls were messy, his smile tired and tilted — like he hadn’t slept, but was still exactly where he wanted to be.

He dropped the bag on the table and came over, brushing a thumb under your jaw like he always did when he thought you were spiraling. “Breathe, rockstar.”

His voice is low. Casual. Like he doesn’t know your heart’s still caught in that last chorus.

You laugh, because you always do around him. “You calling me that now?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, standing, crossing the space in a few easy steps. “I mean, people screamed when they watched you arrive. Pretty sure someone would pass out just watching you step on the stage.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking as you lean back against the dressing table. “Yeah? Hope it won’t be you. Would ruin your whole mysterious-boyfriend vibe.”

But your voice is softer than your words. You’re still glowing from the stage — and now, from him.

There’s no glamor in this part of the tour. The venues change, the greenrooms blur. But him — he’s constant. He learns the name of every crew member. Carries extra cough drops in his coat pocket for you. Sneaks Polaroids of you during soundcheck when you’re not looking, then refuses to show you until weeks later when you’ve forgotten what you looked like in that light.

He never asks for anything. Not even credit. Not even space.

And after the show, when your legs are jelly and your eyeliner’s halfway to tragic, he’s still the one who carries your jacket and finds the quietest booth in whatever dive bar your manager approves.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb brushing a smudge of glitter off your jaw.

You nod — slow, almost convincing — but your voice is rough around the edges. “Just… burnt out.”

He studies your face like it’s his favorite album cover. Like something he’s memorized but still finds new every time. “Then let’s vanish. Ditch the noise. Room service, bad TV, maybe a hot bath if we can figure out the faucet.”

“You hate baths.”

“I hate them alone.”

And later — after the final goodbyes, the makeup wipes, the security escort past the last of the fans still waiting outside — you’re curled into him in a hotel room somewhere high above the city. Your voice resting. Your body aching.

His arm loops around your waist. The sheets smell like his cologne and clean linen. The skyline flickers behind the sheer curtains, all distant headlights and humming neon.

He hums one of your unreleased songs into your hair.

Off-key. Drowsy. Like a secret meant just for you.

And it’s not the lights or the noise or the rush that fills your chest now — it’s this. It’s him. Breathing your words like they’re prayer.

Because you sing.

And he listens.