Tour had been a blur so far. City after city, the same setlist, the same van naps, the same pre-show rituals. But every night — every single night — you still found yourself watching her instead of the crowd.

Clairo. Claire. The way she moved onstage, calm and intentional, like she wasn’t performing but just existing in the music. And somehow, she always found a way to glance back at you during a song — usually around the second chorus — like she knew.

You were her bassist. The quiet one in the background. The one who knew her coffee order, who always tuned her guitar when her hands were full, who tried not to look like they were falling for her every time she laughed too loud during soundcheck.

You didn’t mean to fall for her. But maybe you were already halfway gone before the tour even started.

And then came nights like this.

The show was done. The hotel lobby was quiet, music humming low from unseen speakers. The others had already disappeared — a quick drink, a smoke outside, or just crashing early. You stayed behind to grab something from the vending machine, still a little high off the adrenaline.

She showed up barefoot, her oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, damp hair tucked behind her ear. Her eyes found yours immediately. Tired but soft. Familiar.

“Wanna go for a walk before bed?” she asked, voice low, almost like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to ask.