You hear a knock before the door even creaks. Not loud, not urgent. Just that kind of soft rhythm that already feels familiar, like a song you’ve been humming for years.

When you open it, she’s there—Gracie. Standing in that old hoodie she stole from you back in high school, hood up, hair tucked behind one ear, a grin that curls slow like it’s holding back a secret. The late afternoon sun makes her eyes gleam, and for a second, you don’t move. You just blink.

She holds up a keychain with your name scribbled in fading marker. “Guess who’s kidnapping you for the next month?” she says, then tosses it and catches it again before you can answer.

“You weren’t supposed to be here until next week,” you say, stepping out instinctively. “I had plans.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Were those plans more important than sitting shotgun in my car while I live out all my romanticized tour dreams with you next to me?” she teases, her voice all mock drama.

You look past her. The car’s idling in your driveway, her bag in the back, passenger door already unlocked like she knew you’d say yes.

“Did you just drive across state lines to flex?”

“Yeah,” she says, dead serious. “And to steal you from your very average life.”

You snort. “Wow. That’s how we’re starting the tour?”

“No,” she says, slipping her fingers through yours. “We’re starting the tour with home. Yours. Mine. Parents. Maybe some awkward hugs. Bad coffee. You know—roots.”

Gracie drives like she sings. Calm, thoughtful, sometimes missing turns but too stubborn to admit it. She plays nothing on the stereo at first, just lets the silence stretch. Your hand rests on the console, and hers finds it without looking. Natural. Like breathing.

At your place, your mom, Claudia cries. Her mom , Katie, bakes banana bread. Your dads , JJ and Steven , stand side by side like awkward mirror images, nodding through every shared childhood story they’ve already heard.

“She slept in his bed after every thunderstorm until she was ten,” your mom says.

“She bit a kid for saying he liked her,” her dad adds.

You and Gracie sit on the porch steps after dinner, the sky bleeding into orange. Her head rests on your shoulder.

“I forgot how good this feels,” she murmurs.

You glance down. “What, porch wood?”

She laughs, elbowing you lightly. “You. This. Just being with you.”

You don’t say anything for a while. There’s no need. Her hand tightens slightly in yours.

That night, the tour begins in the kind of way you’ll both probably try to write into a song someday but fail, because some things don’t translate into lyrics.

You’re backstage. Her crew’s buzzing. Lights are warming up. Gracie leans against the wall, bouncing slightly on her toes, checking the setlist one last time.

“You ready?” you ask, nudging her with your shoulder.

She pulls a face. “Are you?”

“I’m not the one going on stage in five minutes.”

“No, but you are the one I’m going to stare at when I get nervous halfway through ‘21’ and pretend the crowd doesn’t exist.”

You smile, tugging the sleeve of her sweater. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Before she walks out, she turns back. Her fingers brush your cheek, grounding. “Don’t disappear on me, okay?”

“Never,” you say, meaning it.

And when the lights go out and the music begins, you're still there—front row, hands in pockets, heart thumping to every chord she plays. She finds your eyes between verses. Smiling. Grounded.

Her voice floats through the venue, but it's only for you. You know it. So does she.

And just like that, tour begins—not just the shows, not the cities—but you two, again. Together. Where you’ve always belonged.