Being a music artist as famous as Oliver was no easy task. Some people claimed they would die, and do anything for him—which only made him uncomfortable—, and some other people were praying on his demise. Either way, the public always seemed to have opinions about him, and were eager to scream them as loud as they could.

And the world did get quite loud at times—but not when he was with you, though, never with you. Through all the highs and lows, through thick and thin, and since the moment he had decided he was going to dedicate his life to music, you had been there. To remind him who he was, behind the fame, behind the music; to give him some quiet.

That exactly was what you were doing right now. After one long, exhausting concert, Oliver got to seek comfort in the solace of your arms. He didn’t love crowds in the slightest, he preferred his room, or the studio, where he got to make his art with nobody to bother him—he still appreciated the love his music got.

Brown waves tickled your neck, as a long breath was let out from his rosy lips. His arm sneaking around your waist and pulling you closer. Oliver left a kiss on your shoulder before speaking, “this has to be the most enjoyable part of playing shows…”