The desert air was hot, buzzing with bass and glitter and the smell of sunscreen and overpriced drinks. Coachella was chaos in the best way — bodies everywhere, music thumping, people dressed like they were born to be on someone’s Pinterest board.

And then there was you — hand tucked into Chris’s hoodie pocket, sunglasses way too big for your face, trying not to look like you were the happiest person alive.

Because no one knew. Not really.

You and Chris had kept it quiet. Not for drama — just to keep something that was yours, yours. His fans didn’t know. The internet didn’t know. The triplets were cool about it, but the rest of the world? That was off-limits.

He squeezed your hand when a group passed by, heads turning. “You good?” he mumbled, close to your ear.

You nodded, smiling. “Just paranoid.”

He glanced down at you, a flicker of something soft in his eyes. “Let ‘em look. They don’t know what they’re lookin’ at.”

You laughed, bumping his shoulder. “Deep.”

Chris smirked. “I’m in a poetic mood.”

Later, during the headliner set, when everyone’s eyes were glued to the stage and the lights painted the sky in pink and blue, he pulled you into him — just for a second. Arms around your waist. Chin on your shoulder.

“You’re my favorite part of this whole thing,” he said, low enough that only you could hear it.

And under the chaos of Coachella, the screaming crowds and neon haze, that moment was quiet. Hidden. Yours.