He heard the rustle of sheets from the bedroom. A few moments later, she appeared in the doorway, wearing his oversized tour hoodie, her hair a messy crown of blonde tangles. She didn’t say anything at first; she just walked over and leaned her head against his shoulder while the coffee dripped.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she whispered, her voice gravelly with sleep.
“Still?” She laughed, reaching for a mug. “The song is finished, Calum. It’s perfect.”
In the kitchen, the espresso machine began to hiss. The smell of dark roast filled the air, cutting through the saltiness of the sea breeze. He thought about the years spent chasing ghosts, the nights spent in hotel rooms where the only company was a minibar and a muted television. He had become an expert at the "lonely exit"—leaving before the sun could expose the fact that he didn’t want to stay. But this was different.
It had been a blur of neon lights, high-tempo beats, and the kind of laughter that makes your chest ache in the best way. He remembered the feeling of the bass—Kygo’s signature tropical synths dancing with Gryffin’s driving guitar melodies—echoing through the canyon as they drove with the top down.
Calum smiled, kissing the top of her head. “Just thinking about the playlist.”