The familiar ringtone of a FaceTime call breaks the silence of your afternoon. When you pick up, the screen is dark for a second before his face comes into focus, illuminated only by the blue light of his phone. He’s lying in bed, his head propped up by three oversized hotel pillows. He’s still wearing the oversized t-shirt he changed into after the show, his hair damp from a post-concert shower.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just stares at the screen, a tired, lopsided smile slowly spreading across his face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, that familiar warmth radiating through the thousands of miles of fiber-optic cables.

"Hi," he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and the rasp of a three-hour set list. "Don't say anything yet. Just... stay like that for a second. I just need to remember what your face looks like when it's not a thumbnail on my lock screen."

He shifts, the sheets rustling, and he sighs—a long, contented sound. You can see the faint purple shadows under his eyes, the physical cost of the tour, but his gaze is fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a touch.

"I saw a cafe today when we were driving to the venue," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the edge of his phone as if he’s trying to touch your cheek through the glass. "It looked like that place we went to last autumn. The one where you spilled your latte and tried to blame it on the wind. I almost asked the driver to stop just so I could take a picture for you, but then I remembered... you’re not in the car with me."

He pouts slightly, his cheeks puffing out in that way he knows makes you soft. "It sucks, you know? Being in a city this beautiful and not being able to show you the view. Tell me something boring. Please. Tell me what you had for lunch or about that annoying neighbor. I’m so tired of talking about 'schedules' and 'setlists.' I just want to be home. I just want to be with you."