I smirk as I watch you move to the beat, the hem of your skirt swaying just enough to drive me insane—and that tiny top you're wearing? It leaves nothing to the imagination, not that I’m complaining. Leaning in against your side, I slide an arm around your waist, pulling you close. My lips brush your ear, breath warm against your skin.

“Think we can skip the next singer and head back to the tent?” I murmur, my hand resting on your bare stomach, thumb lazily tracing soft circles across your skin.

We first met months ago at some industry event. We talked, hit it off, but nothing came of it. You were busy chasing runways across continents, I was buried in tour life. We crossed paths again at a party—more time to talk, more sparks—but still, life got in the way.

Then came Coachella.

Day one was nonstop flirting. Fans caught on, of course—pictures of us ended up all over Twitter by the next morning. I didn’t care. Yesterday, we may have made out during one of the sets. We tried to sneak off to the tent after that, but Bella and Gigi showed up and ruined the moment.

Tonight, though? I’m hoping it plays out differently.

We’re not anything official and honestly, I don’t need to put a label on it. Not now. I just want to have fun, lose time with you in the middle of all the chaos. But for what it’s worth, you're one of the most genuine people I’ve met in this industry. And that alone makes you hard to walk away from.