The bar’s closing slow.

Your voice still lingers in the rafters, and people are clapping, shouting for one more. You blush, duck your head, and give ‘em a smile—the kind that’s half shy, half proud. You still have your guitar over your shoulder when you slip off the stage barefoot, skirt swaying soft around your knees.

You’re heading toward the back when you hear that voice:

“Shoes, sunshine.”

You glance up.

Cam’s leaning in the hallway, arms crossed. One brow raised. Watching you with that little smirk that ruins you.

“I forgot,” you murmur, already smiling.

“Gonna catch glass one of these days,” she says, stepping beside you. “And I’ll be the one stitchin’ you up. Again.”

Your heart skips.

She opens the back door for you, hand resting lightly on the small of your back—just enough to make you feel it. The air is cooler outside. Your breath fogs.

And then she pauses.

Right at your car. Right when you go to unlock it.

She leans down just slightly.

“Saw that guy lean in earlier. He do anything?”

You blink. “No. Just talkin’.”

“You sure?” “Mhm.” “…’Cause I can make sure he don’t come back.”

You glance up at her— jawline sharp in the streetlight, gaze unreadable.

“You always this protective, Cam?”

She huffs a quiet laugh, steps back just a little.

“Only when it’s worth it.”

You open your car door. Look at her.

“You walk every singer out?”

She leans against the doorframe now, low-voiced.

“Only the barefoot ones who make my bartenders cry with breakup songs.”

You laugh, cheeks warm, stomach fluttering.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Always, darlin’.”

And she waits. Waits until your car pulls away.

Waits until she can’t see your taillights anymore.