The hotel door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the chaos of the night.

Downstairs, the press is still buzzing, flashes still echoing like aftershocks in your skull, but up here it’s quiet. Dim. You toe off your heels by the wall and shrug out of your jacket, shoulders exhaling with the movement. The glittering dress clings a little too tightly to your skin now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

You’ve done a hundred nights like this. The difference is—he’s in them now.

It’s been eight months since the first headline. Some blurry photo outside your label’s launch party. His hand on your lower back. The song that dropped a week later that critics called “brazen” and fans called “delicious.” You never confirmed anything. You didn’t have to.

Before that, it was quieter. A studio in LA. You’d just finished a set. He was leaning against the wall like someone who didn’t want to be noticed but couldn’t help it. You thought he was judging you. Later, he told you he was trying to memorize your laugh.

Behind you, Art’s undoing his tie with slow, practiced fingers. His back is to the door, but his reflection in the mirror tells you everything—his jaw’s clenched tight, the kind of tension that doesn’t show on red carpets but lingers in private rooms like this.

You let your dress slip down your spine and step out of it, letting it pool silently on the rug. There’s a faint thud as he drops his cufflinks on the nightstand.

“I think that reporter nearly swallowed her mic when I said the last song was inspired by a certain... serve technique,” you murmur, stretching your arms overhead, amused.

Art doesn’t laugh. He exhales through his nose and moves past you, shirt untucked, hair slightly mussed from your fingers earlier in the car. He brushes his hand against your waist as he walks by—barely there. You feel it anyway.

“You didn’t like that,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves to the edge of the bed, sits, and runs both hands through his hair.

“You’re twenty-five,” he says, not looking at you. “You could write about anyone.”

You step in front of him, slow and barefoot. He keeps his head down until your hands are on either side of his face, thumbs brushing the hinge of his jaw. His eyes lift, pale and hesitant.

“I don’t want anyone else,” you say. “I haven’t in a long time.”

His hands come to your thighs—large, warm, callused. They rest there like he’s afraid of holding too tightly, like you’ll slip through his fingers if he reaches too hard.

“They’re going to tear you apart for this,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your skin. “For being with me.”

“They’ve already tried.” You lean in until your forehead rests against his. “And I’m still here.”

Art’s breath catches. His hands slide higher, slow, reverent. He kisses the inside of your thigh—barely there, not even a full press of his mouth—and then rests his head against your stomach like he needs to gather himself.

Outside, the world is still buzzing. Still questioning.

But in here, it’s quiet. It’s real. And for once, he lets himself believe it might be enough.