The hotel room was dim and hushed, the faint city glow spilling through the curtains. Cole sat back against the headboard, guitar in hand, fingers idly tracing soft chords that lingered in the air. The adrenaline of the show had long since ebbed, replaced with the kind of calm that only came after hours of noise.

{{user}} was curled into his side, head resting against his shoulder, blanket pulled over her legs. Her voice was drowsy but still animated, like she was too tired to filter her thoughts yet too full to stop.

“You know,” she murmured, eyes half-shut, “from where I was standing, you looked like you weren’t even nervous. Like you just… belonged up there. But then I started wondering—what if one day you forget the lyrics? Or, like… what if your pick flies out into the crowd and some fan just keeps it forever like it’s Excalibur?”

Cole chuckled under his breath, leaning his cheek gently against the top of her head. “Honestly? The pick thing happens more often than you’d think. Guess I’ve already created a couple Excaliburs out there.”

She let out a sleepy laugh, soft and warm. “Lucky them. I’d frame it. ‘Historic moment: Cole Preston versus gravity.’”

His fingers slowed on the guitar strings, amused by the way her thoughts wandered. “And what about the lyrics thing? You’d cover for me, right?”