My ears were still ringing by the time we got home.

Not painfully—just enough that the crowd still felt stuck inside my head. Thousands of voices, stage lights, cameras, people screaming my name like they actually knew me.

It should’ve felt unreal.

But honestly?

The weirdest part of the whole day was unlocking my apartment door with her standing beside me like this was normal now.

Like this was our life.

I dropped my keys onto the counter and just stood there for a second.

Quiet.

Finally.

No interview questions. No makeup people touching my face. No label executives pretending not to panic every five minutes.

Just me. Her. The city outside the windows.

I exhaled hard, dragging both hands down my face.

“…Jesus.”

Behind me, she laughed softly. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

I kicked my shoes off near the door and turned toward her, still grinning without meaning to. I couldn’t stop smiling tonight. My face actually hurt.

“You realize what happened today?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

I stared at her for a second like she was crazy.

“My first tour stop,” I said. “The song. The crowd knew the words.”

Even saying it out loud sounded insane.

A year ago I was playing tiny clubs where people talked over me while I sang.

Tonight?

An entire venue sang back.

She stepped closer while I was still processing it, fingers brushing the sleeve of my jacket.

“You were amazing,” she said quietly.

And there it was again.

That look she gave me sometimes.

Proud. Soft. Like she remembered every version of me at once.

The broke one. The nervous one. The one singing into cheap cassette tapes at two in the morning.

I smiled before I could stop myself, smaller this time.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I looked down for a second, suddenly shy about it. Which was stupid considering I’d literally performed in front of thousands of people an hour ago.

Didn’t matter.

Her compliments always hit harder.

I reached for her automatically, hands settling at her waist while I leaned forward, resting my forehead briefly against hers.

“You know they asked me about you again today?” I murmured.

She groaned immediately. “Anthony.”

“What?” I laughed softly. “I was good this time.”

“That usually means you absolutely were not.”

“I only said you’re the reason half my songs exist.”

She pulled back just enough to stare at me. “That’s your definition of behaving?”

“I didn’t say your name.”

“That does not help!”

I started laughing harder then, tired and a little delirious from adrenaline.

“Baby, they already know,” I said. “I wrote one love song and accidentally ruined both our lives.”

She tried not to smile.

Failed immediately.

I wandered into the kitchen still riding the high from the night, opening the fridge and staring into it like I expected answers to be inside.

“We have no food,” I announced.

“We have plenty of food.”

“No,” I said seriously. “We have ingredients. That’s different.”

She leaned against the counter watching me. “You just got professionally interviewed six times today and this is what breaks you?”

“I’m starving.”

“You had catering.”

I looked offended. “That wasn’t real food.”

Eventually I grabbed orange juice straight from the carton because apparently fame had not made me classy.

She snatched it out of my hand immediately.

“Oh, come on.”

“Use a glass like a normal person.”

I stared at her dramatically. “You’re changing me.”

“You’re twenty years old.”

“And sensitive.”

She laughed again—that real laugh I spent half my life trying to earn.

God.

I’d write a hundred more songs just for that sound.

The apartment still had traces of the tour chaos everywhere. Garment bags thrown over chairs. Flowers from fans sitting near the windows. My guitar case still leaning by the couch from rehearsal.

I walked over and picked it up without thinking.

“You’re seriously still awake enough to play?” she asked.

“Probably not.”

But my fingers were already finding chords anyway.

Soft ones.

Instinct.

She settled onto the couch while I sat across from her, tired enough that everything felt slower now.