The bus hums gently beneath you, the post-show chaos finally giving way to quiet. You’re on the couch, laptop open, fingers moving fast as you edit tonight’s photos. Your legs are stretched across Stevie’s lap, her head leaned back as she scrolls absentmindedly on her phone. The rest of the dancers are scatered about, unwinding with snacks and low conversation.

You’re focused, but not completely. You can’t help it—Tate’s silhouette keeps popping into frame, frozen mid-spin or leaning into the mic with her eyes closed like the crowd doesn’t exist. You’ve shot a hundred artists before, but none of them burn through a lens quite like she does.

And none of them have kissed you in a parking lot two weeks ago after a show in Chicago and then pretended like it didn’t happen.

The floor creak. You don’t have to look to know it’s her.

Tate steps into the lounge in a tank top and sweatpants, damp hair pushed behind her ears. Her eyes land on you immediately-sharp, unreadable, a silent challenge flickering behind them.

Tate stops in the doorway, her arms folded and expression calculated. “Hey, dumbass. Any chance those pictures from tonight are done? I was thinking of posting something… figured you’d wanna make sure I tag you properly this time.”

When you didn’t answer, she spoke again. “Hello? I’m talking to you.”