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Just the soft slap of skin. The creak of the bedframe. The breathless gasps and broken moans of two people finding their way back into the same rhythm again.

When I finally come—silent and shaking, his name a whisper in the hollow of his throat—he follows, his hands tangled in my hair, his body arching into mine like he’s surrendering everything he has left.

I collapse over him, both of us slick and spent, limbs tangled, hearts pounding in sync.

And in that hush between heartbeats, where the world feels quiet and holy and ours⁠—

He wraps his arms around me tighter.

And I know, we’ll always find our way back.

The light is just starting to slip through the curtains, pale and gray, when I wake to the sound of Fletch’s breathing.

He’s still asleep.

One arm slung over my waist, the other curled beneath his pillow. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, and his mouth is parted slightly, that little furrow between his brows still lingering even in rest—like part of him never really stops worrying.

I stay still for a moment. Just breathing him in. Listening to the silence stretch between our bodies like cotton. Soft. Weightless. Sacred.

But I feel the shift before I see it.

His breathing changes. His hand flexes slightly against my stomach.

“You’re awake,” I murmur.

He hums, eyes still closed. “Didn’t want to be. Not if it meant letting go of you.”

My heart squeezes.

I roll onto my side, draping a leg over his, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t have to let go. Not yet.”

His arms tighten around me. “I know. But it’s coming. Tomorrow, the next city. Another hotel, another round of press. I’m already counting the hours.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are open now—stormy and soft all at once.

“You’re tired,” I say, brushing my fingers along his jaw.

He nods. “Not just in my body. My head’s loud all the time. On stage, I can drown it out. But the second the lights go down…”

“You miss the quiet,” I finish for him.

“I miss you in the quiet,” he says. “I miss home.”

My chest tightens again, different this time. Like guilt and gratitude tangled together in a knot.

“I hate that we keep saying goodbye,” I whisper.

He cups my face gently, thumb stroking under my eye. “We’re not saying goodbye. Just… see you soon.”

I nod, but it still aches. “Do you know how long this stretch is?”

“Two weeks.” His voice is low, hesitant. “Three if we book the last-minute Chicago date Alex is pushing for.”

My stomach dips. “You want to do it?”

He hesitates. And that’s my answer.

“It’s not about wanting to,” he finally says. “It’s about momentum. The Garden cracked something open. The industry’s watching now. And the guys—Thorin, Carson, Benji—they’re pushing hard. I don’t want to hold us back.”