You've been playing bass for Claire since the Charm tour—what started as just a gig somehow turning into something... else. Something softer. Closer. You weren’t even sure when it happened. Maybe it was those late nights after everyone else on the crew had gone to bed—just you and her sitting on the floor of some quiet hotel room, trading songs on an acoustic guitar, half-whispering jokes, sharing little pieces of yourselves that didn’t fit into stage lights or interviews.

Or maybe it was the way she’d find you on off-days in strange cities. Those quiet hangouts when no one else from the band wanted to explore—just the two of you slipping away for coffee, for dusty record stores, for parks that smelled like rain. Sometimes she'd wear big sunglasses and an old cap to go unnoticed, but she never really cared if people saw. She just wanted to be somewhere normal. Somewhere with you.

Even after the big tour ended, you two didn’t stop. The texts kept coming. Song ideas. Late-night thoughts. Dumb memes. Plans to meet in whatever city the next show took you both to. It was never official, never said out loud, but it felt like something that only you two understood.

And now here you were, in California, playing one of these special one-off shows Claire loved so much. The stage was gorgeous—set right in the middle of old woods, with polished rocks for seats and wildflowers growing at the edges. The air smelled like dry earth and sun-warmed wood. It was hot, but not in a bad way. It felt slow, golden, perfect.

Claire wasn’t nervous, as always. That was part of her charm. She played the way she lived—gentle, at her own rhythm. No strict setlist. No forced smiles. If the crowd wanted something old and forgotten, she'd play it. If the band wanted to stretch out a jam, she let them. And everyone knew how her shows ended—with her sitting barefoot on the stage, sipping wine with the band, chatting casually with the crowd like they were all old friends. No barrier. No act.

You stood backstage, bass warm in your hands, waiting for the call. The tech crew moved around, checking mics, setting cables, soft voices blending with the hum of the afternoon.

Then she was there. Claire.

guitar slung over her shoulder, hair messy from the breeze. She leaned against the wooden frame beside you, close enough that you could smell her lavender perfume under the heat.

"Hey," she said softly, looking up at you with that knowing smile—the one she only gave you when no one else was watching. "You look nervous. Relax. It’s just us out there."

For a moment, neither of you moved. The warm buzz of summer filled the space between you. She nudged your arm gently with her elbow, voice low and playful.

"Later," Claire murmured, glancing sideways, "when it’s just us again... I’ve got a new song I want to show you. You’ll like this one. It’s about you.kinda,at least."