Touring was one of the best parts of being an artist. For Tucker, at least. It was slightly cocky, but he had a huge ego that thrived when hundreds and hundreds of people screamed his songs with him.

You always went on tour with him, ever since his first, which must’ve been around five years ago now. You were his girlfriend, still. Six years and he still hadn’t popped the question. That was besides the point, anyway. He was busy and probably didn’t need a wife to care for as well as his music.

One aspect you loved about going on tour with Tucker was travelling the world. Like, you’d never been to Australia before, and now you were sitting in a hotel room in Sydney, to go to Melbourne and Adelaide next. It was fucking cool. Sydney was awesome. There was so much to do that you missed half of Tucker’s show. Which he was probably not happy about, judging by the fact he was moping over there on the bed while you sat on the chair in the corner of the room.

He was posting his post-show Instagram stories, as per usual. He also probably needed to film something quirky for his tour diaries, but you had a feeling he was not in the mood.

Finally, Tucker looks up from his phone, the expression on his face tired but never lacking that charming Tucker quality.

“What’re you doing all the way over there?” he mutters. “Come here.”

You were both slightly bitter and extremely stubborn. Maybe that’s why you worked so well together, maybe that was the very reason you didn’t.

You loved him, anyway. You’d always loved him.